Shoot The Piano Player

I started taking piano lessons when I was 22 years old. An impatient and smug 22 year old.

Bad idea.

I had grown up around keyboards. My Uncle Bob had a piano. My Uncle Al had a piano and an organ, and I played both all of the time. I lived just a few blocks away, but I spent more time in my cousin's house than I did mine, and while there, I sat behind those eighty-eights, whether my family liked it or not.

Along with my drums, I had an organ as a kid, a pretty cool toy made by Magnus, that I sat behind like a 7 year old Dr. Phibes, sight reading chords and melodies from music books with big print and colored notes, that featured songs from traditional crap like "The Yellow Rose Of Texas," to standards like “Autumn Leaves” and Beatles’ classics like "Yesterday" and "In My Life.”

My best friend and bandmate had a piano in his apartment. My first roommate had a piano, and it was the first thing I noticed when deciding if I should move in. Once I did, we both played it with great enthusiasm, pounding out the chords by ear to Todd Rundgren and Elton John songs.

In my heart and very thick head, I had been playing piano for 15 years when my piano teacher arrived for my first lesson.

Thomas Maraldo arrived on time one summer afternoon. Not more than two or three years older than I was, he introduced himself as “Mr. Maraldo.”

I knew this venture wouldn’t last long.

 "Do you want to do this?"
"Yeah, sure."

 "NO! Do you want to do this?"

 "What the fuck is this, 'Hamburger Hill?' What’d I just say, asshole. I asked you here!" 

 
Okay, I didn’t say that, but I was thinking it. I was also thinking I should demand he call me Mr. Nunziato, but I didn’t say that out loud either. 

 "Yes," I said out loud."

 "Okay, good."

Then, instead of being taught a few shortcuts on how to play Chopin's "Prelude In E Minor" or Side Two of Emerson, Lake and Palmer’s “Brain Salad Surgery,” I was told to play "bum bum bum," a C major triad, with the pinky, middle finger and thumb of my left hand for an hour, an exercise to teach your left hand to become independent of your right. I wasn’t a complete idiot. I knew I wasn’t going to be Liberace after my first lesson, but I really did believe I was ahead of the game by being able to play full rock and roll songs, not to mention  “The Yellow Rose of Texas” with the few dozen chords I did know. 

I didn't want to do this. Not THIS. This was school all over again. I played “bum bum bum” for a minute, if that long, before I asked him to leave. He thought I was kidding. He laughed to himself and said, “Okay, continue.” He stopped laughing when I said, “I’m not kidding. I’m not playing ‘bum bum bum’ for an hour. I made a mistake. I’m sorry. I can’t do this…Tommy.”

His face said, "Don't call me Tommy." I felt horrible for a second. But I stood my ground. 

He left, crushed.

I was satisfied pounding out reasonably recognizable versions of Elton’s "Levon" and Bowie's "TVC 15" using the chords I knew. My piano lessons lasted two minutes.

I can still fake Floyd Cramer flourishes in the studio, if I have the chords in front of me. But let's face it. I am not a piano player.

Thomas Maraldo called me a few days later.

"Do you want to try again?"

I didn't.

 
"No, but thanks for calling."

I regret not following through, but as a lost and perpetually fidgety 22 year old, I simply didn’t have the patience or foresight to think any further than the joint I was going to light up right after work.

I know it's not healthy having regrets, but I often think if I just played "bum bum bum" for that hour I could have been playing "Tarkus" in some shitty ELP cover band today, you know, assuming I wasn't serving time for assaulting Mr. Tommy Maraldo with The Complete Works Of Beethoven.

"Bum bum bum."