First Lessons
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My three older sisters all began piano in their turns from an elderly teacher in our village named Lucille Kent. Evelyn was three years older than me, Kathy six years, Carol eight. They all progressed to at least the "elementary" level, to easy pieces by Schumann, Burgmüller, Anna Magdalena Notebook selections, and as far as Clementi Sonatinas. Their method books were the Thompson and Schaum series common at the time and still in use today. Our paternal grandmother lived nearby, had an upright piano and even into her eighties played a few favorites, such as "Star of the East."
I showed an early interest in piano and picked out melodies at three years old. I didn't take lessons right then, though. Mom went out on a limb: although she never studied piano, and wasn't even an avid listener to music, she taught herself how to read it so that she could teach me how. That is what she told me later, and I believe it, although I have not heard of anyone else in her position accomplishing this. (Today's young people can pick up piano skills from YouTube videos, which is surely a notch easier than prying and decoding the information out of printed matter on paper. It is also probably much easier if you are not, as Mom was, raising four children.)
Mom and I eventually got all the way through the Thompson primer book "Teaching Little Fingers to Play." My most distinct memory from that time is from the end of the process, when Mom assumed a cautious attitude about the achievement prior to the first "proper" lesson. She explained that Mrs. Kent would probably just work with me on a few selections out of the thirty or so, correcting and refining things, instead of playing the whole book through like we did at home.
As it happened, though, she, or we (I'm not sure who) exceeded expectations. Mrs. Kent heard the whole book in a sitting. It must have been gratifying for Mom to have her efforts validated this way. Not incidentally, she had saved a chunk of money on piano lessons! Furthermore, Mrs. Kent having decided that she had a prodigy on her hands, was determined to have me forge ahead in the Thompson method and started loading me with much more advanced pieces from level Three. This skipped over two entire levels in this already steeply graded method (the primer book that we had just completed comes before the levels numbered 1 and 2). The equivalent leap in today's commercial piano methods, such as Piano Adventures, might be from level 1 to level 5 or so. And I was still four years old. It put me almost in the same repertoire that my sisters were then playing only after several years of study.
My first studio recital performance was, I think (I'm not certain of the chronology) four months after the first lesson, and featured the little Burgmüller C minor Ballade. The very start of it recalls the last piece in the Thompson primer book, which may be why Mrs. Kent chose it. Its ominous, stormy character may have have gone well for my intense personality. Dad made reel-to-reel tapes of a couple of practice sessions and of the recital. Mrs. Kent's introductory speech before my performance declared me a genius, but nervously doubted my willingness to concentrate and hold it together well enough to perform to standard. (To that I would now say to teachers, please don't apologize ahead of time for your students!) I did play the piece, and not terribly for my age and experience, though at a slow and stuttering tempo, and less than note perfect. The darkly playful rhythmic drive that the Ballade is supposed to have would have to wait until later.
While I don't really remember what I was thinking, the grim regimen of practice and (I suspect) underwhelming lessons provoked my defenses, and not long after this recital debut I quit piano cold. My parents didn't argue. I assume they were uncertain about wanting to raise a music prodigy, maybe not enthusiastic about this particular teacher putting such an outsized burden on their son. Another of my few distinct memories of this time is the sight of Mrs. Kent lingering sorrowfully at her screen door, watching our car pull away for the last time. Of course it is not only sad but faintly guilty.
It wasn't, in the end, actually my last lesson with her, but I didn't go back to piano after that for some months.
Previous: What I Am Blogging Next: About That Jump Ahead in the Lessons Books
My three older sisters all began piano in their turns from an elderly teacher in our village named Lucille Kent. Evelyn was three years older than me, Kathy six years, Carol eight. They all progressed to at least the "elementary" level, to easy pieces by Schumann, Burgmüller, Anna Magdalena Notebook selections, and as far as Clementi Sonatinas. Their method books were the Thompson and Schaum series common at the time and still in use today. Our paternal grandmother lived nearby, had an upright piano and even into her eighties played a few favorites, such as "Star of the East."
I showed an early interest in piano and picked out melodies at three years old. I didn't take lessons right then, though. Mom went out on a limb: although she never studied piano, and wasn't even an avid listener to music, she taught herself how to read it so that she could teach me how. That is what she told me later, and I believe it, although I have not heard of anyone else in her position accomplishing this. (Today's young people can pick up piano skills from YouTube videos, which is surely a notch easier than prying and decoding the information out of printed matter on paper. It is also probably much easier if you are not, as Mom was, raising four children.)
Mom and I eventually got all the way through the Thompson primer book "Teaching Little Fingers to Play." My most distinct memory from that time is from the end of the process, when Mom assumed a cautious attitude about the achievement prior to the first "proper" lesson. She explained that Mrs. Kent would probably just work with me on a few selections out of the thirty or so, correcting and refining things, instead of playing the whole book through like we did at home.
As it happened, though, she, or we (I'm not sure who) exceeded expectations. Mrs. Kent heard the whole book in a sitting. It must have been gratifying for Mom to have her efforts validated this way. Not incidentally, she had saved a chunk of money on piano lessons! Furthermore, Mrs. Kent having decided that she had a prodigy on her hands, was determined to have me forge ahead in the Thompson method and started loading me with much more advanced pieces from level Three. This skipped over two entire levels in this already steeply graded method (the primer book that we had just completed comes before the levels numbered 1 and 2). The equivalent leap in today's commercial piano methods, such as Piano Adventures, might be from level 1 to level 5 or so. And I was still four years old. It put me almost in the same repertoire that my sisters were then playing only after several years of study.
My first studio recital performance was, I think (I'm not certain of the chronology) four months after the first lesson, and featured the little Burgmüller C minor Ballade. The very start of it recalls the last piece in the Thompson primer book, which may be why Mrs. Kent chose it. Its ominous, stormy character may have have gone well for my intense personality. Dad made reel-to-reel tapes of a couple of practice sessions and of the recital. Mrs. Kent's introductory speech before my performance declared me a genius, but nervously doubted my willingness to concentrate and hold it together well enough to perform to standard. (To that I would now say to teachers, please don't apologize ahead of time for your students!) I did play the piece, and not terribly for my age and experience, though at a slow and stuttering tempo, and less than note perfect. The darkly playful rhythmic drive that the Ballade is supposed to have would have to wait until later.
While I don't really remember what I was thinking, the grim regimen of practice and (I suspect) underwhelming lessons provoked my defenses, and not long after this recital debut I quit piano cold. My parents didn't argue. I assume they were uncertain about wanting to raise a music prodigy, maybe not enthusiastic about this particular teacher putting such an outsized burden on their son. Another of my few distinct memories of this time is the sight of Mrs. Kent lingering sorrowfully at her screen door, watching our car pull away for the last time. Of course it is not only sad but faintly guilty.
It wasn't, in the end, actually my last lesson with her, but I didn't go back to piano after that for some months.
Previous: What I Am Blogging Next: About That Jump Ahead in the Lessons Books
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