My grandfather has always wanted a child who could play an instrument. While his appreciation for music was inexhaustible, growing up he didn’t have the means of expressing it through his own. Though his kids wouldn’t have that issue, they just didn’t share the same interest he had, and so his hopes and musical aspirations would transfer to his grandchildren. As his first grandson, he couldn’t have been happier to see me carry on his interests.
But I suck at music. Some people are seemingly born child prodigies, blessed with musical qualities since conception, and playing music before they could talk. I had a late start to talking, almost two when I said my first word and yet… I still couldn’t play. When I was given a piano at five years old, within a month it had collected more dust and spiderwebs than fingerprints. I was later gifted a guitar, which I proceeded to slam from my bunk bed like the rockstar I thought I was, only I forgot to learn a song first. In an attempt to fix my mistake, I begged for an electric guitar only a year later. Unlike me however, my parents had already learned their lesson, so I was forced to settle for a ukulele. All I can remember of the experience is that it wasn’t too long before all four strings had disappeared.
So, I was a destructive child. It didn’t take much to realize that it would be safer and maybe even more cost efficient to avoid most instruments. My music teacher, Mr. Chicalo, must have simultaneously reached the same conclusion, because he had sat me in the back of a band room at a distance far beyond the hearing range of the rest of the class. This trend would carry on to fifth grade where my mother was told in a parent-teacher conference that, not only am I the worse recorder player in the class, but I’m also impeding the progress of my friends. To be fair, their description of my place in the class wasn’t exactly inaccurate. With each song we mastered we were to tie a string to the recorder, with colors similar to the belts worn in karate. When the majority of the class was nearing their black string, I was only on the second after the white. Unsurprisingly, I nearly failed the class.
At this time, I was already convinced that I was destined to leave the music playing to the prodigies. I enjoyed listening to music, just not my own. I had carried this mindset until my sixth grade when, while passing by the band room, I heard a student around my age playing a piano piece that would entrance me with its dreamy tones. My grandfather would later introduce me to the song as “Claire de lune” by Claude Debussy. The name translates from French into “moonlight”, a word that perfectly encompasses the feel of the piece. It’s twinkling arpeggios brought sound to the image of shimmering ripples of water, the surface reflecting under the glow of the moon like glitter. All of a sudden, I had completely disregarded my past experiences and decided that I, too would learn to summon those synesthetic experiences by giving piano one more try. I didn’t hesitate in asking my parents for a grand piano, but they definitely hesitated in accepting my request. Being that true acoustic grand pianos don’t usually sit at the “beginner” price range, their fears were definitely warranted. I was ready to wait, though I wouldn’t have to. In the following week my aunt would start to move houses, leaving her worn down upright piano behind. She had been frantically searching for someone willing to take in the instrument into their home. When my mom finally gave her approval, it took a group of 6 just to lift the giant and transport it to my home. The keys were weathered and rattled at the touch, only to produce notes that were terribly out of tune, but to my unacquainted ears, it was magic.
For the next three years I would follow the instruction of a series of frustrating music programs and inconsistent teachers, eventually being forced to discontinue the classes to focus on school and sports. As much as I loathed taking the classes, taking time off from the piano made pushed me to discover my own style of music. For about four hours per day I found myself tethered to the piano, exploring the sonic landscape I’d found on the keys. Eventually I discovered music production through a software online, and created my own compositions through beats using a midi keyboard. I would test the music by showing all projects to my grandfather, one of my biggest supporters throughout the way. At the same time as I was learning the ways of music production, the SoundCloud Rap era of hip hop was truly showing promise, in which the ease of access to music posting websites had the majority of people encouraged to make music. Soon enough, I was meeting people each day who shared my interest in music, combining our abilities on collaborative projects and building lasting friendships along the way. Using my experiences with musically-inclined friends and online resources, I constantly expanded my knowledge on composing. With time music would define who I was, people would be eager to listen to my opinions, and I’d be frequently asked to produce for friends and local artists.
Early on, I would never have known music would have played such a prominent role in my life. Each of my previous attempts were either unsuccessful or shot down by others, until I felt my music just wasn’t worth listening to. My journey in music showed me that I had something for the world to hear, all the while bringing me closer to my grandfather. Being in the music community has proven to me that, not only is my music worth listening to, it’s the only place I’ve truly felt heard
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