Muscle Memory

Fall quarter of my senior year at college, I sat down with Dr. Zed, my advisor, to make sure I would complete all of the required courses by the time graduation rolled around. Looking over my transcript, a puzzled expression came over her face as she asked, “Where are your piano credits?” (As a music major, you’re required to complete six credits of piano lessons, as well as pass a piano proficiency exam.) I told her that I had taken one credit my freshman year and then passed the exam, so I didn’t take any more piano lessons. My previous advisor (who had since retired) told me the lessons were to help students prepare for the exam, but I could take the exam as soon as I wanted and, as long as I passed it, skip the lessons. Dr. Zed explained that the six credits were a requirement for graduation, distinct from the exam and regardless of the student’s existing skills.

So there I was, less than a year away from graduation and in need of five credits of piano. The only option left was to take two and three credits during each of the remaining quarters. No problem, right? Wrong. Another requirement was that students taking lessons for two or three credits were required to perform at the Tuesday afternoon recitals, held in front of all of the music majors, as well as pass a jury. (Juries are the musical equivalent of final exams. Held at the end of the quarter, each student must perform a mini recital in front of the faculty for a grade.)

Let me make one thing clear. I was NOT a pianist. I could fumble through accompaniments well enough to give myself an idea of what they sounded like, and had sufficient knowledge of music theory and basic skills to pass the proficiency exam, but that was it.

Then there was the bigger issue: My horrendous fear of playing piano in public. Singing for an audience was not an issue for me, but playing piano was. I tried playing piano in church once as a kid. It was fine until I got close to the end, lost my place in the music, kept playing horrendously wrong notes, couldn't figure out how to end it, and finally just got up and walked back to my pew without any resolution. The thought of attempting it again made me nauseated, but I didn’t have a choice. It had to be done.

So I started lessons the following quarter, one hour, every week. I chose to study Khachaturian’s Toccata, a folk-inspired piece that’s become a staple of twentieth-century repertoire. I begged my teacher, Rosie, to give me a key to the recital hall and the Bechstein piano in the hall, so I could practice there and learn how it felt to play on that stage and on that piano. (On a side note, Rosie was truly amazing. She was a brilliant pianist, accomplished composer, inspiring teacher, and a kind, funny, wonderfully quirky person.)

I practiced like a fiend, sometimes for three hours straight, until I’d get a burning pain between my shoulder blades. Like I said, I’m not a pianist, so practicing for long periods with bad technique and bad posture can be torture.

Before I knew it, the last Tuesday recital of the quarter was upon me. I remember standing backstage with Rosie, waiting for my turn; I was last on the program. I kept rubbing my sweaty palms on my green dress, until Rosie grabbed my hands and started blowing on them, telling me that rubbing them only makes them sweat more. In between breaths, she’d try to calm my nerves with kindness and encouragement, saying things like, “You’ll be brilliant. You’re an awesome musician. You’re gonna blow their minds!”

Then, it was time. I remember walking out onto the stage to the sound of applause, most of it obligatory. My friends knew how terrified I was, so I there was a “Woohoo” or two, and a few hands clapping noticeably louder than all the others. I bowed, fought off the urge to puke on my shoes, sat on the bench, put my hands on the keys, saw them shaking uncontrollably, thought, “I wish I was dead,” and began playing.

The performance itself is a blur, but somehow I made it to the end without falling apart. It must have gone relatively well, for as I released the final chord and relaxed my hands on my lap, I heard applause. A lot of it. I stood up, took my bow, all but ran off the stage to find Rosie, jumping up and down. She threw her arms around me and said, “That was UNBELIEVEABLE.” I noticed there was still applause coming from the hall, just as Rosie pushed me back out onto the stage for an encore bow. I don’t think I’ve ever felt such a sense of relief before, or since.

So what’s the point of this story? Well, tonight I sat down at my piano to play and sing a bit, as I do almost every evening. For some unknown reason, I thought of this experience and wondered if any of the music was still in my fingers.

I started by trying to play the middle section of the piece, which I remember practicing incessantly, until the 2-against-3 pattern felt completely natural. I fumbled through a few measures, but then drew a blank. I tried jumping ahead a bit, but it just wasn’t coming to me.

I sat there staring at the keys, a bit disappointed, but thought I’d give it one more shot, this time from the beginning.

Would you believe that I was able to play the entire piece...from memory? It’s true. Granted, it wasn’t at performance level, but it’s been ten years (holy crap!) since I performed the piece, and my brain and muscles still remember how to do it.

I was—am—completely blown away and just felt the need to share.