Sunday, December 19, 2010
Awhile back I decided to record a few of the songs for my solo EP on the piano I grew up playing on. It lives at my mom's. It's a 5'6", black yamaha baby grand, with boomy bass that I can pound the shit out of and it gets SO LOUD. I really love it. The action is harder than the one we have at our house so it's like torture for my out of practice fingers. I love that too. Difficult, beautiful, sensitive. Reminders that you need to stop being distracted and practice like you love what you're doing. My wrists were cramping after a few hours of recording.
From the ages of 3-15 my family had an upright grand that didn't sound the best, but was beautiful. Black satin finish, with filigree around the legs and chipped rounded corners. It was the piano I first started to play on and held great sentimental value to both my mother and me.
When I was 15 and living in the OC, our house got broken into and the burglars stole the antique silverware that my great grandmother had given us. My mom was devastated. I remember her calling me at my friend's house to break the news. My concern: Did they steal my Tori bootlegs? They hadn't.
Sometime after we'd gotten the insurance money for the stolen goods, mom had noticed there was going to be a piano sale at UC Irvine. I can't remember why the school did this, but I'm pretty sure it had something to do with these pianos being used at the school for a year or two, and then being thrown out to pasture because someone was insane. Something like that. Anyway, my mom decided that since the silverware could never be replaced, the only way to honor my great grandmother's memory (who was an ardent music lover - specifically piano music) was to buy a baby grand piano. I loved this idea.
So, one Saturday we went down to this big warehouse-of-a-room at the university and I was instructed to pick out my favorite. There were steinways, baldwins, yahamas, bostons. Uprights, spinets, grands, baby grands. Brown, black, satin, shiny, white. I was in heaven. After trying nearly every kind, I decided on the 5'6" yamaha, with the black shiny finish and the boomy bass. For some reason that escapes me, I named her Isis. It sounded hard and soft, like her sound.
For the next few years while living at home, I played Isis nearly everyday for hours at a time. I mainly was writing my own songs, but also took lessons in and out of school; playing Chopin, Satie and Debussy.
I made recordings on friend's 4 tracks and on tape recorders. I recorded everything. I took those tapes, listened to them all the time, gave them to people, and then put them in a box when I was sick of them.
I hadn't listened to these recordings in about 11 years. That is, until I found the box in my mom's basement today after recording tracks for my solo EP on that 5'6" yamaha, now residing in NY.
All the way home I popped in different tapes and sat in wonder. Memories flooding. Songs I had completely forgotten about until that very moment the worn tape started rolling. Suddenly they were as familiar as the day I had written them.
My feelings were very mixed. I was surprised at how well I played the piano. I wasn't amazing by any means, but my fingers were much more dexterous then; as they should be when you're playing for hours a day. The other things that really shocked me were my arrangements, chords and melodies. They were really weird. Really weird.
When I think about my songs at the time I think of being really influenced by Tori Amos and Joni Mitchell. I remember a lot of people saying my songs reminded them of Tori. After awhile I began to believe it and started trying to come up with more straightforward arrangements. Trying to make my songs more universal and not so obscure. But what I realized while listening to them in the car was that they sounded nothing like Tori Amos. They didn't sound like anyone I was listening to. It was like I was creating my own language. How could I have been so off? Why didn't I have the confidence to know I was doing something different?
I don't want to give the impression that the songs were good. They weren't. They were interesting, yes. And actually, the songs could have been good if the lyrics weren't such drivel. I didn't write bad lyrics, like 'I've been so sad without you. So I bought a new pair of shoes.'I wrote things that made no fucking sense. One song made mention of a lucid dream, laundry, the sexes in touching places(?), and something about a cake? I thought I was being so clever writing such meaningful poetry. How can it be clever if you're the only one that understands it? How can it be clever if you can't even understand it? If I had put random words into a hat, pulled them out and created sentences, it probably would have made more sense. It left me dumbfounded. It left me full of regret.
But somehow, woven into these mixed emotions was this one common thread. Music has been a part of my life since I was a kid. But only after listening to these tapes today do I understand the passion that was always there. I so obviously loved what I was doing. Even when it hadn't occurred to me to pursue it seriously. Even when I thought I wanted to be an actress. Or a psychic.
In this last year or so, that passion has faded. I've been influenced by what other people are saying and not saying. I've been influenced by the times, the popularity contests, the work that must be done that involves everything but the writing of songs. I've gotten overwhelmed and cynical. Where does realism and practicality start and end? Should passion really be limited by such things? Is this growing up or is this giving up? I'm left with the same answer that I started with: I have no fucking idea.
But today, while driving home from New York the weekend before Christmas, a box of dusty maxell's between my knees, I thought, 'has the answer been in the basement?'
From the ages of 3-15 my family had an upright grand that didn't sound the best, but was beautiful. Black satin finish, with filigree around the legs and chipped rounded corners. It was the piano I first started to play on and held great sentimental value to both my mother and me.
When I was 15 and living in the OC, our house got broken into and the burglars stole the antique silverware that my great grandmother had given us. My mom was devastated. I remember her calling me at my friend's house to break the news. My concern: Did they steal my Tori bootlegs? They hadn't.
Sometime after we'd gotten the insurance money for the stolen goods, mom had noticed there was going to be a piano sale at UC Irvine. I can't remember why the school did this, but I'm pretty sure it had something to do with these pianos being used at the school for a year or two, and then being thrown out to pasture because someone was insane. Something like that. Anyway, my mom decided that since the silverware could never be replaced, the only way to honor my great grandmother's memory (who was an ardent music lover - specifically piano music) was to buy a baby grand piano. I loved this idea.
So, one Saturday we went down to this big warehouse-of-a-room at the university and I was instructed to pick out my favorite. There were steinways, baldwins, yahamas, bostons. Uprights, spinets, grands, baby grands. Brown, black, satin, shiny, white. I was in heaven. After trying nearly every kind, I decided on the 5'6" yamaha, with the black shiny finish and the boomy bass. For some reason that escapes me, I named her Isis. It sounded hard and soft, like her sound.
For the next few years while living at home, I played Isis nearly everyday for hours at a time. I mainly was writing my own songs, but also took lessons in and out of school; playing Chopin, Satie and Debussy.
I made recordings on friend's 4 tracks and on tape recorders. I recorded everything. I took those tapes, listened to them all the time, gave them to people, and then put them in a box when I was sick of them.
I hadn't listened to these recordings in about 11 years. That is, until I found the box in my mom's basement today after recording tracks for my solo EP on that 5'6" yamaha, now residing in NY.
All the way home I popped in different tapes and sat in wonder. Memories flooding. Songs I had completely forgotten about until that very moment the worn tape started rolling. Suddenly they were as familiar as the day I had written them.
My feelings were very mixed. I was surprised at how well I played the piano. I wasn't amazing by any means, but my fingers were much more dexterous then; as they should be when you're playing for hours a day. The other things that really shocked me were my arrangements, chords and melodies. They were really weird. Really weird.
When I think about my songs at the time I think of being really influenced by Tori Amos and Joni Mitchell. I remember a lot of people saying my songs reminded them of Tori. After awhile I began to believe it and started trying to come up with more straightforward arrangements. Trying to make my songs more universal and not so obscure. But what I realized while listening to them in the car was that they sounded nothing like Tori Amos. They didn't sound like anyone I was listening to. It was like I was creating my own language. How could I have been so off? Why didn't I have the confidence to know I was doing something different?
I don't want to give the impression that the songs were good. They weren't. They were interesting, yes. And actually, the songs could have been good if the lyrics weren't such drivel. I didn't write bad lyrics, like 'I've been so sad without you. So I bought a new pair of shoes.'I wrote things that made no fucking sense. One song made mention of a lucid dream, laundry, the sexes in touching places(?), and something about a cake? I thought I was being so clever writing such meaningful poetry. How can it be clever if you're the only one that understands it? How can it be clever if you can't even understand it? If I had put random words into a hat, pulled them out and created sentences, it probably would have made more sense. It left me dumbfounded. It left me full of regret.
But somehow, woven into these mixed emotions was this one common thread. Music has been a part of my life since I was a kid. But only after listening to these tapes today do I understand the passion that was always there. I so obviously loved what I was doing. Even when it hadn't occurred to me to pursue it seriously. Even when I thought I wanted to be an actress. Or a psychic.
In this last year or so, that passion has faded. I've been influenced by what other people are saying and not saying. I've been influenced by the times, the popularity contests, the work that must be done that involves everything but the writing of songs. I've gotten overwhelmed and cynical. Where does realism and practicality start and end? Should passion really be limited by such things? Is this growing up or is this giving up? I'm left with the same answer that I started with: I have no fucking idea.
But today, while driving home from New York the weekend before Christmas, a box of dusty maxell's between my knees, I thought, 'has the answer been in the basement?'
posted by Sarah RabDAU at
4:00 PM
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