Silent audience

I love this piece, from which I stole the title for this post, by Pete Revonkorpi. It might have a little something to do with the fact that I played the violin for twelve years, from the tender age of six until I turned eighteen and was finally allowed to quite taking private lessons. I loved to perform, but I hated practicing. I loved the attention, but I lacked the discipline necessary to perform well enough to deserve any. The only reason my parents refused to let me quit sooner was because my teachers convinced them that I possessed some degree of natural talent; because I could play fairly well by ear, imitating my teachers came more easily to me than some other students, infusing them with false hope for the next mini-virtuoso. Apparently, they thought I could be great, but I found that talking on the phone with my non-musical adolescent friends was a more desirable use of an hour than one spent alone in front of my sheet music.

Man, am I ever sorry I didn't listen to my parents. Sometimes I'll hear a song I once played and freeze in my tracks, spellbound, to listen. And when a certain mood strikes, I want to play a gypsy tune full of life and longing and drama. Recently, I tried, and all those years of not practicing have taken their toll. My fingers no longer feel like my own because my brain remembers how they are supposed to move and what it's supposed to sound like, but those treacherous, traitorous fingers of mine will no longer comply.