I could equally well have titled this “What to play when you can hardly say anything”.
The first I heard about what happened in Paris on Friday 13th November, 2015, was on Saturday morning, from a Cuban artist living there, who wrote to reassure family and friends that he was alright. He was painting, his way of being at peace in the middle of it all.
As my way of being at peace at the moment is writing this book, I thought it would be a good moment to share something to play when you hardly know how to. So, for anyone who wants a wordless way of expressing what you feel:
I´d suggest that you first do whatever you usually do to calm yourself, and focus – a sip of water, two or three deep breaths, a long sigh “aaah”: and then press with your right foot the sustain pedal – and keep it down. Then just pick out individual notes, very slowly – listening deeply to the sound of each. Allow a soundscape to build up. Close your eyes, if you feel happy to do this, and bring your visual sense into play – a misty landscape, perhaps. All sounds are welcome.
When you feel you´ve had enough, let the sound die away, and release the pedal.
This is do-it-yourself relaxation music: the kind of little extra that you might find time to slip in to your bedtime routine, or substituting for something else that you do to unwind and get in touch with your quiet Self.
This is dedicated to my friend Sue, and the music is what I came up with when I heard of the loss of her grandson, Lewis.
Completing a first draft led me to neglect my blog. But it turns out that flow feeds in in multiple ways.
This week it´s been great to have a new student. Combining piano, and English (I´m here in Spain, where learning English is more of a psychological trauma than a language). Apart from the pleasure of getting to know someone new, (competent and busy engineer with a family) it´s always good to be reminded of basic facts. Like, no-one is an absolute beginner. There´s always a desire to play, usually showing in childhood: and often a block – in this case, finding it hard to understand written music. There´s a starting point – something he or she can already play, or would like to. And lots of things to get right first off: how to sit well, how to hold yourself – ok guys, I didn´t mean that – and I´ve covered it in my book, and that´s reassuring for me.
It encourages me to hope that people will find it easy to access the resources in the audiobook in the same way as when I´m sitting next to them at the piano. You remember a tune you picked out once? Ok, let´s hear it. What key is it in? How can we identify this? Listen for the key note / construct the scale: or check out which scale has the same notes in in the scale table. You want to play something to go with it in the left hand? Let´s see what chords naturally occur in that key. How I´m longing to be able to bring out this audiobook as a multimedia experience where you can just click on links! I´m battling to make it linear and sequential, when it really needs to be four dimensional!
In the late 60s, I had the privilege of getting to know Horace Ove, Britain´s pioneer black film maker, and Mary, and their children, tiny then, and hanging out at their house on Sundays, when they always had a load of friends round. It was my first experience of that kind of wonderful sociable hospitality. Horace had made a documentary about reggae, filming the first ever “Reggae sunsplash”, with Bob and marcia Griffiths singing “Young Gifted and Black”, the Maytals “Talking about that Big Monkey Man” – and I distinctly remember we were talking about how it didn´t look likely that reggae was going to catch on! 45 years on the music from one small island has conquered the globe.
Had just written the above when I got news of Horace´s 80th birthday celebrations – wish I could get there! Please, anyone near Crouch End go on my behalf!
“Brain scans of jazz musicians unveil language and music similarities.” http://www.medicalnewstoday.com/articles/273060.php?sr
Look what I found in medical news today. If you check out the article there are some very pretty pictures of what happens in musicians´ brains when they´re trading fours. And I thought “Jazz is like talking” was just a pretty metaphor – until this morning.
“Jazz is like talking”, Ian Carr, trumpet player and jazz educator, during a jazz summer school in Hull, sometime in the ’80s.
Hearing this was a lightbulb moment for me. I thought how odd it would be if we were prevented from talking until we could read and write. Just pause for a moment, to take that in.
We learn to talk by listening, imitating, babbling, making sounds and having the sounds reflected back to us by the people around us. Our efforts are encouraged, and we intuit the structures of language, learning by doing. Quite a lot later, but still rather too early in my opinion, we learn to read and write. Why not learn to play the piano the same way we learn to talk?
I hope they don´t any more kill elephants to make pianos. I wasn´t going to write about that – suddenly it´s just taken me somewhere else. OK, here´s a poem from years ago, written for a great drummer.