Requiem for a Piano

One of the few things I look foward to every day upon arriving at this campus, is the exquisite piano North Park owns which is the main piano for concerts and all other like festivities in the chapel. It's one of the most beautiful instruments I have every seen. Like any other grand piano, it is black but the finish on it glistenes in the light. The sound is equally exquisite. This is not the piano for Bartok or Prokofiev. The touch is refined and singing tone is made so much more possible by the delicate touch that this instrument caters to. When played right, the slight strains that ebb from this fine fushion of ivory and wood can melt the listener into thoughts of another time, another place.

Recently, this piano has become marred. The finish soiled by fingerprints, the wood chipped in places by movers oblivious of the piano's dimensions, the intonation non-existant, the touch spoiled. What has happened?

Every so often, I pass by this same chapel on Wednesday morning or Sunday night, when worships is going on. What I see and hear appalls me. The worship team, without any regard to the lush tone and delicate touch this piano is so capable of, plunks and bangs on it so as to get their own monotonous chord progressions heard. The approach is to hit, not to brush. Performer after performer sits in front of this piano and beats on it mercilessly. The casual passer-by also succmbs to this method of playing, as I have observed.

Perhaps it is too hasty to judge that the recent misfortunes befallen on that poor piano are due to the careless whallops of musical dilletantes. But it is what I've witnessed time and time again. Amateurs approaching an instrument not even I profess to do justice to.

The tuner came yesturday. After I saw Meredith off to her class, I headed down to the chapel to play a little and collect my things. The tuner was already there in the middle of a recording log of her tuning exploits, I suppose. She brought it to an abrupt close

Me: Are you the tuner?

Tuner: Why, yes I am.

Me: Oh wonderful! The piano really needs it.

Tuner: Oh, I'm only here to tune the harpsichord. But I have some time to tune the piano if they want it...[sits down and plays the piano]...yeah, it's really bad...

Me: It would be nice if it were tuned.

Tuner: They didn't say anything about tuning it. I'll ask and see what happens.

I grabbed my Mahler score off the piano and turned to leave. I nodded a thank-you to the benevolent woman. The way I saw it, she was that piano's hope. I left equally hopeful.

The same evening, while waiting for Meredith to arrive out of orchestra, I stopped in to see if the piano had been tuned. I slowly took out my newest piece (composed in C-sharp minor, a key particularly suited to the piano) and carefully placed it on the piano stand, as if I was afraid a sudden jolt or change in air speed would abolish anything the piano had going for it intonation wise.

I sat.

I breathed.

I waited.

And then I played.

How lovely it all sounded. The melodius strains of my piece flowed so naturally from the instrument, so sweetly enticing even the overtones to act in their favor. All chord-tones restored, voicing appropriate, I beamed ear to ear as the soulful phrases progressed. The tuner had blanketed that piano in her magic - it was in tune and the touch restored.

I worry though. This morning, there is yet another worship service scheduled. I hope that piano will at least remain as it was last night when I played it (I'm recording my piece tonight and would give anything for it to sound as it did last evening - that piano is the saving grace of my piece).

Someday, I'm going to kidnap that piano and we'll play Chopin together for the rest of our lives.

Not really, but I do hope that somewhere along the way, North Park realizes what they've got and will be better about informing students of said fact.