A Listening Ear by Jason Field

Jason Field

ENG218

Richards, Jim                                              A Listening Ear

I blame pirates.

I am reminded of a caption I saw once on a picture of none other than the notorious Hollywood pirate: Captain Jack Sparrow. It read: “I blame Johnny Depp for piracy's popularity”. Well, to paraphrase that statement: I, Jason Field, blame pirates for finding myself, once again, trapped in a room that is roughly four closet spaces wide, selfishly deprived of light, and sitting as rigid as I can force myself to on this extremely uncomfortable wooden bench. ...I suppose that's not very fair of me to say, but at the moment I could use someone to point fingers at for my predicament.

I can hear the footsteps outside, no doubt looking for the source of the “noise”. The footsteps sound gentle but ominous, like a pack of wolves stepping lightly over the ground, tracking and sniffing out their prey. Not like they haven't hunted me before, but I'm holding my breath hoping that the darkened room will finally throw off their scent. I mean, what person in their right mind would be idiotic enough to attempt to play the piano in complete darkness?

I wasn't idiotic. I was desperate.

Stupid pirates...

In all honesty, I guess the man I should technically be blaming for my problems is Hans Zimmer, music director and composer of the Pirates of the Caribbean Soundtrack. After all, it is his music that started this whole mess in the first place. His music that I had been transferring from my ear to my fingers, mere moments ago. It was his music that became popularized enough that it was structured for a local marching band to perform...

The Cavalcade of Bands: A wide collection of high schools that came together once a year to compete against one another in a great battle of the bands. As such, there was always a diverse assortment of music genres and styles, depending solely on the director's choice. So many different songs, each demanding the attention of the audience members, each trying to leave their unforgettable mark on everyone's memory, especially the judges'.

It wasn't the first time I'd experienced such a display. Yet, for some reason, the only time one of the music selections had stuck with me was a few years back; a band that chose the Pirates of the Caribbean theme. The melody attached itself like a leech to my brain and would not let go for anything, not even the other bands. It sucked all the interest and attention I may have been reserving for the rest of the show, and even more so on the car ride home. Perhaps it had had enough of my brain, because next it tried escaping through my vocal chords. I hummed the melody all the way home, letting each note and each variation of sound engrave themselves on my memory.

Walking through the door, I impulsively strode to one of my most favorite places in the entire world, our upright grand piano, and sat down. It wasn't much to look at; brown, with yellow patterns that were broken and fading, slightly discolored keys that were violently chipped at the edges thanks to an accidental incident involving a hammer years and years ago. However, it more than made up for these qualities with its sharp, deep tone. I poised my hands over the keys and dragged the rehearsed pirate melody to the top of my brain.
Some say that being able to play what you hear is instinct. I've heard others say that anyone can learn how it is done. Most of the time, people just refer to it as a unique gift or talent.

As for myself, I do not know how I was able to accomplish it. All I can say is that I was absolutely ecstatic when I heard our most treasured instrument bellow back the music that had been occupying my mind for the last two hours.

Ecstatic.... until I tried to share it with others.

Very few people were impressed by my ability. Fewer still expressed jealousy towards my playing. I didn't think it was much of a coincidence that the majority of those people had never heard me play before. Most people that did, exclaimed quite frequently their disapproval of my methods of copying the songs they enjoyed. I was constantly criticized for “ruining good music” and was kindly advised on multiple occasions to “stop playing”...

So, here I am: cornered in a room with absolutely no visible light, containing only a handful of decrepit music stands, three chairs, a small wooden bench, and the piano that is responsible for bringing the wolves to my door. I suppose there are worse things then having them pinpoint my location and growling at me to shut up. Most don't bare their fangs, and, as of yet, none of them have been angry enough to maul me with their teeth or claws. Still, I prefer to keep to myself. I'd rather not hear one more insult or condemnation I’ve heard a million times over in a hundred different ways, if I can help it.

The footsteps become louder, and I hear the unmistakable creaky brass sound of a doorknob handle being turned. Let me tell you... after so many experiences with what has come through that door, you really start to hate that sound. Nevertheless, I turn to face it and mentally prepare myself once more for the inevitable onslaught of criticism that will come as a result.

The handle clicks and the door is opened, but only a little. A head pops in to survey the scene. It is encircled about and glowing with light from the hallway, making him appear like an angel with a halo. He squints and glares into the shadows, very un-angel like. I stiffen as if someone has just pressed a threateningly cold blade against my skin. If I can avoid movement, perhaps he will think I am nothing more than a music stand silhouette... albeit, a very tall, fat, and oddly shaped music stand silhouette.

He glances around one last time, and then retracts his head back through the door. It closes with a soft click, and I am once again left alone in the darkness. I can hear the wolves howling disappointment with one another at not being able to find me. The sound of footsteps against the tiled floor melts away into the distance.

I breathe and relax back into my usual playing position, of which any self-respecting piano teacher would probably cringe at. I've never really understood the “proper way” of it all. For me, it's not about notes on a page, or position of the hands, or practicing the same boring five-word song out of a beginner's book to improve your ability to play that which you will most likely never play again. Playing music is all about feeling, emotion, and achievement! It's about expression, and freedom! Perhaps that's why I've always been better at that which somehow eludes others.

Besides, posture of my hands and back are always the least of my concerns. The wolves would undoubtedly be back. They always came back. For now, however, they are gone, and I once again have a world of music to dive and immerse myself in. I tap the play button on my music, place my hands over the keys, and pick up where I left off. Closing my eyes I let all my worries and fears evaporate, and allow myself to fall backwards into the mystery that is music.