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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required I saw it in one of those chintzy antique shops. I recalled that it was made for travelling musicians that wanted to work out scores while not being overheard. It was old and all wood. When I tapped the keys they clacked, but each key to me seemed to clack in a slightly different tone, as if the pianist’s thoughts and intentions had somehow imprinted a musical counterpart into the inarticulate wood. When I got it home I propped it up against a wall, poured myself a drink and thought what a fool I was. The ice cubes in my bourbon tinkled unmusically. I stared at it. ‘You can’t even play a kazoo you idiot, what the …..!’ Later, a little drunk, I took it up and placed it on a table, stretched my stiff fingers and played. I played like I had never played before! This was real, not an air-guitar thing. Chopin and Mozart flowed through my hands as I sped through deft keyboard exercises, labelling quarter and eighth notes, dashing off aurally different meters, executing perfect pitch and phrase. After the warm-up I was ready for my public. With much élan and gusto, I thundered through a dramatic First Movement. The Andante I performed next was hauntingly beautiful. I swayed on my stool in a deep artistic trance. An invisible audience gasped and yes, they stood and roared their approval, as the last note of a sonata I had just composed, concluded a fiery Allegro. Tomorrow I intend to jazz-duet with Oscar Peterson. Man, it’s good to be dumb.
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