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A friend of mine who is a guitar player was telling me about how he was once playing in a bar when someone was shot. I asked him "what did you do?" and he said "We kept on playing - what else would you do".

I'd say that either your friend is a lot tougher than I am, or he's full of crap. What else would I do? I can think of a pretty long list, mostly involving maneuvers like ducking under, diving behind and finding (or creating) the nearest exit.

I have kept playing through insect swarms, rain, fog, wind, shouting matches, fistfights, a wedding cake dropping and smashing to pieces, a hurricane (OK, a mild one, but we were in a tent) and a fat naked man climbing a roof, but I draw the line at gunfire. Left with no other option, there'd be a Greg-shaped hole in the wall like in the cartoons.

Do you notice how casually Greg scarcely mentions that tale of the wedding cake mishap? People would read through a whole book just to get to a story like that.

I see an imaginary image of the guests lapping their way across the floor (and still praising the delicious wedding cake)... unlikely perhaps, but less unlikely than that any bride would let such an incident pass. Maybe this was the hurricane in the tent...?

It's been a while since I heard the story - said guitar player got deported back to England from the US several years ago for being in the country without a valid visa. I don't remember if he said that they finished the song or the set, probably the song. The story sounded plausible though, some of the bars that have live music are kind of on the rough side and the part about someone getting shot did not seem so unlikely. I can also see how if you were in the middle of a song the best way to avoid drawing attention to yourself would be to finish the song and then casually announce that you were taking a break and walk slowly off stage.

RE: Playing through gunshots, fat naked guys on rooftops, and dropped cakes. I thought this excerpt from Piano Girl would be appropriate. xoxo R

There's a Small Hotel
©2005 Robin Meloy Goldsby
Piano Girl
Excerpt provided by Backbeat Books

The Marriott Marquis hovers over Times Square like a giant spaceship, but when I enter the ground-floor level there isn’t much to see. Oh, there is the standard marble floor (where do the hotels in New York City get all that marble, anyway?), and there are little men in fancy uniforms with fringe on the shoulders. They hold open the doors and say welcome to the Marriott Marquis have a nice day with thick outer-borough accents. But the lobby? Nowhere to be seen. The clever designers have placed the lobby on the eighth floor, a practical scheme for keeping the street people out of the lounge area—a feature that does not go unappreciated by me. After my episode with Reginald, I’m relieved to have the piano far away from the street.

In order to access the lobby, you must pass the scrutiny of the Highly Trained Security Team situated on the ground floor. Well, that’s good. The Highly Trained Security Team looks very official with their bordeaux jackets, secret-service-type earpieces, and multiple television monitors. Once you’re past the Highly Trained Security Team, you have to wait forever for an elevator. Or you can ride the escalator, winding and climbing up through the bowels of the hotel, past the Broadway theater and floors of ballrooms, convention halls, and administrative areas, until you arrive—plop—in lobby-land. And what a lobby it is—a spectacular expanse of metal and leather and empty space that soars so high it makes you dizzy to look up.

The Marquis boasts five restaurants and two lounges. Two of these outlets are revolving. If you live in New York, what you want, at the end of the day, is to sit still—I enjoy a good sunset as much as the next guy, just not when I’m spinning around. But I’ve underestimated the appeal of the ever-changing panoramic view, especially to tourists. Harlan has promised me that I will not be playing in the revolving Broadway Lounge on the eighth floor, or in The View restaurant on the top floor. He knows I have a problem with motion sickness and has assured me that I will be sitting perfectly still at the piano in the Atrium Lounge, on the eighth floor.

The piano, a Yamaha conservatory grand, stands off to the side of the atrium, surrounded by ficus trees and huge beds of white flowers that are already starting to turn brown around the edges. I introduce myself to the waitresses, most of whom are miserable because of the unfortunate uniforms they’ve been forced to wear—full-length black skirts slit up to the hoo-ha, white polyester sleeveless tops cut down to you know where, black belts and gloves trimmed with rhinestones, and, as if that isn’t enough, a little black hat that looks like something you’d see on an organ grinder’s monkey. I’ve read somewhere that the Marriotts are practicing Mormons, but after I see these outfits, I begin to wonder. Marie Osmond wouldn’t be caught dead dressed like this.

The ceiling of the atrium stretches up to the sky, fifty floors above the lounge. The glass elevators zoom up and down, and the passengers’ faces press up against the windows as they streak, Jetson-like, through the atrium. The Marriott surprises visitors not with its design—which isn’t unique—but with the audacity of its location, right in the middle of Times Square. Looking at the absurd amount of open space, it’s easy to forget this is a Manhattan hotel. In spite of the Marquis Broadway theater downstairs, the catchy New York names on the menus, and the droves of unemployed actors working as waiters and waitresses, I feel like I’m somewhere else, in another city’s fantasy of New York. The gentrification of Times Square is in the early planning stages, and the Marriotts are foot soldiers in the battle to turn the area into a family entertainment mecca. Sitting there at the Yamaha, I’m on the front line.


Dozens of giant ficus trees—rumored to have cost tens of thousands of dollars apiece—form a green umbrella over the Atrium Lounge. New York isn’t a ficus tree kind of place. The trees agree: two weeks after we open, they begin shedding leaves. Autumn in New York. The falling leaves drift by my piano and they aren’t red and gold. They’re brown and dusty and they land in the piano and crunch when they bounce on the strings. It’s quite a predicament—a spanking-new hotel lobby that looks like it needs a good raking. Management appoints housekeeping workers to stay on top of the crisis, twenty-four hours a day.

“Shitty leaves,” mutters Carolyne as she coasts by the piano. Carolyne wears the standard Marriott housekeeping uniform—a variation on the French maid theme—and big white fluffy slippers. I don’t know if the slippers are a fashion accessory or a medical necessity, but either way, she has a nice gliding motion on the marble floor. She looks like she’s skating. She carries a giant broom and dustpan. What she needs is a leaf blower.

“This is the thirteenth time I’ve been around this lobby in the last hour,” says Carolyn as she coasts by the piano with a nifty little crossover step. “[censored]. Whose idea was it to buy these shitty trees?” She stuffs the last of the leaves into her trash bag. Then she looks over her shoulder as more dead leaves begin to fall. “Shitty leaves. They oughta just chop down the shitty trees.” And off she skates, broom in hand. This goes on for weeks until the trees are completely bald. The hotel hires a new firm to replace the old branches with artificial ones. Another ficus crisis averted.

The sound of the music in the Marriott is marvelous. With all that empty space above me, I can play and play, full-out, no holding back, no managers giving me the international sign for keep it down. What a joy! In the lounge itself, listeners sit close to the piano. People who want to talk with friends or review quarterly sales reports sit far away. It’s an immense area with deep leather chairs and sofas.

Hotel guests report that they can hear the piano, clear as a bell, all the way up on the top floors. The balconies around each floor open onto the atrium; reasonably high railings planted with philodendron prevent people from falling over. Occasionally guests lean out stories above me, and I can see their little heads silhouetted against the midday light that pours through the windows. They wave or sing from high above. Some of them, teenagers probably, throw ice cubes or paper airplanes.

One weekday afternoon when I arrive for work, one side of the lobby has been cordoned off and covered with black drapes. Several of the waitresses, monkey hats akimbo, cluster in the corner and sob. The manager on duty hustles me to the piano, where I’m instructed to play so that the guests don’t notice the dead body behind the black curtains. A traumatized waitress tells me that some poor soul has thrown himself from one of the sky-high balconies into the pit of shedding ficus. Thank God I wasn’t playing at the time of the jump. Playing after the incident is bad enough. I look around at the people reading newspapers, chatting with each other, and sipping cappuccinos. Do they know what has happened? Do they care?

What do I play in a situation like this? Nothing is appropriate. Choking priests, heart attacks, fistfights, suicides—all lounge musicians, sooner or later, will be expected to play the soundtrack for some kind of disaster. Look at those poor guys playing in the Titanic band. Better to have tunes ready that no one knows. At least then the customers won’t sing along.

sigh..

i haven't experienced any thing more traumatic than 'my alzheimer's affected tenor' pulling my wig off as he walked past the organ, the first time I wore it.... a moment visible to perhaps 1/4 of the church, and the audible gasps drew everyone else's attention. I am glad my hair is back and he is still 'my tenor'.

today i play the Ave Maria with my blind friend. I have taught her piano and she is studying opera. She has a fantastic voice but the challenges of sightlessness affect her singing. We won't have a chance to rehearse. .. this is at my own dear mother's wake. i'm sure my mother will be delighted.

nice to catch up on my favorite thread and i ponder that musicians are used to the drama of life's largest events.

The band on the Titanic played Nearer My God to Thee.

Roberta Flack and Donny Hathaway made a very good concert number out of another hymn tune, Come Ye Disconsolate--- I was just working on it a little bit yesterday, giving my ears a little break between the Burgmuller studies assigned for my lesson. Tune 1792, from a collection of motets, verse 1816; they could have known it. Then again, Eternal Father, Strong to Save would have served the purpose and is less morbid and frightening in its lyric than Nearer My God. But they would have had to survive another forty years or so to have had Vaughn Williams' reworking of the arrangement--- keeps your mind on heaven and off drowning.

I'm sure, in the moment, they did the best they could.

From Wiki:

"Edward Howard, lyricist: "What was going through my mind... was Donny, because Donny was a very troubled person. I hoped that at some point he would be released from all that he was going through. There was nothing I could do but write something that might be encouraging for him.'"

True for so many of us. We may not grapple with paranoid schizophrenia and depression as Hathaway did--- blinding talent though he was--- but we all have our troubles and the least encouragement can fall on our ears like rain to the flowers.

Back to the reception. "Oh, Sugar, now don't you worry about that cake for a single second... No, the guests loved it! It didn't matter one bit that it got a little bit broken up--- why, we were going to eat it anyway, and... Well, no; it was like one of those parties where the guests play... No, no no no no. It was fun! And you couldn't beat the reception for excitement."

"Well now, your mother-in-law. Yes, yes, I heard what she said. I'm sure she'll cool off; she didn't mean it like that, she was just worried about how her old stick-in-the mud friends would talk. They just get overexcited at a wedding sometimes. And the champagne... well that's just it, honey; when you drink gin, the champagne can sneak up on you. Well, the ambulance came right away, and I'm sure when you get back from your honeymoon she'll be fine.

Now, you just take your husband's cell phone into the airplane lavatory and flush it. Yes, it can ring all it wants in the septic tank.... Well, she can talk to him when he gets home. Next month. Ok?

I had always thought it was Autumn (the popular waltz, of course, not the Episcopal hymn, because lay people recognize the song title or first line, not the name of the tune)

But snopes says you may be right: http://www.snopes.com/history/titanic/lastsong.asp

Though Autumn is not ruled out.

I agree with you about Eternal Father being a good choice. But that's selfish, it's one of the few SATB hymns I can play smoothly without cheating. Hee, hee. Even with all those double thirds.

I noticed Robin's comment about the audience singing along, and I have a recent story. I hope that I haven't shared it already, I sometimes feel Alzheimers creeping in. However if I have, I'm confident I will soon forget the shame.

My child, the shy one, volunteered to sing at the annual church youth service. She found the music to the beautiful Rutter version of For The Beauty of the Earth and talked a soprano into singing with her.

But at Saturday's rehearsal both girls had colds and couldn't hit the high notes. So we dropped back to the old standard For the Beauty, the tune for As With Gladness Men of Old.

And went home to practice. And to my utter astonishment, I could play it. Despite having been the designated church musician, my lack of skills usually require a week on a hymn, if I can play it at all. So my daughter learned the alto part, both with accompaniment and a cappella. (I wear a belt AND suspenders.)

Sunday morning the mikes wouldn't pick up their voices. So we made a third change, drop the piano and just let them sing two part harmony. By this time all the changes have Daddy pretty anxious, but the kids seem to take it in stride. At this point they've had only one runthrough of a song they've both just learned, and will now sing two part harmony without accompaniment.

They started fine, though quietly, and all ears strained to hear. And then......... this sweet old gentleman, who actually does have Alzheimers, thought he should sing along. In a different key. Train wreck, of course, though they stumbled through to the end somehow. Sigh. It was almost SAB harmony. Well not really almost!

Nice to hear from you, Tim. Haven't heard a story quite like that since that unfortunate mix-up with the hand-bells. Between your stories, and Greg's, and Robin's... I'd better hedge my bets; one of you is going to end up winning the Triple Crown. I suppose my old nag will trot across the finish line some time or other.

Thanks for the link to Scope's. It was very moving, and right on the topic of encouragement and how music can help even in the worst case. Why, even at a wedding.

On further thought, I believe that Vaughn Williams' rendering of Eternal Father Strong to Save, to the tune 'Melita' (also by John Dykes, composer of a setting of Nearer My God To Thee, but not 'Bethany')... anyway, it was set for SATB and probably organ. Not a house band on an ocean liner, though surely any sailor would have known it. Anyway, beside the question, good choice or not.

Now, I somehow assumed the Titanic's deck band must have been a brass ensemble, but no. (The sources below are either abbreviated from Wiki pages or links cited by them.)

***************************************************************************************

Titanic's orchestra

The ship's eight-member orchestra travelled as second-class passengers, and were not on the payroll of the White Star Line. Until the night of sinking, the orchestra performed as two separate entities: a quintet led by the bandleader, Wallace Hartley, that played at teatime, after-dinner concerts, and Sunday services, among other things; and the violin, cello and piano trio of Roger Bricoux, George Krins and Theodore Brailey, that played at the Á La Carte Restaurant and the Café Parisien.[12]

Name↓ Age↓ Class↓ Hometown↓ Boarded↓ Position↓ Lifeboat↓ Body↓
Brailey, Mr. W. Theodore Ronald 24 Second London, England Southampton Pianist -- --
Bricoux, Mr. Roger Marie 20 Second Monte Carlo, Monaco Southampton Cellist -- --
Clarke, Mr. John Frederick Preston 30 Second Liverpool, Lancashire, England Southampton Bassist -- 202MB
Hartley, Mr. Wallace Henry 33 Second Dewsbury, Yorkshire, England Southampton Bandmaster -- 224MB
Hume, Mr. John Law "Jock" 28 Second Dumfries, Scotland Southampton Violinist -- 193MB
Krins, Mr. Georges Alexandré 23 Second London, England Southampton Violist -- --
Taylor, Mr. Percy Cornelius 32 Second London, England Southampton Cellist -- --
Woodward, Mr. John Wesley 32 Second Oxford, England Southampton Cellist -- --

****************************************************************************************

In the United Kingdom, the hymn ["Nearer My God..."] is usually associated with the 1861 hymn tune "Horbury" by John Bacchus Dykes. "Horbury" is named after a village near Wakefield, England, where Dykes had found "peace and comfort".[6] In the rest of the world, the hymn is usually sung to the 1856 tune "Bethany" by Lowell Mason. Methodists prefer the tune "Propior Deo" (Nearer to God), written by Arthur Sullivan (of Gilbert and Sullivan) in 1872. Sullivan also wrote a second setting of the hymn to a tune referred to as "St. Edmund", and there are other versions, including one referred to as "Liverpool" by John Roberts.[7]

RMS Titanic and SS Valencia

"Nearer, My God, to Thee" is associated with the RMS Titanic, as one passenger reported that the ship's band played the hymn as the Titanic sank. The "Bethany" version was used in the 1943 film Titanic and in the Jean Negulesco's 1953 film Titanic, whereas the "Horbury" version was played in Roy Ward Baker's 1958 movie about the sinking, A Night to Remember. The "Bethany" version was again used in James Cameron's 1997 Titanic.[15]

Wallace Hartley, the ship's band leader, who like all the musicians on board went down with the ship, was known to like the song and to wish to have it performed at his funeral. He was British and Methodist, and would have been familiar with both the "Horbury" and "Propior Deo" versions, but not with "Bethany". His father, a Methodist choirmaster, used the "Propior Deo" version at church for over thirty years. His family were certain he would have used the "Propior Deo" version, and it is this tune's opening notes that appear on Hartley's memorial.[16][17]

"Nearer, My God, to Thee" was also sung by the doomed crew and passengers of the SS Valencia as it sank off the Canadian coast in 1905 – indeed it may be the source of the Titanic legend, since the Titanic claim is made by a Canadian passenger who could not have actually heard the band playing.[18]

***************************************************************************************

All young guys, that band: many in their twenties, none over 33. Not a single brass instrument or even a reed; all strings and piano.

The question of the last tune remains ambiguous. One source states that light tunes suitable for keeping spirits up were played, including at least one ragtime number. Weddings again!

Thanks for digging up the info on the "band."

In my head I had always pictured an American style big band, with trumpet trombone and sax sections, and rhythm with drum, bass, and piano. My brother did a cruise ship gig with that type band, though the sections were pretty small, more like a modern Dixie (if modern Dixie isn't too anachronistic.)

The snopes article was dismissive of the band's ability to play a popular piece not found in their arrangement book. But that kind of instrumentation really should have had no trouble with it.

I was way off. This was almost a string quartet.

Long entry coming up. I was the victim of a hit and run wheelchair accident at the castle last night. Wheelchair (the size of the Popemobile) hit the piano, caused it to lurch, and pinned me against the wall. I'm fine but bruised, piano is chipped. Promise to get some authorial mileage out of this one. Hopefully will post tomorrow.

Still waiting to read about that cake accident.

I played this party yesterday and Robin and Greg were absolutely right - everything went fine. The setting was outside at a small house with a large garden area which sloped away from the house. I was set up on a deck which overlooked the gardens where I set up my digital piano and had an external powered speaker on a stand. Fortunately there was a large cafe style umbrella keeping me shaded, without this I would have been fried since it was a bright sunny day. I did a sound check before the start to make sure that I could be heard but was not so loud that people would have to raise their voices to hold a conversation.

I had previously done a trial run of the performance a week before the show by setting up my DP outside and running through the setlist, one thing which was apparent was that even the slightest breeze made it very hard to play from a score because the pages would change on their own. I could use heavy clips to keep the page open at the right place but then page turns became more cumbersome. I tend to play 80% from memory and 20% reading so I figured I would make sure that I could play my entire repertoire by memory and just use the score as a safety net and spent time working on playing

I started playing just before the guests arrived and as they were arriving. I started to hear people talking around me, a couple of people complemented me on my playing and I did my best to keep playing through my set despite the background noise. By about halfway through my set the background noise was louder and while I could still hear myself play I'm not sure anyone else could so I just kept playing until I had completed the 12 pieces I had rehearsed, total time about 75 minutes. The only piece which was rough was a Chopin waltz where I really needed to read the score and the wind was making this hard - I had to keep rearranging the clips I was using to hold the score down.

I would definitely do this again although I have to say that playing outdoors adds a new set of challenges not found when playing indoors.

Way to go, Chris! Thanks for letting us know how it went. Smart of you to memorize the music. In addition to avoiding wind-related accidents, it also looks about 300% more professional to play without notes in front of you.

It's almost always a drag to play outdoors, so it seems like you had a pretty good day, weather-wise. I once had a sun umbrella collapse on me (and the piano). And don't get Greg started about wasps and other insects.

Anyway, so happy to hear it went well for you. ONWARD!!!

Here you go, my friends. Hot off the press. True story, by the way. Just sayin.'

The Wheelchair Guy

©2010 RMG

Here’s the thing about having a steady piano gig in a hip place. You drift along night after lonely night, artistically satisfied, planning your next project, grateful to all the lovely people who stop to listen, make nice comments, and buy your recordings. You start to think you have a dignified job, one that will carry you into your senior years with a little style but not too much drama. Then the Wheelchair Guy shows up.

*

I arrive at the castle for my 6:30 PM start time. It’s a Saturday night in June, in the middle of the World Cup soccer tournament, an event in Germany that commands tremendous attention. Beer is guzzled, hunks of meat are grilled, and large public viewing screens appear on every corner. Fussball is the buzz word. I’m a vegetarian, non-beer-drinking American artist who hates crowds and knows nothing about soccer, and even I enjoy the hype. I particularly like the outfits. The players are adorable in their tricots and matching kneesocks—sort of a Brazilian boy scout look—but this year I’m really into what the German coaches are wearing. They look like they stepped right out of the fall-winter Talbot’s catalog. At the first game they sported twin sets. No pearls, but still. Second match featured double-breasted jackets and perfectly knotted cashmere scarves, sort of a snappy Dutch sailor look. Last night they were wearing Easter-egg lavender silk knit sweaters, like they might be getting ready to play a jazz concert at a chi-chi supper club owned by Calvin Klein. Who’s their stylist? Sign me up.

Because of all of the football mania, I’ve expected to find a half-empty castle. But the place is swarming. A huge wedding reception is taking place in the back garden. I’m not playing for the wedding because the bride wanted a solo saxophone for the two-hour cocktail party. As much as I love the saxophone, this doesn’t seem like the greatest idea to me, but I admire the bride’s resolve to do something different. I’ve recommended a guy named Torsten, a kick-ass jazz musician who is now in the rose garden blowing like crazy in the steamy late afternoon heat. It’s a wedding gig, so no one is listening. He spots me in the doorway, and gives me a military salute while continuing to play with one hand. Cool guy. In the banquet room, a DJ is setting up to play post-dinner dance music, which will probably include a Gloria Gaynor/Village People/ Donna Summer medley. I’ll be long gone by then, but my co-workers, the hardest working bunch of twenty-somethings in this part of Germany, will be pouring champagne and serving gourmet delicacies until tomorrow morning.

My job tonight is to play the piano for our regular Saturday night guests. I sit down and begin playing the “Theme from Romeo and Juliet,” trying to block out the residual saxophone sound coming from the garden. Fine. If I don’t take too many dramatic pauses the saxophone won’t distract me. But the DJ decides to hold a sound check and all at once the lobby rings with the sound of Celine Dion. The DJ cranks up the music. It’s loud enough for a football stadium. I pause and wait for Celine to stop but she keeps singing about how her heart is going on and on and on. I ask Herr Ries, our intrepid banquet manager, to put an end to the sound check before Ms. Dion can modulate to an even higher key. I don’t know what Herr Ries does to the DJ—maybe he conks him on the head with an ice bucket— but the music stops abruptly. I continue with Romeo and Juliet.

The guests float in and out of the lobby, checking out the blushing bride, the little boys in their starched white shirts, and the nubile young ladies in their sorbet-colored evening gowns. One dress, a turquoise strapless chiffon creation, makes me wonder if I should revamp my Piano Girl wardrobe, but I realize that to wear this dress I would need to lose fifteen pounds, have breast reduction surgery, a tummy tuck, and give up playing the piano. Better to stick with the German football coach wardrobe. It’s more my style these days.

The service staff, smiling and carrying enormous trays of crystal glasses, glide through the lobby, sidestepping around the guests, dodging the children who dash back and forth in a chocolate-induced race to the front door, where they will be given more chocolate before they race back to the other side.

I play some of the music from the Amelie film. On top of the piano is a silver urn holding a cluster of eleven dark pink orchids. I know it’s eleven, because I count them while I’m playing.

Beautiful colors, beautiful clothes, beautiful people, and a soft light washing over it all. It’s a European castle ballet, one I never grow tired of watching.

Four pre-teen boys discover the antique kicker table in the corner of the lobby. The kicker table is a low-tech toy, with little soccer players operated by levers turned by the players’ hands. Four players can play at once, two on each side. It’s hardly an attraction for a five-star hotel, but this table, made with burled wood and hand-painted players is more of an art statement than a recreation device, meant to give a nod to World Cup fans. No one counted on a bunch of sixth grade boys showing up and starting a tournament. The sound of the little wooden men kicking the ball echoes through the lobby, along with the shouts and cheers of the boys. They are cute for about three and a half minutes, at which point the noise reaches an almost unbearable level. Where are their parents?

Kick, kick, kick, kick, kick.

I am playing “Fly Me to the Moon.”

“TOR!!!!” one of the boys shouts.

I can hear Torsten playing a blues in a key that clashes with my song.

Kick, kick, kick, kick, kick.

The DJ cranks up Celine again. Her heart is still going on.

“TOR!!!!” the boys yell again.

Monsieur Thoman, the Maitre D of the gourmet restaurant, peeks through the French doors of the restaurant into the lobby. He smiles at the boys. Monsieur can flip out when he needs to with unruly adult guests, but he is always kind to children.

“Bon soir!” he says to the boys.

“TOR!!!” they scream.

“Mon dieu,” says Monsieur.

Kick, kick, kick, kick, kick.

I give up. I do not blame the boys. They are eleven. In two years they will be sullen and subdued and doing everything they can to look like gangsters. Let them have their fun. I go to the bar, sip a glass of very nice champagne, and thank my lucky stars that I have a job. It’s usually so peaceful in his place. One night of extreme noise never hurt anyone, least of all a musician.

*

Fifteen minutes later I slip behind the grand piano to begin my second set. The lobby is blissfully quiet. I can see from the piano bench that most of our guests have been seated in their respective dining rooms. Torsten has finished playing his two-hour solo saxophone extravaganza, the DJ is in the bar eating an expensive dinner until it’s time for the Titans of Industry disco contest to begin, and the kicker boys have gone to the lake to feed the swans. Monsieur assures me that the kicker ball has mysteriously disappeared for the remainder of the evening.

I play through a selection of original music, songs I like to break out when there’s no one really listening except me. They are pretty songs from my younger years, with girly-girl names like “Twilight,” “When Stars Dance,” “Peaceful Harbor,” and “Following Your Light.” I close my eyes and play and play and play. It’s what I know how to do.

Zoom, zoom.

I look up and see a vehicle the size of the Pope-mobile rumbling through the lobby. Maybe it is the Pope-mobile; this castle is known for major celebrity sightings. Oh no. This is an extremely large electric wheelchair, being driven by a very assertive—and tragically disabled— middle-age man.

I’m now playing a piece of mine called Lerbach Nocturne, which has a Chopin feel to it. I try not to stare at the Wheelchair Guy, because I don’t want to make him feel uncomfortable, but I guess if he’s riding around in a Pope-mobile contraption a couple of stares from a curious pianist aren’t going to send him off the deep end. But I’m good at being discreet, so I avert my eyes and continue playing. An entourage of concerned adults chase after him, but they have trouble keeping up.

Yikes! He almost took out one of the banquet waiters on that last turn.

Zoom, zoom.

I decide that when he passes the piano I will acknowledge him with a warm greeting, in the same way I greet all of our other guests, even though most of our other guests are not riding through the lobby in wheelchairs the size of Hummers. Some of them own Hummers, but they usually keep them in the parking lot next to the smaller cars.

Did he just run over that woman’s foot?

Zoom.

Monsieur, who will be seating the Wheelchair Guy and his family in the gourmet restaurant, stops in his tracks when he sees the size of the vehicle. He smiles, greets the guests, then spins on his heels to begin rearranging the restaurant furniture. It’s a challenge: a party of four that needs space for sixteen, arriving right in the middle of a sold-out Saturday night.

“Did they call in advance?” I ask the reservationist as she passes by the piano.

“Yes,” she says. “But they said they were bringing a wheelchair, not a tractor with a hydrolic lift system. The poor guy has to eat standing up. He can’t bend. At all.”

“Oh no,” I say. Words fail me. Now the size of the vehicle makes sense.

I’m still playing “Lerbach Nocturne” when I hear Monsieur attempt to discourage the man from going into the bar. The entrance to the bar is directly on my left. “There’s a beautiful view of the park from the bar terrace,” Monsieur says. “But there are steps onto the terrace, so you won’t be able to get out there from this direction.”

Or any direction, I think. Unless you have a crane. It makes me sad. What a thing: A beautiful view that you can’t see, just because of a few steps. Just as Monsieur turns to talk to the other members of the party, the Wheelchair Guy, with what I perceive as a look of defiance on his face—he’s so high up I can’t really see him all that well—steps on the gas and speeds into the bar.

I hear a tray of glasses crash to the floor. Then I hear another voice patiently explain that the steps will indeed prevent him from getting on to the terrace. There’s no room for a three-point turn in the bar, so the Wheelchair Guy, pissed off, backs up at about eighty miles an hour.

Zoom. It’s as if he’s being shot out of a cannon backwards. The Pope-mobile crashes into the piano so hard that it lurches sideways and pins me to the wall.

“Mon Dieu!” says Monsieur.

“Help.” I say. The piano is jammed against my upper thigh (thank goodness for fat). My upper arms and elbows are flush against the wall, and my wrists and hands are flapping in the air over the keys.

I reach down with the tips of my fingers and resolve the cadence. What a pro. Soon to be a pro in my very own wheelchair. The piano is wobbling and the Wheelchair Guy doesn’t realize that his Pope-mobile fender is hooked onto the underside of the lid to the piano. He jams his stick shift to forward, then reverse, then forward, then reverse. The piano rocks back and forth and I am certain it is going to crash to the ground, taking me, the Wheelchair Guy, Monsieur, and six waiters with it.

“Straight ahead, drive straight ahead, s’il vous plait,” says Monsieur to the Wheelchair Guy.

“Robin, don’t move,” says one of the managers. Like I have a choice.

Zoom. Reverse. Zoom. Reverse.

[censored], [censored], [censored], [censored], [censored].

“Straight ahead!” says Monsieur.

Finally, like a mother lifting a Volkswagon off of her trapped child, someone picks up the piano enough to unhinge the Pope-mobile. It races forward and nearly collides with the teacart. For a moment I think I have escaped having my legs crushed by a grand piano only to be hit with the world’s largest tea samovar., which is, of course, full of boiling water.
But the Wheelchair Guy misses the teacart. Instead, he zigzags over to the entrance of the restaurant, followed by the newly appointed Pope-mobile Task Force, a group of employees designated to prevent more damage. A lot can go wrong in a gourmet restaurant, especially when a disgruntled disabled man with a heck’s Angels mentality starts zooming around during the soup course.

I am still pinned to the wall. A member of the Wheelchair Guy’s entourage, a lovely young woman in a perfect black dress, returns to the piano.

“Has the piano been harmed?” she asks.

“I don’t know,” I squeak. I’ll have to unpin myself before I can check out the damage. For a second I wonder why she doesn’t ask me if I’m okay. But she hangs out with the Wheelchair Guy. Maybe to her a pianist with a bruised thigh isn’t such a big deal.

I heave the piano forward enough to slide out from behind and limp around to check out the damage. Amazingly, only a small chunk of wood is missing. The legs seem to be stable. I’ve always claimed this Yamaha Conservatory Grand is a warhorse. Now I know it’s true. I wonder if the Pope-mobile has a dent, a ding, or at least a couple of good battle wounds.

That’s enough music for me tonight. I leave the castle through the bar exit, step down onto the terrace, and take in the lush green of the June evening. The trees droop in the weighty twilit heat, and the roses seem plump and content. I walk down a stone staircase to the little lake, where two blacks swans coast across the water like they own it. I think of the Wheelchair Guy and how angry he was to be denied the very simple pleasure of stepping outside in the summer night. And how angry I am that he almost caused a really serious accident. And never apologized.

I skip a stone across the dark green pond, and watch the ripples in the water spread. When the surface becomes calm again, I look down once last time and see a sadder version of myself.

"Was the piano harmed?"

Your personal gentility exceeds anything I would have been capable of. Out of my mouth would have been sure to come, "The piano? I'll give you a piano where the sun don't shine, lady--- get this thing off me!"

And I would have smiled as I looked in the lake. Bruises, and yet a warm glow. Apology? Never mind. My lawyer will accept an apology from his lawyer. The lady with the crushed foot might find it expedient to join you in a single settlement action.

Witnesses galore, video footage from the security cams, physical evidence...

Why, he might be surprised to learn how much a crushed lady's evening slipper costs.

Being disabled is no excuse to be a jackass.

What a story!

well, imagine the frustration of constant barriers and prejudice and how very difficult it would be to be graceful in social situations.

That was a beautiful account of an unusual night Robin.

I have my own entourage of the disabled.. an autistic brother, and brother in law with Down's syndrome, and elderly piano student with advanced cancer.. 2 blind piano students. i resonate with those that need extra help.

One of the pianogirls is actually a singer (a recitalist who is booked often at football stadiums because she is blind, beautiful and has a huge mezzosoprano voice). I accompanied her on the Ave Maria in one of the most beautiful, acoustically sophisticated buildings in Kansas City. Too bad they don't have Steinway or something in that space. The 5'1" Kawai adequately filled the venue.. altho the bass (actually anything below middle C) was funky.

glad you weren't injured Robin

I would hardly try to argue with you, Apple, since I pretty much agree with your views about public accommodations for people with disabilities, and people's attitudes about them. I say 'them,' but we all have something of the sort going on, later if not sooner. And I agree that Robin's story was well said.

It seems to me that the venue did try to accommodate this person, and make him feel welcome, even though they were not properly informed about what to expect.

I've had my troubles trying to get through a crowded bar on foot, let alone in a Hummer. One would hope the facility would take thought for the future (more about that later). Maybe there's some other way to that terrace area that could have been offered to the gentleman, one that involved the exit. Calming customers who are displeased or aggrieved about one thing or another is something bars and eateries do every night of the world.

I recall one evening when a customer backed his chair out suddenly and a waiter's try--- loaded with cordials and sticky liqueurs in every color--- went flying... alas, onto a lady in an expensive fur evening wrap.

Yes, there was a fuss. Yes, the manager came. But no, she didn't charge through the place like a bull in a china shop, injuring persons, property, and propriety.

Oh where is the little girl with the wrinkle creme when we need her?

It's purely a guess, but Robin may be waiting to see whether that proper note of apology arrives, accompanied by flowers and chocolates, before she says anything more. Or maybe, having good manners herself, she'll say nothing. Sometimes, when people make enough of an ass of themselves, they're too humiliated to apologize like a decent person should.

A canny maitre'd, if the Hummer presents itself at the dining room door again, might say... oh... how about, "Look out--- the wasp's nest, someone knocked it over! Run!!!" And slam the door.

PS-

Unlikely, you say? This very minute, a news story came over the TV: "Over Seventy People Stung By Wasps at the Alameda County Fair--- Fireworks Show Blamed!" I've heard of mishaps with either fireworks OR wasps, but I have to admit, combining them is a first for me. Although it seems I heard something about wasps at a wedding...

Apple: Thanks for being so understanding about what happened. I'm still reeling from the wheelchair hit, but my leg is fine and I'm back on the bench. Maybe I should get a purple heart.

Jeff, it almost seems like you KNOW Monsieur, our Maître'd. Canny is his middle name. He would LOVE that wasp line. By the way Monsieur is completely bald, quite striking, and on the night of the wheelchair hit was wearing a black satin (satin!) suit with a deep purple shirt and black tie.

He once looked into a salon where I was playing a wedding for an unruly group of guests and referred to the room as the GARDEN OF THE APES.

I am so pleased that my rendevous with the Hummer did NOT involve a tray of cordials. Imagine, just imagine, what that would do to a piano. Dave Stahl, I can feel you cringing all the way from Market Street.

No apologies yet from the WG. No chocolate. No flowers. We have moved on to the next Event. This weekend's shindig was glorious. The bridal party had booked the entire hotel for the entire weekend, with music on both Friday and Saturday. I played for a very fine but very informal dinner in the rose garden on Friday, the night before the wedding. The weather was perfect, the piano was right on the terrace, the technician was there to tune it immediately after it had been moved outside. Dream job. I played for four hours under the stars. Even the wasps were behaving.

I was off on Saturday night, since the wedding party had booked a small orchestra for the big day. I stayed home and watched Germany beat Argentina. I must say, Germany has the best looking coaches.

Apple, what theater were you playing in in KC? I spent 6 weeks there many years ago in a fabulous old vaudeville theater that had perfect acoustics. Maybe it was the same place? the name escapes me. I love Kansas City.

I'm on my way to Berlin. I've written all the lyrics for a new CD by singer Jessica Gall called Little Big Soul. Tomorrow night is the press launch/concert/party. Looking forward to being in the audience, doing the queen's wave from the third row, and listening to someone else do the work. Should be fun!

Robin, I bet it was the Folly Theater.

That is a gorgeous building. I wish I had played there. I did used to cater and bartend and once was called onto stage to bring a 7&7 to Tina Turner who was giving a concert. "Thank you baby she said".

I've attended many performances there.

I was playing at a church for a wake.. a gorgeous church with a 900,000 $ organ, seating for 1000 and INCREDIBLE acoustics. It hosts quartets, choirs, etc. They offered me a job playing the chapel organ (it weighs about 50 pounds) in a chapel on Saturdays.. no thanks. I would love to play that big beast.. and I have as a sub, but apparently my pedalling is too inaccurate for the high standards.. heh.

Actually I used to play there when I was a teenager... 15 bucks a Mass. The church was remodeled a while back and is now high falutin.

I hang around a lot of blind people.. it's kind of a family mission. My bro Joe was letting them drive golf carts and filming them when one of them hit me. the golf cart then had a little tipover with the blind kids and my bro Joe inside.

(I didn't realize you were in Cologne.. I've been listening and trying to memorize/transcribe bits of the Koln Concert by my all time favorite, living pianist in a popular way, Keith Jarrett.)