FLYING FINGERS OF FATE
A Widow Bit – March 14, 2010
By Mary Koch

            I was invited to play a piano solo at a benefit concert featuring keyboard artists. The invitation was an honor, but I was already working on some difficult accompaniments for an upcoming vocal recital – and my practice time was limited. I offered instead to perform as an accompanist, bringing the vocalist with me.

            In truth, I rarely perform solo. I prefer accompanying others or playing in ensembles. There’s safety in numbers. You can always hope the other musician will cover your mistakes. On the other hand, you risk destroying friendships if you screw up so royally, you make everybody look bad.

            The benefit was well-attended. The music ranged from new age to blue grass to jazz and classical. One of the soloists was a woman about my age playing a particularly challenging Mendelssohn piece. I’d heard her warming up beforehand and recognized she had a technique level that I will never achieve.

            When it was her time to perform, she started brilliantly. Then, just a few measures into the piece, she faltered amidst a cascade of flying notes. The interruption was barely noticeable but it threw her off. From that point on, she would play difficult passages seamlessly, then suddenly halt as if bumping into a road block at 80 mph. Each time, she’d shake her head and resume playing. Finally, after one stumble, she said aloud, “I’m shaking like a leaf.” Someone in the audience called out encouragement, and she tackled the music again. That’s how the piece progressed: A brilliant passage, a stumble, a halt and another brilliant passage.

            She somehow made it to the end, and the audience rose as one to give her a standing ovation. Later, after the concert, I thanked her on behalf of all pianists everywhere for her courage and determination.

            “Has that ever happened to you, where you just lose control of your fingers?” she asked.

            More times than I want to think about. And not just at the keyboard.

            The thing is, if she’d played the piece the way she’d intended, she would have received appreciative applause, but no standing ovation.  The audience was with her all the way, willing her to succeed. You could feel the energy in the room, because we’ve all been there at one time or another.

            She was the Little League outfielder who drops the easy fly that would have won the game – and dares to show up for the next game. She was the high school debater who forgets the concluding argument but stumbles on until the bitter end. She was the high-achiever who is called on stage to receive a distinguished award, trips and falls flat going up the stairs, then limps doggedly to the podium.

            I was grateful to the pianist not only because the nervous-finger thing has happened to me in the past; it could very well happen in the future. She proved it’s nothing to dread, and if it does happen, I hope I’ll labor on, remembering it’s never a solo performance.