I LOVE A PIANO

In years gone past, a piano was often the centerpiece of family entertainment. Many an old piano sits unused these days, I suspect, watching the family watch TV.  In this yarn, I reminisce about two pianos that impacted my life. 02/20/2016

I LOVE A PIANO

I grew up as a “wannabe”, a “Woulda -Coulda -Shoulda” guy who did not pursue my childhood musical inclination and talent. In old age, I decided to give music another chance. Modest success has crowned my effort

My career in music started at home. As a schoolboy, I spent hours singing in my tenor voice, turning the pages of the sheet music while my brother played our piano with great enthusiasm but marginal skill. I sang with our church choir for a few years, and landed a solo part in a minstrel show while in the seventh grade. Playing the role of Mammy Sue, I performed the crowd pleasing folksong, Shortenin' Bread. The opening lines go:

               “Mama’s little baby loves short-nin', shortnin'.

                 Mama's little baby loves short-nin' bread." 

When the song reached its concluding line, I sang the final note an octave higher than the previous one. People complimented me for that one distinctive musical jump. However, my fame faded fast.

With a few other members of the cast, I sang this song one afternoon while entertaining some ambulatory patients at nearby St. Mary’s Hospital. That day, my voice cracked. In one lousy note, Mother Nature transformed me from a tiny tenor into a beardless baritone. It ended all thoughts I had of continuing with a singing career.    

For many years afterwards, I only sang in the parlor while accompanying my brother on the piano. Our repertoire included Sophisticated Lady; Smoke Gets in Your Eyes; Hey, Daddy; and Begin the Beguine, a song whose vocal range rivals the Star Spangled Banner.

The song is ended, but the melody lingers on. The lyrics of that famous song apply to me. I am usually able to recall a tune’s melody but rarely its words no matter how often I commit them to memory. Hence, I always enjoyed hearing instrumental music.

From an early age, I loved listening to radio broadcasts of the big bands featured at hotels and dance emporiums around the country. My most prized records included the music of the Raymond Scott Quintet, whose unusual instrumentals included Toy Trumpet, Huckleberry Duck, Powerhouse, and Bumpy Weather over Newark, a great title for a song. While not wildly popular back then, his music continues to be heard on some TV commercials. Those ads catch my ears if not my eyes.

My sister and I tuned into the Lucky Strike Hit Parade every Saturday night to hear the ten most popular songs of the week. Mark Warnow, who happened to be Raymond Scott’s brother, conducted the NBC orchestra. She used the broadcast to practice her short hand writing skill, copying down the words of each song. Afterwards, I would try to sing each one, imitating the crooning style of the band’s male vocalist.

It mystifies me that I never took piano lessons as a child. Money may have been a factor during the depression days of my early youth. I doodled with the instrument all the time, but never succeeded in teaching myself how to play despite having a remarkably good musical ear, one that allowed me to identify any note my brother played without looking at the keyboard.

The upright cabinet grand piano my family owned had an exceptional quality, a tone rarely heard in other instruments. It survived numerous moves from one apartment building to another. The movers would swing it out the parlor window, suspended from a davit on the roof. It thrilled me to see our piano swaying in the breeze, high above the ground. When my parents moved for the last time, they had to leave the piano behind. I cried when they told me of their decision, feeling remorse as if an old friend had died.

Filled with remorse, I decided to buy one of my own. In 1963, for the sum of $100, I bought a second-hand upright cabinet grand piano in mint condition from an elderly couple who lived in downtown San Mateo, not far from us. Angie and I wanted our children to learn to play since neither of us had ever learned, much to our regret.

Buying a piano is easy. Transporting one is not. After scanning the Yellow Pages and making a few calls, a local piano moving company agreed to haul our new possession home the following day, for the ridiculously low sum of $25. At the appointed time, while waiting impatiently on top of the hill in front of the seller’s residence, a truck appeared at the bottom, moving up at a snail’s pace. As it came closer, the truck’s sign, Piano Movers, became visible. It gave me pause. This truck, a relic from some bygone era, wheezed into the driveway. Two elderly men got out, neither younger than 75 years old. My tummy turned tight with apprehension.

While one chap engaged me in polite conversation, the other man flipped the tailgate down, slid a dolly onto the ground, and nonchalantly kicked it along into the house. I followed him, wondering if I had made a crazy decision to employ these fellows. Once inside, the dolly-pusher sat down and began playing the piano, gliding up and down the keyboard, checking every key. Satisfied, he complimented me for purchasing it, astute musician that I must be. Turning his back to one end of the piano, the other fellow lifted it up just a few inches off the ground, just high enough to allow his partner to slide the dolly underneath it. Nonchalantly, they wheeled it out the door to the truck. In a ballet-like movement, they swung one end around until it rested atop the back edge of the very low bed of their truck. Without so much as a grunt, they shoved the piano on board their ancient chariot. They climbed in their wagon and followed me home, chugging along at no more than 20 miles an hour.

Once they arrived, they reversed the loading procedure. They moved the piano off the truck and into our den in just minutes. Before leaving, one of them played every note to make certain it had survived the short 15-minute journey. It pleased me to now own such a great piano. It delighted me even more to bear witness to the professional skill exhibited by these two elderly piano movers.

SRP agreed to pay my moving expenses when they hired me in 1967. Our furnishings included the piano. A moving company had no difficulty in hauling and installing it in our Scottsdale ranch style rental home. The following year we bought a split-level home, in the same neighborhood. We moved everything ourselves, with the exception of the piano and major appliances. These we entrusted to the Bekins Moving Company. Two burly employees showed up, quickly loaded these items, and drove to our new place. There, they met a challenge: how to move the piano down a flight of six steps to the recreation room. After disassembling every part they could, they managed to slide the piano down the stairs, clearing the ceiling by a half-inch or so. Sweating profusely, they swore no one would be able to get it back up the stairs.

Our young children lost interest in learning to play after a few years, and the piano hibernated until 1981. That changed when Angie had to take a music course to satisfy the requirements of Scottsdale Community College while seeking an AA degree. She enrolled in Class Piano, and over a span of four semesters, learned to play. Later, our son Joey also learned to play while he attended SCC, earning the same degree.

After joining a chorus in 1993, I decided to take the same piano class at SCC, from the same instructor who had taught my wife and son. Proving that it is never too late to learn, over a period of two years, she helped me get past my one-finger tune-picking stage. My piano proved to be a worthwhile investment after all, and not a frivolous waste of one hundred bucks.

Years later, my family bought me a Casio keyboard which has one major advantage over the piano. I can play it noiselessly, using headphones. Angie appreciates it when I give her the silent treatment. ▄

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P.S. Our piano now lives with our daughter Laura. I can't wait for her to learn Begin the Beguine. I'm ready to give it another go.

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