Piano Man

 Week Forty-nine: Piano Man

There’s an old man sitting next to me

Makin’ love to his tonic and gin

He says, “Son, can you play me a memory?

I’m not really sure how it goes

But it’s sad and it’s sweet and I knew it complete

When I wore a younger man’s clothes.”

Sing us a song, you’re the piano man

Sing us a song tonight

Well, we’re all in the mood for a melody

And you’ve got us feeling alright

--Billy Joel, Piano Man, from the album of the same name

Billy Joel’s Piano Man is a song that almost everyone recognizes. 

Back in September of 1972, in the first five minutes of the first day of a music class that I would eventually take four years later, I met my worst fear. Part of my teacher preparation at Salisbury State College was a required music course. There was no part of me that had any level of confidence that I could pass such a class. I was nervous and my anxiety only grew worse as the professor began to address the class.

He explained that we would learn to read music, to recognize various songs by the sheet music, and to play several songs on the piano. (Just for the record, I retired after nearly forty years in education and never, not once, not for a single second needed to know how to do any of those things.) The more he said, the more anxious I got, and when he said, “...and if you don’t belong here, stand up, walk out, go find the registrar and get a different class…” that’s exactly what I did.

I was eighteen years old, fairly far from home, and wildly ill-prepared for my immediate future. During the ensuing four years I had multiple opportunities to take the required music course. I always seemed to find an appropriate excuse not to. Four years later as a married man with a nearly three year old daughter in my last semester at SSC, the music requirement remained. It had always been there, conspicuous, almost teasing me, laughing to itself as if it knew the longer I waited the more significant my success would become. I wish that had occurred to me.

 So, there I was, sitting in the same room with a group of teacher-candidates eager to start their journeys. I was eager to end mine. The course outline was the same in terms of reading music (which I knew wasn’t going to happen) and even more daunting, the requirement to play the piano. After eight semesters and several mini-mesters, I knew full well how to play the game: attend class regularly, volunteer whenever I thought I might know what was being asked, and make the teacher know me. He not only knew me (as Mr. Thanner), he also knew our daughter Julie who accompanied me as often as necessary based on child-care.

I learned almost nothing, but not because I didn’t try. I had to. It was too important. Without this course I could not graduate or get my teaching certificate. Reading Russian in hieroglyphics would have been slightly easier than reading sheet music. It made no sense. I simply could not do it.

So I focused on my performance art.

OK I’m kidding, but I did practice. A lot. I would take Julie to the lobby of one of the dorms that had a piano and together we would practice Mary Had a Little Lamb over and over and over. And over. And over.

For the sake of my story flash forward forty-eight years. In the park where we walk every afternoon amidst multiple playgrounds, a skate park, basketball, tennis and pickleball courts there are several musical instruments. Seems odd, I know, but in addition to a huge set of bongo drums, there is a tubular xylophone replete with rubber mallets.

The first time we came upon it, my brain struggled to find the remnants of Mary Had a Little Lamb, which I was sure lingered somewhere in there. It did, and after a bit of trial and error, my old friend was right there as if it had never left. I tell you this to say that forty-eight years ago, hour after hour I struggled to play a very simple tune with my right hand, while my left supplied two different chords in several different places in the song.

Look at your right hand. Number your thumb “1” and each finger 2-5. Mary Had a Little Lamb when started on the correct note (don’t ask me which one) and played in the correct rhythm is 2,3,4,3,222,333,2,11. 2,3,4,3,2222,33,2,3,4. Go ahead, try it. Tap your fingers while humming the tune. That’s what somehow lingered in my head and right hand all those years. But all those years ago in addition to the final exam, which I was certain I failed, a performance was required.

The piano lab was electronic, so as I sat at the keyboard listening in headphones to myself practice, the professor was patched into other students as they performed. At some point it was my turn. 

“Good morning, Mr. Thanner,” he said.

“Good morning, Sir,” I replied.

“Are you ready?” he asked. I assured him that through countless hours of rehearsal I would provide for him a truly unforgettable rendition of Mary Had a Little Lamb. There was no doubt that what he was about to hear would be quite unlike anything he had or ever would hear again. He laughed and said, “Please begin.”

I gently placed my trembling hands over the keyboard making sure my fingers were where they needed to be to start the song. I looked towards the booth. He nodded. I struck the opening chord with my left hand and the first note with my right index finger…

… “Thank you, Mr. Thanner,” he said as switched off my microphone and smiled at me from the front of the room.

Billy Joel - Piano Man (1973 Full Uncut Original Video)