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Private Concert
Sep. 11th, 2024 06:58 pmThis is my entry for LJ Idol on the topic "It Ain't Bragging If It's True." I'll share voting information when it goes live.
From the other room, drifting like a half-remembered tune, floats the frantic strains of "Rage over a Lost Penny, Opus 129" by Beethoven. The pianist, my son, has chosen a violin sound on his Casio full-sized touch-response keyboard, which gives the piece an almost ghostly feel.
I've earned this moment, these days of sitting in the other room and listening to a personal concert, rather than sitting next to an antsy little curly-haired boy, continually having to tell him, "Take a seat" as he bounced off the bench as if it were a trampoline especially made for a child's butt.
In those days, I enlisted the help of Mozart Mouse and Beethoven Bear, plush toys given to us by his first piano teacher, because they went with the preschool music lesson books "Music for Little Mozarts." When I needed to help him identify a note, or figure out musical notation, I'd talk through Mozart Mouse and Beethoven Bear. (They would also dance to the music as he played, and beg him "Again! Again!" when he finished a piece; my sneaky way of getting him to extend his practice session by a few more minutes.)
His plush friends long since retired to their plastic carry bag, my son no longer needs their help. (I will admit, however, that I sometimes still use Mozart's squeaky mousey voice when I ask him to do something for me, which still makes him smile.)
Similarly, he no longer needs his father's coaxing to practice his trumpet, a task that fell on my husband because of his own experience with the instrument. He knew such important skills as how to press your lips together and blow, which is a much different technique than playing my wind instrument, the clarinet. I don't believe that plush toys were ever involved.
And now, as I write these words, my son has moved on to practicing the trumpet, in fact: playing his part for this year's marching band opener, "I'm Still Standing" by Elton John. This year, for the first time, I'm a marching-band mom, sitting in the stands to cheer him on at every football game. Tonight, I was elated at the arrival of my best birthday present: a folding stadium seat (with a back!) to make the metal bleachers more comfortable.
When football season ends, he'll begin his first year in the high school Jazz Lab, a non-competitive jazz ensemble, designed to build his improvisational skills. His middle school's competitive Jazz Ensemble won praise from the judges at every competition they attended last year, so we're pleased but not surprised he's staying with jazz.
As I hear those clear, controlled trumpet notes floating down the hallway, and as he hits high notes he could never have managed several years ago, I think back to that small boy with the wide, brown eyes who had to be coaxed into practicing for a full 15 minutes. A puppet show is no longer required, as he revisits phrases that are giving him trouble, going back over the notes until they flow the way they're supposed to flow.
I would love to take credit for the progress he's made, but aside from encouraging him in silly, squeaky voices; aside from driving him to lessons, making sure he had instruments to play, and playing the "what instrument do you hear" game as we listened to radio music, what have I really done? Truthfully, his dedication to his music is the reason he plays so well today.
Before he was even born, he was kicking to the beat whenever I listened to music. (He especially loved the Beatles.) Once he was born, all I really had to do was give him a way to follow his own beat. And honestly, of all the things in my life that I could list as accomplishments, this nightly mini-concert is the most satisfying.
KFP in his red and black band uniform, holding his trumpet
~~~
If you're curious about the piece he was practicing, here's an accomplished pianist playing it on a regular piano.
From the other room, drifting like a half-remembered tune, floats the frantic strains of "Rage over a Lost Penny, Opus 129" by Beethoven. The pianist, my son, has chosen a violin sound on his Casio full-sized touch-response keyboard, which gives the piece an almost ghostly feel.
I've earned this moment, these days of sitting in the other room and listening to a personal concert, rather than sitting next to an antsy little curly-haired boy, continually having to tell him, "Take a seat" as he bounced off the bench as if it were a trampoline especially made for a child's butt.
In those days, I enlisted the help of Mozart Mouse and Beethoven Bear, plush toys given to us by his first piano teacher, because they went with the preschool music lesson books "Music for Little Mozarts." When I needed to help him identify a note, or figure out musical notation, I'd talk through Mozart Mouse and Beethoven Bear. (They would also dance to the music as he played, and beg him "Again! Again!" when he finished a piece; my sneaky way of getting him to extend his practice session by a few more minutes.)
His plush friends long since retired to their plastic carry bag, my son no longer needs their help. (I will admit, however, that I sometimes still use Mozart's squeaky mousey voice when I ask him to do something for me, which still makes him smile.)
Similarly, he no longer needs his father's coaxing to practice his trumpet, a task that fell on my husband because of his own experience with the instrument. He knew such important skills as how to press your lips together and blow, which is a much different technique than playing my wind instrument, the clarinet. I don't believe that plush toys were ever involved.
And now, as I write these words, my son has moved on to practicing the trumpet, in fact: playing his part for this year's marching band opener, "I'm Still Standing" by Elton John. This year, for the first time, I'm a marching-band mom, sitting in the stands to cheer him on at every football game. Tonight, I was elated at the arrival of my best birthday present: a folding stadium seat (with a back!) to make the metal bleachers more comfortable.
When football season ends, he'll begin his first year in the high school Jazz Lab, a non-competitive jazz ensemble, designed to build his improvisational skills. His middle school's competitive Jazz Ensemble won praise from the judges at every competition they attended last year, so we're pleased but not surprised he's staying with jazz.
As I hear those clear, controlled trumpet notes floating down the hallway, and as he hits high notes he could never have managed several years ago, I think back to that small boy with the wide, brown eyes who had to be coaxed into practicing for a full 15 minutes. A puppet show is no longer required, as he revisits phrases that are giving him trouble, going back over the notes until they flow the way they're supposed to flow.
I would love to take credit for the progress he's made, but aside from encouraging him in silly, squeaky voices; aside from driving him to lessons, making sure he had instruments to play, and playing the "what instrument do you hear" game as we listened to radio music, what have I really done? Truthfully, his dedication to his music is the reason he plays so well today.
Before he was even born, he was kicking to the beat whenever I listened to music. (He especially loved the Beatles.) Once he was born, all I really had to do was give him a way to follow his own beat. And honestly, of all the things in my life that I could list as accomplishments, this nightly mini-concert is the most satisfying.
KFP in his red and black band uniform, holding his trumpet
~~~
If you're curious about the piece he was practicing, here's an accomplished pianist playing it on a regular piano.
