Moon River
Last night, I sat at the piano and played for the first time in 6 months. I played Henry Mancini's Moon River, arranged by George N. Terry, from a vintage piece of sheet music I bought Wiff two years ago. When the sheet music was originally printed, in 1961, it sold for $.75 which, in today's dollars, is $8.06. I found a seller on Etsy and paid $21. You could say I got ripped off, but I think the value of some things increases with age and experience. At least that's what I'm telling myself as I get a little older and a little more experienced. Plus, it was a gift so I didn't care.
The sheet music also came with a hidden surprise: the previous owner had marked it up a bit—a circled quarter note, reminding them to hold for a whole count; a handwritten flat symbol, reminding them to play the accidental. And that's just in the first part half of the song which is written in the key of C. Once it changes to A flat major, I can only imagine how many times they must have sharpened their pencil. It reminded me of when I was learning how to play.
When I was younger, I marked up music the same way the previous owner did. I was in my high school's pep and jazz bands and the Tacoma All-City Jazz Band. I was also a ladies man. It was a fun way to support my school's teams in all the sports I wasn't athletic enough to play. I wasn't a fantastic piano player, but I was good enough to make the cut. I had to audition for those positions and, there being only one piano per band, the stakes were high. You were either in or you got to watch the other piano player play and wish they'd break a wrist. Thankfully, in each band, my competition was just one other pianist: for the school bands I competed against a nice girl with a friendly smile; for the all-city band, it was a different nice girl who also had a friendly smile. As I remember it, I destroyed them both. As history has more accurately recorded, there was no competition. They were both on their way out of the bands and I was just their replacement.
But the important takeaway?
I was a virtuoso.
As I sat there last night, playing what is arguably Mancini's most memorable song, noticing the previous owner's markings, it helped me remember that the key to earning a spot in a jazz band wasn't begging for an audition, it was playing better. To get better at jazz, I played classical. Which may sound counterintuitive, but when you’re learning to play jazz, playing classical helps. It gives you the dexterity and precision needed to play solos quickly and accurately. It gives you a familiarity with the keyboard so you know where your hands and fingers are at all times. To play better jazz, I needed to play better classical. I needed to focus on the inputs, not the outputs.
Now, I'm not auditioning for jazz bands, I'm trying to be a better stand-up. I want to tour nationally. I want to be recognized in airports. When I get arrested in a foreign autocratic regime and get thrown into a Siberian gulag, I want to be so famous my prison overlords recognize me and give me an extra helping of toilet-borscht. I want more and better paying gigs. I want more money. I want fame.
But my current situation is a direct reflection of how hard I've worked on the craft. My phone isn't ringing off the hook because I haven't worked hard enough on the jokes. Also because phones haven't had hooks in 20 years. I’m not touring because, despite having over 90 minutes of funny stuff, I need more and funnier minutes, because whatever I've got isn't funny enough for enough producers to think we have to get Anthony Le-whatever on the show!
I need to focus on the jokes. I need to focus on the punchlines, the bits, the material. I need to focus on the classical.
But in the meantime, Moon River will do.
