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It's a shame I can't find this on YouTube.

There was a Bugs Bunny cartoon in which Daffy Duck has rigged a piano with dynamite. The dynamite is set to be triggered by the playing of a specific key.

(what follows here is entirely based on a 40+ year-old memory, so any or all of the details may be wrong)

Bugs sits down to play a famous waltz, whose famous name eludes me right now. He plays the well-known melody, with one conspicuous modification:

C C E G G (octave up) G G Eb Eb

Daffy, who has been hiding backstage, waiting for the big Kaboom when Bugs plays the second "E" above Middle C, comes running out, screaming that Bugs has played it wrong.

Bugs takes another look at the music, and says he'll try it again. Again he plays the Eb. Daffy comes out, even more agitated than the first time, yelling again that that's NOT how it goes. Bugs says he'll try it one more time.

Of course, Bugs plays the Eb yet again. Daffy comes out, this time completely apoplectic. "Nooooooooooooooooooo!" He shoves Bugs aside. "This is how you play it!"

C C E G G (octave up) G G BOOM

And that, complete with talking animals and a box of dynamite, is about the level of screw up that is necessary for a cocktail pianist to penetrate the consciousness of your average catered-affair guest.

I second Robin's advice. Don't worry about it. You will make mistakes, and you will be the only one who notices them.

Thanks Robin, I'm sure it will be. I'm not one of those people who gets stage anxiety so I'll be fine once I start playing, in fact it will be a relief because having to expand my repertoire of songs that are ready to play is a lot of work. I figure I need about ten songs to cover the hour and I feel like I'm juggling these ten songs, trying to keep them all in the air without dropping any.

As you say this is going to be a great learning experience and I'll report back after the gig.

I will try not to think of that while playing - it would be very distracting if I started to keep track of which keys I had already played.



Yes that is good advice. I will definitely make mistakes and no-one will be counting them.

Blue Danube? (blaue Donau, for Robin?)b

"The Blew-Up Danube"

Back in 1989 my wife and I traveled by hydrofoil down the Danube from Vienna to Budapest. It was more accurately described as greenish-gray than blue. I guess the "Greenish-Gray Danube" wouldn't have the same romance about it, though.

The Gray Danube does have a certain poetic charm, though.

would that not be the Grey Danube?

Nope. Gray.

gray: adj
1.having the color of ash or lead
2.dismal or gloomy
3.dull and colorless

Grey is also acceptable.

There, fixed that for you.

The exploding piano segment starts at around 5:40.

BALLOT BOX BUNNY

I have already admitted that the details of the Bugs Bunny cartoon have faded in my memory, but I'm almost sure that this is not the clip I was referring to. It's the same gag, to be sure; maybe the Warner Bros. folks recycled an idea now and then.

We played a house party last night, outdoors by the pool. The people had pretty over-the-top ideas about home decoration, but were very nice to us and presented no other story fodder. No one ended up in the pool, for instance. Although I can't be sure, as our part of the party ended early (11pm). That's one plus about outdoor gigs, we get home early. Any later and some uninvited guests in uniform would have been likely to show up.

I was thinking we ought to come up with an IPhone App. Coupled with Google Earth and GPS, it would let you know which neighbors you'd have to invite to the party to prevent them from complaining about the loud band you hired. You could walk around the neighborhood looking at the screen. "Yes honey, we have to include 59 Baker St., but 61 is outside the perimeter". "Thank goodness, you know what they say about the Fleagles, don't you?.

We played a memorable house party a number of years ago. It was bigger: Bigger house, bigger yard, more people, more alcohol. As might be expected, that last bit is an important element of the story.

I have to stop for a moment and stress that the following actually happened, just about exactly the way I am about to tell it. I have witnesses.

There was a guest at the party, a good friend of the host, who played bass guitar. The host asked if his friend could sit in with the band for a tune or two. We generally accommodate such requests. We've been playing a long, long time and can withstand a high degree of inexpertise on the part of a "guest artist".

As it turned out, this guy could actually play. Judging by his body language ("Rock Star wannabe"), bass position (nearly at his knees) and merciless thwacking of the strings, his preferred genre was something overloud, overfast and lacking in vocal articulation. But he played something like the right notes with a tune that we know.

The tune we chose was one that our bass player (Willie) sings. Perfect. Willie would get a chance to step out in front of the band without having to play.

The guest bassist apparently played with a band, and band that had at least one rabid fan. Said rabid fan was at the party. He was built like a giant chubby infant; all soft rolls of fleshy fat without a hint of definition, or melanin. He danced in front of our guest artist; a large, pink, 80 proof Jell-O Shot of a man shaking in all directions simultaneously, all the while yelling "Wooooooooooooooooooooooooo!!".

[I feel the need to remind you again, there is not a bit of fiction in this story. ]

At this point he decided that the shorts and T-shirt he had on were too restrictive to allow him proper freedom of movement. He ripped off the shirt and dropped his shorts around his ankles, now as naked as the day he was born, and looking remarkably similar.

There were eight guys in the band at the time; we didn't yet have a sax player. Seven of us had seen him drop his drawers, and were chuckling merrily, already imagining the wording we would use to tell this story long into our dotage.

Willie - remember Willie? - was getting into his star turn singing in front of the band. He had taken to it like a natural, confidently moving around a bit, putting a little more effort into his vocal, when in the middle of a line he happened to turn to his left. Michelin Man was maybe six feet away, gyrating his generous proportions wildly.

Willie was blown back like a stunt man shot in an action flick. As he still had the microphone, his immediate reaction was broadcast, with reverb, over the sound system. It is sadly not repeatable in a family-friendly forum.

Willie is a very funny guy, usually among the first to see the humor in any situation. But not this time. The shock had made him too pissed off to laugh. Conversely, his reaction made the scene even funnier to the rest of us.

This is not, however, the most unbelievable part of the story. Really, I swear. And yes, it is all true, even the next bit.

Mr. Silly Putty ran off in the direction of the house. We figured that was the last we'd see of him. Likely a couple of his buddies would find him a couch in the basement to sleep it off on. Not so.

In the middle of the next tune we saw him again (Really...on a stack of Bibles) this time on the roof of the house, a huge amorphous shape framed in the moonlight.

"Woooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!"

"Fiddler on the Roof Rides Again"

Well, I'm dying to know what the hosts had to say. Of course, they may not have said it within the hearing of the band. It had to be choice.

Being rich, I'm sure they had excellent homeowners' coverage. If this were a movie, you know the roof tiles would have given under the load and the Go-Go boy would have either have gone through or over.

So... did the band strike up "Twist and Shout," or take a break?

I don't know what the host had to say. It was a pretty big yard and we were playing pretty far from the house. Our roly-poly friend was hardly the only drunk at the party.

As for the band, we handled it with our usual aplomb. We were in the middle of the next song when we spotted him on the roof, pumping his fist to the heavens and bellowing.

How I wish I could have seen Big Baby Diaper Pants up on the roof. As I have often said on this forum, you can't make this stuff up.

Oh my, I played the weirdest wedding on Tuesday. The bride-to-be booked me to play, but she told me there would be no one there except for the groom (a high-profile guy who likes my music) and the mayor, who would marry them. And me. I was to be a surprise for the groom, which really got me thinking about Air on a G String and Elva the stripper.

The wedding took place at the city hall. Piano (Steinway D!!!!!) was outside of the salon where they were married. I was instructed to HIDE in the Ladies Room and wait until they were inside the salon before I started playing. The Ladies Room wasn't as bad as it sounds—actually it was quite posh—so I sat in there with my iPhone and wrote emails to piano pals while I waited. The city hall worker came and fetched me when the coast was clear.

"Okay," she said. "You can play now. Everyone is gone."

Kind of the ultimate job if you ask me: Wait until everyone leaves and then start playing. But they weren't really gone, just taking care of business on the other side of two huge wooden doors.

The bride requested the Forest Gump theme, Feather, which is kind of an odd wedding song, but whatever. I played it and a lot of other things, and fell in love with the piano. There is nothing like playing an instrument like that in a big empty hall. I was in heaven. Anyway, 30 minutes later the happy couple and the mayor burst out of the salon with a bottle of champagne that cost more than my car. I played a few more tunes, then joined the bride and groom when the mayor left and they seemed to need someone to talk to. A photographer showed up and took 12,000 photos of the three of us.

The whole thing was over by 12 noon. I was home in time to drive my kids to their piano lessons.

This week's castle bride did not hire me. She opted for two opera singers and a classical pianist. I got to have Saturday night off. I watched the Eurovision Song Contest, which is, in my opinion, the funniest thing on TV. Now I know why there is no Las Vegas in Europe. They have this instead. I particularly liked Greece's entry, which featured macho men in tight white jumpsuits suits yelling OPA! and flinging their limbs around while plumes of fire shot up behind them.

I am sad. The Princess leaves the castle today. Her Highness has been the ultimate guest. I hardly ever saw her, but she sent notes and gifts to the piano and seemed to genuinely enjoy the music. I will also miss her security team. They were nice guys.

Here is a little slideshow my 13 year old daughter put together for the Princess. It features the famous Black Swans, two very handsome geese, and Sally the Duck, the Buttercup Blondeau of water birds. If you're curious about what the castle park looks like, this is a good way to see it.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ctaaXDnUeT8

If you can believe it, there is a Barn Owl hooting this morning in this somewhat suburban part of San Jose, California's second-largest city. Calling for a mate, maybe, or declaring a territory. No, there are no barns; maybe he has made-do with a garage or a nice, roomy tool shed. As long as there are mice, voles, ground squirrels, and the Dusky-Footed Wood Rat (and there are, even here), I suppose a Barn Owl would be indifferent to the accommodations. We have Burrowing Owls, too; many a developer dreads them mightily. Threatened, you know: habitat destruction. The same developers who have turned the owls out in the street in order to build many thousands of acres of office parks and parking lots (over former orchards) are themselves Endangered (or at least Threatened) as their developments stand empty, after a big real estate boom and then a couple of pretty deep recessions.

Maybe the empty real estate is where the Barn Owls are roosting. There is a rather handsome high-rise downtown, put up about ten years ago, which has never had a tenant--- not one.

Anyway, it's a quiet morning so far. The hummingbirds are singing and fussing--- not at me, I filled the feeder--- with voices that sound like the creaking of a rusty gate. Yet, they don't seem bothered, and who knows, maybe to a hummingbird it sounds very musical. You would never know that on this date in 1942, Cologne endured an intense bombing raid by air. One thousand RAF airplanes... and that was only one of its 262 air raids during World War II. Twenty-five seconds of an earthquake seems like forever, so I can't think what ninety minutes of carpet bombing must feel like.

I enjoyed the video about the castle and the waterfowl, and I think even a Princess would find it touching as a gift. Even more so, those of us who already know the backstory about those swans. And what delicious understatement: the Registry Office surprise; the favorite pianist hiding in the ladies' room until the doors were closed on the ceremony. San Franciso's City Hall is a domed marble palace in the best Gilded Age tradition, with an immense marble grand staircase. It has seen many a wedding, and a few shootings. I got married there myself, but I don't believe they allow shotguns on the premises these days. I assume the ladies' rooms are at least to the standard of the mens': as posh as the lobby, nearly. No electric torchelieres, though.

No one is going to top Greg's stories. So there. My new piano teacher has busted me back to the third grade, where I belong. It is harder than I would have thought (or more work, anyway) to be taking piano lessons at my age. I've shattered a couple of personal expectations already: so much for the hour-a-day routine; it wasn't cutting it. Van Cliburn said, in an interview, something like, "If you watch the clock, you never get anywhere. You have to just lose yourself in practicing, so that when you look at the clock, you wonder where all the time went."

He has, all the same, remarked that when I play my own compositions I show perfect form and perfect technique (not so much when I'm reading the lesson, though). That is something. He also said that my understanding of music is well beyond my performing and sightreading ability. But if that were not the case, I would be giving lessons instead of taking them. I do find that it's a nice experience to be placing myself at the outer edge of the wavefront of my personal bubble of expanding knowledge; no matter how much you know, that edge is going to be somewhere. And my teacher is a student also.

It serves a purpose, too, in that I think I may get out of that wedding and reception next month. I have a performance that night: no, not playing; turning pages while my teacher gives a performance. It is more fun than you might think. I did a couple of gigs with him last month, and it was worth the whole tie-wearing trouble to see him blush when the kids (it was a chorus) screamed for him as he was called up for a bow. His complexion supports a blush nicely (I am far too jaded for it myself)--- and they didn't scream for the choral director; the applause was polite. Umm hmm.

And speaking of wildlife, that bat roost on Market Street in San Francisco, where the cover of "Piano Girl" was photographed, was having some kind of competition recently; it was in the newspaper. Anyway, the place is still in business. We have that much in common.

The Pillsbury Doughboy Au Natural is a pretty good one, I'll admit. I'm surprised he took so long to make his "appearance" on the forum. But musicians tend to have uncommonly good stories; I can't say why. There's always a topper.

Much the same could have been said about me at any time during my musical development. My musical ear has always far outstripped my finger skills.

The simplest and perhaps most cynical explanation for your expertise when playing your own compositions is that they don't often wander outside your comfort zone. This is undoubtedly true to some extent. But I suspect there's more. It's always easier to play music you can really "hear"; music that is not a collection of written notes, shapes, fingerings, accents and forced co-ordinations of RH and LH parts, but a coherent sound that you are making as a whole. You play with good technique because you are playing essentially without "technique", you are playing with feel.

Keep it up. There's music down that road.

That was a lovely slideshow Robin's daughter and the arrangement of Canon in D sublime.. i loved it. really clever and beautiful.

I play it beautifully on the piano and absolutely massacre it sometimes on the organ.. i just don't know how to arrange it. there are so many options. (i guess i don't have the skills).

i really enjoyed listening.

(also just saw the picture of you and Marian McPartland. that's nice)

Thanks, Apple. I have also been known to massacre that piece. I play it differently every time, and got lucky on that particular recording. I can imagine an organ version would prove to be quite challenging. Lately I've been having mixed results with a double time left hand thing. If I'm relaxed it's very pretty. If I'm nervous it sounds, well, nervous. Think Dusky-Footed Wood Rat on speed.

CLEF: Greg wrote exactly what I wanted to write, except he was more articulate than I would have been. I write pieces that do not exceed my (considerable) limitations as a player. My very wise dad once told me that the key to sounding good is to know when you sound bad.

I'm really good at certain styles. I suck at others. Or, as a Japanese jazz musician once famously said at a recording session with some A-list NYC studio players: "I AM SUCK." I try to acknowledge when I've ascended to my level of incompetency and avoid attempting anything over that limit. I've made a career by strict adherence to this rule.

All of this, of course, applies to performance. In the practice room, anything goes.

A few words regarding Greg's excellent point about sensitivity in playing—I try not perform a piece unless I have an emotional connection to it. Life is too short to commit to learning a composition that doesn't speak to me in some way. That might sound like a lot of hooey to the players here who are excellent readers and technicians (my husband being one of them), but for me, it's critical for me to connect to the music in order to get a decent interpretation.

I joke a lot here about playing music that doesn't particularly inspire me (Phantom, Titanic, etc.), but the truth is that once upon a time I liked those pieces enough to learn them. When I play those songs now, I can still tap into that long-ago connection. Does this make sense? I am into my second glass of wine after a long day of writing, so I may have slipped into my loopy mode.

Beautiful weddings at the castle this weekend. The weather cooperated, and the front garden of the castle was filled with beautiful people admiring the black swans. Lovely. No fat boys howling on the castle roof, but you can't have everything.

On the literary front, I've gotten word that my new book will be published in both German and English in the spring of 2011. Translator is hard at work and so am I. But, I've been thinking (this is for you, Clef), NOTHING is as difficult as sitting at the piano and playing a piece of music. Anything else is easy in comparison.

Here's to you, my fellow pianists! Cheers. We are NOT suck.