My First (and Last) Piano Recital

So, when I was about 13 years old, my mother decided that it would be good for my sister and I to start taking piano lessons.  How this decision was made I’ll never now; I was not invited to the meeting, and I was not forwarded the minutes.  There I was, at the ripe age of 13, about to step into the world of the piano.

Imagine my enthusiasm.

I’m not sure how long we went to this girl, or how many lessons we did, but I learned precisely nothing.  My fingers are stubby and fat, and I tended to mash the keys with my palms rather than let my fingertips dance across the whites and blacks like little ballerinas or some shit.  This instructor would have gotten better tunes out of a pig strapped to the bench smashing the keys with its muddy little hooves.

The point of all this is that I hated piano lessons, I sucked at piano, and my mother didn’t care and wouldn’t let me quit.  This brings us to the recital [quickly and awkwardly, I agree, but I’m not getting paid to write these things].  All of the people in the community that played the piano apparently belonged to some sort of club or guild or something.  They were all in cahoots.  Anyway, the oldest of these piano-people served as grandmasters to their little club, and they organized a Christmas recital every year.

If you’ve ever been to a piano recital in a small rural community, you’ll know that it’s not exactly the most edge-of-your-seat show.  But still, if enough kids drag their parents and grandparents, you end up with a fair size audience.  I was entered into the recital against my will, and I was the oldest performer by at least 5 years.  So it’s a bunch of 6, 7, and 8 year olds, and then me at 13.  The piece I was to play wasn’t even my choice.  I was supposed to do “Good King Wenceslas”, or about 40 seconds of it anyway.  I’m sure when I went to the piano, all of the people in the audience thought, “Oh, well he’s a fair bit older than everyone else, he might actually play something interesting and with a bit more complexity."  WRONG!  All night, little 6 year olds had been playing full blown Christmas songs, and here I step up, all frumpy and hot in my too-tight dress shirt and my itchy black slacks, and I plink-plonk out the worst fucking rendition of Good King Wenceslas that anyone’s ever had the misfortune of hearing.  Then I stand up, do a quick bow, and march back to my seat with my head down while about 4 people give me pity applause.  The rest of the people are all checking the recital programs to figure out who the hell I am and what the hell it was I was trying to play.

Now, none of that was the good part.  

A week before the recital, I was asked by one of these piano grandmasters if I would play Santa Claus for the kids at the recital.  They only asked me to do this because I’m fat, which kind of makes them jerks, but whatever.  I said I would do it because I hate disappointing anyone but my parents.  A few days before the recital, somebody dropped off the “Community Santa Claus Costume” that had been travelling from event to event and sweaty fat man to sweaty fat man since the 1970’s.  It smelled like a baked-bean-fed donkey had splatter-shat in the suit before they packed it up for the year, and the beard was stained yellow in the places where it would touch your face.  I tried it on, and guess what?  It fit perfectly.  [How’s that feel?  You’re 13 years old and have Santa’s physique.  Oh, there’s a long future of comic books and being “just friends” with girls in store for you.]

So I go to the recital I just told you about, and bomb that, and then, when everyone had played their piece, I had to rush upstairs to put the Santa suit on.  The kids all gather downstairs and I make my big entrance.  I try out a “Ho! Ho! Ho!”, and I’m instantly the most unconvincing Santa Claus that’s ever been.  I’m not Santa; I’m that fat kid that just destroyed Good King Wenceslas, except now I’m in a smelly red suit and an ugly white beard.  These kids aren’t fooled, and they just feel insulted that I suck so bad.  “You’re not Santa!” they each take a turn saying to me.  At first I feel the pressure to be more convincing, and a couple of the piano-people tell me to act more jolly and more Santa-esque, but, you know what?  No.  Fuck this whole operation.  The illusion is gone, if there ever was one, and I’m not doing anything but firing these gifts out to the kids and going the hell home.  I even drop the fake Santa voice.  Now it’s just me in a stupid suit, getting angrier and angrier at these kids who won’t come get their gifts when I call them.  “Todd Brown, come get your gift please….TODD BROWN, your Secret Santa gift is here.…MISTER BROWN, Gift!!!....LAST CHANCE TODD….TODD!  Yeah, you, do you want this or not?”.

Santa says stuff like that, “Last Chance!” and “Do you want this or not?”.

Anyway, this went on waaay too long and I could see in the grandmasters faces that I wasn’t going to be asked to do this again.  What did they expect though?  What 13 year old wants to: first of all, go to a piano recital, and second, be asked to play Santa Claus?!

Here’s a tip ladies, next time don’t be so goddamned shallow and just pick the first fat person you see!  Maybe next time you should start with someone that’s even the least bit jolly and just stuff a pillow in his shirt if he isn’t round enough for your collective tastes.   

Take it as a lesson learned, piano snobs! Merry Christmas!

Oh, P.S.  I got a gift too.  My Secret Santa gave me a Snakes and Ladders board game.  Snakes and Goddamned Ladders.  I guess I can’t blame my Secret Santa though, he or she probably assumed it would be a 7 year old getting it.  Anyway, it was bullshit, the gift, the Santa gig, the recital, everything.  I gave the Snakes and Ladders board game to my little cousin and told my mother I was quitting piano.