I pull at the basement door, squinting towards the opening to the room below for light aside from the sun’s. Next, I would listen closely for any movements, shuffles, rustles of paper, my grandpa’s booming voice as he tries to overpower the poor sap on the other end of the phone line. Quiet. Sweet silence. Succulent solitude at last.
My foot falls down onto the concrete of the unfinished basement. Each step almost echoes throughout the room. No light present other than sunlight creeping through the curtains and meekly illuminating the room. My keyboard sits at some distance from one of the windows. The stage is set. I settle on my seat with fingers arching over the keys before gradually lowering and sinking into them. The audience awaits.
A light tune rings from the piano, a piece which would awaken the senses. “Piano” by Yiruma. The song begins as though the instruments sparked an interest in a child. Curious, experimental, the song pauses with chords on each hand until the main melody springs as an arpeggio. It transitions into a deeper, fuller, then back to dainty singular notes in steadiness, almost. The next piece, “It’s Your Day”. The performance transitions into a song with more confidence. It is another uplifting tune which raises spirits consistently. Its steady accompanying left hand continues smoothly allowing the right hand to play the higher notes of the leading melody.
The best performance is one with an audience; yourself. It is the finest for being the most organic, genuine. It is when the performer reveals their true colors. There is a saying by a great composer, Frédéric Chopin, that goes, “I tell my piano things I used to tell you.” Words and people can be so frustrating. Noisy. However, with playing alone, there is little pressure, little expectations, as one would be free to play however and whatever you please. One can determine how you can play, take in a piece, as well as express it. Playing a piece pushes one to think of how the song goes while giving you as well as having the liberty to play as how one processes it. The instrument would reciprocate; it seems to understand your frustrations when exerting onto the keys. It sounds just as you play them without any need for exaggeration unless it is made so. One can trust the piano with emotions, secrets conveyed through method of playing. The instrument would not utter a word as it would only sound what is played by different people. Songs may share the same notes, but they are not played in the same order or time.
The show wraps up sooner yet expectedly. The sound of footsteps, slow applause reverberates through the room which has the audience scatter, disappear at the initial step. I close my eyes as I come to accept that the performance is now over. My hands would lift slowly, hanging loosely above the keys. They reach forward for the cover resting behind the music stand and pull it over the entire keyboard. I then push my chair in and turn my heel. I take a bow towards the soundless audience before making my way back to the surface.
