17. If music be the food of love…

 

Shakespeare understood how central music was to life and love. Whether good or bad, happy or sad, it is always there to be appreciated. I grew up in a house where music was part of the fabric of daily life. The radio or record player was constantly playing—popular songs or classical favourites—and we often broke into song ourselves: football anthems, happy birthdays, or simply because we were together and felt like singing.

My grandparents always sang in the car as we drove to their house in the Brisbane Ranges: The Quartermaster’s Store, She’ll Be Coming ’Round the Mountain, and (my favourite) If You Knew Suzy. Mum and Dad loved the big musicals, and as soon as the records were available, they bought them. The King and I, The Sound of Music, Oklahoma! and South Pacific became the soundtrack of our home. At family parties, songs around the piano or pianola were essential, and the Hallelujah Chorus inevitably made an appearance late in the evening—sung loudly and with great enthusiasm

From an early age I loved nursery rhymes and songs. My grandmother sang lullabies before sleep, and I sang lustily at every opportunity—even if I wasn’t always tuneful. I joined the school choir as soon as I was old enough. In high school, there was always a school production, and I played (very) minor roles in Oklahoma!and Bye Bye Birdie. When I reached my teens, school dances featured local bands like The Cockroaches (later to become The Wiggles), The Flowers, Hush, and others. But none of them compared to the shock and thrill of seeing a new band called ACDC perform for us. This was the 70s, when local music was exploding in popularity—just before discos swept us away from those fabulous live performances.

When I was about six or seven, my parents—assisted financially by my grandmother—bought a second-hand piano. It held pride of place in our lounge room. Mum had always wanted to learn but never had the chance as a child, so she finally enrolled in lessons. I was fascinated by this new, noisy addition and begged to be allowed to play. Mum, mistakenly believing I had musical potential, found a local older lady to teach me.

With John Thompson’s “Teaching Little Fingers to Play”, I began my musical journey. At first, I was enthusiastic, and Mum and Dad encouraged me. Because the music in my book had words and I could already read, I could sing along as I played—a bonus for everyone, I’m sure. I proudly tackled Home on the Range, My Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean, and even my favourite, She’ll Be Coming ’Round the Mountain. If I made a mistake and hit the wrong key, I simply sang louder to cover it up.

As I progressed through the John Thompson books, my teacher suggested I sit the Preliminary Pianoforte Exam at the Melbourne Conservatorium of Music. I practised scales, chords, and set pieces endlessly. Mum took a day off work, I missed school, and we caught the train into the city. It felt like an adventure—until I was ushered into the examination room. Mum had to wait outside while I banged my way through the pieces. When I emerged pale-faced and shaking, she was ready to comfort me. After an agonising week of waiting, the results arrived: I had passed. Not spectacularly—but it was an achievement.

Years of lessons followed, punctuated by tears, tantrums, and mediocre exam results. From Bach’s Minuet to Beethoven’s Für Elise, with Grieg, Mozart, and even Handel’s Hallelujah Chorus, I murdered them all in the name of music. Scales, arpeggios, trills, allegrettos—I attempted them while Mum and Dad encouraged me through gritted teeth.

As I grew older, I enjoyed lessons less and practising became a battleground of nagging and defiance. The final straw came when I was preparing for the Grade Five Pianoforte Exam and one of the required pieces was Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata. By then we had moved to Sydney, and my teacher—a disinterested woman more devoted to her cats than her students—dismissed me within minutes of each lesson. When Dad discovered her lack of dedication, he refused to pay for any more lessons. I was overjoyed. I had discovered far more interesting ways to spend my time—like talking with friends for hours and flirting with boys.

My musical appreciation returned in other forms. I went to rock concerts featuring Status Quo, Suzi Quatro and Janis Ian, and later Elton John and Billy Joel rekindled my love of piano—when played by someone else. I believed my playing days were well behind me… until…

Early in my teaching career, I was sent to a tiny two-teacher school 70 kilometres from the nearest town. There was a piano, but no one to play it. The kids loved singing, but their only accompaniment came from a tinny cassette player. It was time for me to step up. With some gentle encouragement from the principal, we formed a school choir—all 28 students from Prep to Grade 6. After enthusiastic practising, we entered the Eisteddfod in Bathurst.

Onstage stood a Steinway grand piano, which I had to play while the children sang. My nerves were shredded. But the kids, accustomed to my stumbling style, sang on regardless, drowning out my mistakes with their loud, lusty voices. We finished our performance—and to our astonishment, we won the small schoolstrophy for best choir. A triumph of faith over adversity.

A few months later, tragedy struck the school when one of the fathers died suddenly. His funeral was held at the small local church, but there was no one available to play the organ. More gentle encouragement from the principal and community pushed me far outside my comfort zone. I attempted to play a completely unfamiliar instrument at a deeply solemn occasion, praying I wouldn’t make a mess of it. The president of the school committee, blessed with a very loud singing voice, stood beside me as I played Morning Has Broken and Amazing Grace—chosen because I already knew them and was less likely to muck them up.

Since leaving that school, many years have passed and my opportunities for piano playing have dwindled. Eventually I gave our old piano to a young girl eager to learn. I kept most of the sheet music for nostalgia but rarely open it.

I still enjoy music, but these days I confine myself to listening rather than performing. We have attended classical concerts in Salzburg, Vienna, Munich and Venice, and rock concerts across Australia starring Queen, Midnight Oil, Rose Tattoo, and Elton John (again and again!). I still sing sometimes—usually in the car or to my grandchildren. And nobody ever asks me to play the piano.

 

“One good thing about music, when it hits you, you feel no pain.”
― Bob Marley