Music to my Ears

An imaginative composed by Ayden (Year 12 Advanced English, MacKillop Catholic College)

“It’s your first day,” I murmur, “Just remember:

Shoulders Back.

Feet planted.

Chin up.”

Across a sea of tuning violins, and dissonant notes, stands the conductor. 

He wears a tail coat suit, with his hair slicked back and glued in place. With one hand behind his back, he flips through an endless folder of manuscript - his eyebrow raised in what appears to be disdain.

The conductor bleeds out of focus and my vision wanders to the ill lit, empty auditorium filled with shadows that watch beyond the grand, crimson red curtains. The only visible thing in the vast darkness of the auditorium is the small rectangle of light that shines out from the theatre’s open doors.

I look over to the trombones who make it look effortless, as if they have all done this a million times before. Over to the right of them, the cellos play with such attention and dedication. Neither of the two extremes give me any sort of comfort. I clearly don’t belong in a place like this, surrounded by seasoned professionals.

    practice scales and         but doesn’t       to

I     my again again   it       seem      help

My fingers follow the pattern before I can think.

White. Black. White. Black

Just offstage, is a diagram of the orchestral layout of the stage. Instruments, organised into circular rows with each instrument and group labelled.

I stare blankly at the piano, drawn off to the side of the graphic, and somehow I feel even smaller than before

The baton rings the bar of the conductor’s podium with two brief and concise taps. The instruments stop, all together. The room falls silent; so silent I can hear my heart’s rhythmic swing. The instruments and their players wait in anticipation for the conductor’s first words.

“Alright. First rehearsal of the semester. For those who DID NOT learn the pieces I sent to all of your emails, you’re gonna have a real ‘fun’ time. Those who did… Miller’s “In The Mood” page 17, bar 1. Brass, ready on my count.” 

Beneath the dissonant drones, the scraping bows and the breathy brass, there’s something else. A pulse. Familiar, like I’ve heard it before. Somewhere quieter, somewhere safe

It doesn’t calm me

But it keeps me here

“1

2

3

4”

The brass’s timbre pierces the silence – sharp, bright and unapologetic.

Shoulders Back.

Feet planted.

Chin up.

As my fingers press down on the keys mechanically, I come in too early. A fraction of a beat, but enough for anyone in here to notice. The note hangs, exposed and out of place. Finally, something I can relate to.

I look to the theatre’s seating to see judgemental eyes peering at me from the once empty seats, many still left unfilled, but it bothers me nonetheless. 

The notes fall into place, but not with ease of the trombones or the devotion of the cellos. Mine sound rehearsed. Their’s sound lived in.

The sheet music turns to gibberish in the frantic panic, playing diminished chords that become augmented.

More judgemental eyes flood into the theatre and pierce right into my soul, scrutinising me for my fear ridden mistake.

As my vision begins to blur, a wailing pitch pierces my ears, and there I sit frozen. Paralysed.

The sensation of the keys fade as the thundering rumble of my heart makes me shudder.

The ringing dissolves into another sound.

Rain.

My pupils dilate to bring the piano back into focus, now weathered; its mahogany finish dulled by decades of careful hands, one sun-stained ivory key sitting ever so slightly lower than the rest.

The once well-lit plywood stage only glimmers with the pale blue light of a stormy afternoon. My feet dangle above the timber floor, too short to reach the pedals, swinging beneath the piano stool.

Looking beside me, sat Grandpa. His fingers, roughened by years of labour, rested gently on the keys as if greeting an old friend. I stumble through a melody, every wrong note sounding louder than the last.

“I’m sorry I whispered,” pulling my hands into my lap.

Grandpa chuckled; a quiet laugh that hid behind the sound of the rain.

“Sorry for what?”

“I keep messing everything up”

He looks down at the same battered key that sat below the others, always stuck firmly pressing it down answering with a dull and dissonant ring

“You hear that?” he smiled. “This old thing’s been getting that note wrong since you were born. The piano doesn’t care if you’re perfect, it only cares that you’ve got something worth saying.”

He nodded towards the keyboard, grabbing my hands and placing them along the face of the keys. “Now, try it again.”

Hesitantly, I pressed a C

Then another note,

and another.

It soon became clear that there was no right answer. No audience. Nothing.

Only rain against the window, an old piano that had stopped pretending to be flawless and a grandpa who listened as though if every note I played was worth hearing.

The memory dissipated as fast as it had overwhelmed me.

I am back in the auditorium.

And then I play.

Not like I had practiced

Not Like I had been told

The rhythm begins to settle not because I force it to, but because I stop trying to control it. I surrender myself completely to the music, and close my eyes. The mistakes don’t disappear, but they stop breaking the music apart. Instead they fold into it, in a form of raw musical passion.

This is why I’m here

Not because of my grades, or my desire for fame, but the heart in my chest that beats and lives for music.

The

glissando

    makes

            my

    fingers

            glide

         across

          the

keys

With the final burst of a chord, the theatre erupts in awe with applause.

Suddenly, a switch strikes like a misplaced beat, with a long electrical drone that followed. The lights shudder awake as the applause slowly fades into background noise. My pupils dilate, adjusting to the blinding light to reveal

Empty

Untouched

Seats