Week Two
Practice, Practice, Practice
Mitch has the midwestern good looks and smooth charm that give him the uncanny ability to convince people to do anything. He had all the charisma of a cult leader and the positive vibes of a motivational speaker. So when he asked me to help him write the music to a song he'd written, and then perform it on the vaunted stage of Carnegie Hall, I gave him the following responses in succession:
"I'm happy to write it. I just don't want to perform it."
"I'm still on board to help write it. But maybe I can record it and you can sing to it."
"What if I taught someone how to play it?"
And finally,
"Fine! But I'll probably shit my pants on stage."
A doctor was still six years away from diagnosing me with a severe anxiety disorder, and so my excuses of "I really don't like to perform in front of people," had no clinical basis. Which is why, in the early summer of 2005, I found myself dressed in a tuxedo backstage at one of the most famous music halls in the world about to perform a song on the piano in front of friends, family, co-workers and strangers.
Oh, and I should mention that I don't know how to play the piano.
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Perhaps understanding my limited musical knowledge, Mitch brought our co-worker and talented guitarist, Tom, on board. Mitch had written the lyrics to "Mi Amor Estranada" before he even mentioned this gig to me. So we had some sort of base to start from when we began writing the music in February. That gave us about four months to create, practice, and master our song for the "A Gift of Life" concert. It also gave me about four months to figure out a way to get out of this.
The event itself was created by a New York voice teacher and former opera singer - a way to showcase her students' talents while donating proceeds from the concert to the American Red Cross. My feeling was this: if I accidentally broke all of my fingers in a printing press just before our song, all of those who bought tickets would still get to see a fantastic concert while donating money to a worthy cause. Everyone wins - except for me - who'd have learn to live with hooks for hands. It'd be worth it.
We rehearsed every chance we could. We rented rehearsal space in music studios throughout the city. We practiced at Mitch's apartment (the only one of us who had an apartment big enough to accommodate three people and a piano). Mitch even managed to get us into Carnegie Hall during an off day so we could rehearse on stage and get a feel for the acoustics.
This "soft opening" at Carnegie Hall ended up being the first time all of us had performed in front of an audience that didn't consist of our girlfriends, so my nerves took over. While pulling out the piano bench, I slammed my enormous head into the keys and managed to play a chord with my forehead not unlike the chord at the end of A Day in the Life. This, of course, drew strange looks from the stage manager, and I realized I had one more thing to worry about on the night of our performance.
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While all of this was happening, I'd begun dating someone. Aly was supportive, gave me notes on small things I could do to help improve the performance, and was genuinely excited to see her boyfriend perform on stage at Carnegie Hall. Because our relationship was so new, I'd yet to tell her about my crippling anxiety. I'm sure she saw inklings of it, such as my hatred of crowded rooms, the way I'd sweat when more than one person paid attention to me at a time, and how I'd started walking a few miles across town to work in order to avoid the subway.
What's more, Aly hadn't met my parents yet. They were coming in from out of town to see me play (though my mom said, "Wait, you can play the piano?"), and they'd meet her for the first time in the lobby before the show. They would be entering dark territory, and I (wrongly) assumed they'd spend the time talking about all the mental issues I had and/or my sex life.
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Finally, after months of rehearsing and waiting, the day of dread had arrived.
All three of us worked a few short blocks away from Carnegie Hall, so, in an effort to blow off pre-show jitters, we made the wise decision to run to the concert. Three grown men, in tuxedos, running at full-tilt through midtown Manhattan at rush hour, in the high humidity of a June afternoon. So yes, I burned off nervous energy, but now my hands were sweaty, which meant my fingers were sweaty, which meant they'd easily slip off the keys when I played. I grabbed every piece of tissue I could shoved them into my pockets, and held my hands in there until our performance in a bad attempt to absorb the sweat.
I looked at Mitch and blamed him - silently - for everything that was currently wrong in my life. I was about to embarrass myself in front of some of the best musicians in New York City, my friends would shake their heads in horror as I defecated all over the piano bench, and my new girlfriend would discover my parents kept me in the Special Ed class until high school because I'd failed to understand tangrams and proper vowel pronunciation. All that I'd worked for throughout my entire life was about to come crashing down in a heap of sweat, blood, and piano wires.
The order of the program was pasted outside the stage door. We were fourth, preceded by several singers and one piano soloist. The piano soloist was Peng Peng, a 12 year old slightly rotund Asian boy who'd played the piano in his mother's womb. His name, a repeated monosyllabic shout out to the instrument he'd hold so dear throughout his life, appeared just as "Cher" or "Madonna" or "Liberace" would in the program. There was no need to add to this kid's name; doing so would take away from what really mattered - his talent. Peng Peng, with his intimidating skill, would be opening the concert.
We had a television in our dressing room which had a closed circuit feed to the stage. We could see and hear each performance live. After a quick introduction by the organizer, Peng Peng was brought on stage to play his song. The kid was good. So good, that as his fingers worked their way over the keys, I swore I saw him lean in close and play part of the song with his tongue. Halfway through the song, I'd had enough and turned off the television. I was sure I'd be the biggest disappointment of the night.
I remember the stage manager calling us to the stage. Walking out, I caught sight of my girlfriend, and thought she looked great in that dress. I didn't want it to be the one she wore when she called me a failure and broke up with me, in front of my parents, later that night. I also remember my hand shaking over the first chord and it coming down correctly.
That's it. The song finished, people clapped, and we walked off the stage.
No shitting of the pants.
No passing out.
No cracking my over-size head on the piano keys.
We'd made it. We'd played Carnegie Hall - to what level of success was to be determined. We were happy we made it and walked around the block, slapping each other on the backs, overjoyed that it went well.
The concert ended and we made our way out into the audience. After formally introducing my girlfriend to my parents, a measure met with the ominous "oh, we've already met", I asked what they thought. My mom said, "We'll tell you later." This, in my book, meant that we were horrible. I never expected us to be mind-blowing, but upon reflection, I thought the performance was adequate if not reasonably good. But was it so bad that my parents couldn't find the right words to explain it? They needed time to properly craft their words? Had I missed something?
And I had. I'd missed a lot actually. Because I'd turned the closed circuit television off, we didn't see the other performances, save for Peng Peng's epic concoction of music and skill. According to those who witnessed it, and unfortunately paid good money to witness it, the other performances were absolutely awful. My mother claims to have thought about painful childhood memories to keep from laughing. Aly, seated a row in front of my parents, stifled her laughter so much that she transferred it through forced coughing. At dinner afterward, they spoke animatedly about the horrors they'd just witnessed. One particular performer was so awful that he is, to this day, imitated at family functions, and used as a measure of awful. What's more, everyone praised our performance and said, without question, it was one of the best of the night.
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I've never returned to the stage at Carnegie Hall. Mitch, Tom, and I played together a few times, but never in front of a crowd and mostly for our own enjoyment. I vaguely remember the chords and arpeggios to "Mi Amor Estranada" but haven't played them on a piano in over ten years. And while my anxiety is well taken care of now, I have absolutely zero desire to ever perform in front of people again.
The old adage goes, "the way to get to Carnegie Hall is through practice, practice practice." But that isn't entirely true. Sometimes, all it takes is not shitting yourself while everyone you know is watching.
