I finally nod. “Okay. Yeah, let’s do it.” I tap my fingers against the bar, trying to just be normal and not let on what a giant fucking deal this is. I haven’t performed on the piano for a public audience for almost ten years.
I give a sharp shake of my head, casting away the thread of anxiety that had begun to creep in. Sure, there are a whole bunch of strangers here tonight but it’s not like I’m performing a sonata at Carnegie Hall—It’s two songs, and this ismybar; I’ve played here thousands of times. I learned to play on that stage, on the Steinway that’s now in my apartment.
“Let’s doit now,” I suggest.
Gia’s eyes widen.“Now?”
I shrug. “Once I have everything set up. I’m due to start a new set soon anyway and if I’m throwing in piano it makes more sense to open with it.”
She nods. “Yeah, I guess.”
I give her shoulder a squeeze and start to move away before a thought occurs to me. “Shit, it’s a twelve-minute song. That’s a long fucking time to leave Mel on her own…”
Gia’s eyes widen. “You want to do the full version?”
I shrug. “May as well go for broke.”
She lets out a resigned sigh. “Alright. Well, my part’s not ’til the end so I can stay here until then.”
I nod in agreement. “Okay. I’ll give you a time warning before the song starts.”
It takesabout twenty minutes to get everything set up properly; I didn’t want to mess around with my guitar equipment only to have to set everything up again after two songs, so a lot of that time was spent digging out another mic stand and making the necessary adjustments. Once everything’s ready I slip back through the curtain and switch off the playlist that’s been pumping through the speakers during my break; catching Chloe’s eye, I gesture for her to join me up on the stage.
“What’s go—wow…”Her eyes widen as she glances at the space behind the curtain. The piano is lit by a blue-tinted spotlight and I’ve moved the boxes and other furniture that’s usually stored here into the shadowy background where the clutter will be less noticeable.
“I just need to do a quick soundcheck and then you can pull back the curtain when I say,” I tell her.
She nods. “Yeah, no worries.”
“I also need you to take this over to Gia for me.”I hold out a microphone and she dutifully accepts it before giving me a thumbs up and heading back through the curtain.
I’d have preferred to do a sound check without an audience but it’s not as though I can just ask all the customers to clear out for a minute, so I just switch the mics on and run my fingers along the keys, making sure the sound is being picked up evenly. “One—two. One—two.”
Satisfied, I close my eyes for a moment and draw in a fortifying breath. I clench and extend my left hand a few times before finally saying into the microphone, “Okay, Chloe—let it rip.”
The curtain retracts and I hear curious murmurs give way to cheers as the patrons catch sight of me. It’s not a massive crowd for a Friday night, but it’s grown over the past couple hours so there’s probably ninety or so out there now.
I considergiving an explanation for the sudden appearance of the piano but then I decide to just get on with things. The crowd cheers even louder as soon as they hear the opening bars of Celine Dion’s “It’s All Coming Back To Me Now”; it’s not a song I’ve ever performed here before because I could never do it justice on guitar. As much I love the challenge of rearranging a song for the guitar and experimenting with different percussive sounds that I can layer into the performance, there are just some songsthat shouldn’t be messed with.
The apprehension I was feeling earlier completely disappears as I become immersed in the song; as my fingers slide over the keys with the ease of familiarity I feel a sense of pure joy wrap around me andIfind myself grinning as I reach an instrumental break.
My relationship with the piano is complicated, to say the least. As a kid it was a passion—or perhaps obsession would be more accurate—and until the age of twelve I had one goal: Juilliard.
Then on my twelfth birthday Mom and I were driving home from a junior orchestra performance when another car crashed into us after skidding through a patch of ice.
After she died I didn’t want to go near a piano. My hand was completely fucked from the accident, my dreams were in tatters, and it all just seemed kind of pointless without Mom there anyway.
But then my baby sister came along and changed everything. Learning what musical therapy can do for kids like Izzy gave me the push I needed to reconnect with the piano, and every second I spend playing with her is incredible.
My hand is still an issue, though. After two major surgeries, countless hours of rehab, and enough metal plating to rival Wolverine I haven’t managed to get even close to matching the flexibility, dexterity and strength I once had in my left hand. It’s also pretty prone to RSI flare ups, so I need to manage that carefully.
I finishthe song to enthusiastic applause; there are even a few wolf-whistles, which prompt my brows to shoot up.
“You might want to save some of that excitement,” I say with a breath of laughter. “You’re about to see something really special. Gia—this is your nine-minute warning.”
I wait for her to acknowledge the warning with a wave, then dance my fingers over the keys, the crowdonce again cheering its approval as they recognize Meat Loaf’s “I’d Do Anything For Love (But I Won’t Do That).”
This isanother one that I’ve never played before—for the exact same reason. I don’t usually make a habit of playing songs longer than ten minutes—not that there are many of those from the nineties—but when Gia made the Jim Steinman suggestion I knew the radio version wasn’t going to cut it. And the crowd seems to be getting into it so I’ll take that as a win.
