12:13 a.m. - Monday, Apr. 12, 2010
Erik Satie
I bolted from the concert hall, glad to finally be away from the noise and the hot bodies . . .too loud, too close. I ran down the dark, two hundred-year-old corridor and yanked on the combination lock until finally it released into my hand. Room 116. Quiet. I sank down onto the bench and hugged the piano. I love you. I love you because you don't judge me. You don't want anything from me. You listen to me. You hear me.
I get like this when a performance is looming. Tuesday. Hatred and anger and impatience are all heightened. Self-doubt. I will never change. This is me. This piece of shit is me. Wasting space on the planet.
I'm working on Satie's Gnossienne No. 1 and Schumann's Perfectly Contented for my final jury . . .but on Tuesday I'm playing Satie's Avant-Dernieres Pensees (just II. Aubade).
I'm having trouble with the Schumann . . .his hands were so fucking big . . .I can't reach all the stretches . . .I can't connect the voicings. I hold onto the sixteenths and forget to hold the eighths. Forget about dynamics. I can't taper at the end of the phrase . . .why am I surprised that it ends a beat early? . . .I mean, every time.
But the Gnossienne . . .no one can play that badly. Even me. I love Satie. He was told he didn't have the skills to be a pianist and dropped out of college the first time around. He was funny and serious at the same time. Isolated. Kept things to himself. The socialist. The minimalist. My kindred spirit.
I hope to do you justice.
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