Revue Review

God, I hate piano players.

The piano is something too powerful to be put under human hands, (like the ruling of a country or the writing of advice columns in a small-town newspaper) and there are these people that don't seem to get that, who can just sit down at one without any reverence whatsoever and command the voices of angels.

Especially the good ones, like this guy.  I don't like his kind.

His music ends like my cigarette, trailing off so gently that you hardly notice it going until you realize that you want more and there's nothing left to take.  His hands rest motionless on the keys like two lovers basking in the afterglow of a fit of passion.

He knew how good he was too.  I hate that.  I lift one foot up onto the bottom rung of my stool.

"It's good.  What's it called?"

"The Ninth Child." He lifts his hands from the keys and rests them on the music stand, which was empty.  Freak had it memorized too.  I wish I could think the name was stupid.

"Nice name.  What do you want to do with it?"  Shove it up your ass?

He lowers his palms towards me like he's pouring water out of them.  "I want to get it out of these, so I can be surprised by what comes next instead of just forgetting it."

"You want to record it?" Wouldn't that have been a lot easier to say?

"Yes."

"Have the sheet music for it?"

"I can't read or write it."  No respect for music.  None.

"No worries, I know somebody who can help you write it down."  Anybody but me.  "And I gotta ask, have you ever considered performing live?"

"You think people would pay to come see somebody sitting down?"  False modesty; not only can he play, but he does that swaying-back-and-forth-and-pitching-in-the-throes-of-music thing that everybody loves to see in a piano player.  Except me.  Look like they're possessed, I think.

"They would to see you.  Now there's a couple of guys that work an open stage downtown that I think would be interested in hearing your music, so as soon as we can get some stuff recorded, I'll take a CD over to them so they can get a feel for you."  And you can get out of my hair.

He scuffs his feet under the piano bench; this guy liked to do the barefoot thing too, but I wasn't going to let him into the studio like that.  I almost wish he'd tried it, so I could've kicked him out.  Piano players are always hanging around, though.  

Finally he gets up, looking longingly back at the baby grand I have set up as he heads me-wards.  When he's not playing you notice how rock-casual the guy looks, with his desaturated-tones T-shirt and faded-wash jeans.  What a tool.

"Thank you so much for taking the time to listen to my stuff, I really appreciate it.  I'll tell all the music people I know where you're at."  Dear lord, please don't do that.

"I look forward to meeting them."

I shake his hand and he heads to the door; another thing I hate about piano players is their fingers.  They go like, all the way around my hands and then some.  I have small hands.

I close the door behind him, and lock it; he was my last audition for the day.

I sit down at the baby grand and play the same piece I've been playing for fifteen years; its not even that great, but its the only thing I can play since my fingers won't even stretch a full octave.

I finish the sad little piece off and light another cigarette.

God I hate piano players.