Confession time

No, not that kind of confession. That is left in the confessional, not plastered on the Blog.

What I must confess to you is something that is not a mortal sin, but probably will destroy what little credibility I have as a doctrinaire musician.

I have been playing the piano again.

If you ever talk to someone who has battled a serious addiction they will tell you that the first sip, puff, snort, whatever is all it takes to end up in the depths again. So, just like our famous ancestor who said, "that woman, whom You gave me," I am going to blame someone of the fairer sex.

You see, it all started innocently enough. Amalia loves to plink and bang on my parents' piano when we visit. The other day she was singing "Mary Had a Little Lamb" to an almost Charles Ivesian accompaniment. Because she was actually somewhat close to the melodic contour, I decided to help her a bit. That was the fatal moment. Later she went out with her Nonna to the store. I had the house to myself. I tried to listen to a CD that I was supposed to review for the paper. No use.

Within ten minutes I was knee deep in Satie, and wondering where the book of Beethoven sonatas was. Schubert, Beethoven, Satie, all that is fine. One can write it off as a binge. But then I found the book of Chopin. It was over and for two hours I played that filthy instrument.

Oh how those ringing tones seduced me!
Oh how enchanting it was to emphasize a note with dynamics!

I even hit rock bottom and did the unspeakable. I played Bach. On the piano. At least I still felt a little dirty about it, but it was fun. I imagine the great Kirkpatrick looking down with tears, thinking that another one had reverted. It was over, but I was already thinking about which piece to work on next.

Fortunately there is no piano at our house. The only cast iron I keep is in the kitchen (well seasoned and ready to fry a steak, thank you). Since we do not have a lot of room, that is the way it will remain for some time. But once a week I will probably be in the throes of a terrible noise. I can handle it. That is what they all say. When you see me on the streets humming Chopin waltzes, you will know how it all started.

I still fervently believe in the utter and complete supremacy of the harpsichord (yes, say it all together: the sound of two skeletons copulating on a tin roof during a hailstorm). I still think that phrasing by dynamics is the inevitable degeneracy of piano playing. I still think that those who publicly play Bach and Scarlatti on a piano should be branded and flogged. But I cannot say that I am not taking a sick pleasure from it all.

Next will be some modern pieces. Perhaps even the Berg Sonata, opus 1. Perhaps Debussy. I don't know. But there you have it. I, a weak man, have become a relapso. And I have the gall to blame a toddler for it!