Why I Started Piano Lessons At 26

I sucked. I had played for over a decade, but my fingers still plunked
piano keys with the precision of bratwursts. And Ive never taken a
lesson! I would brag.
I started messing around on piano in junior high under the guidance of
my dad, who introduced me to scales and chords on our familys piano.
I developed an ear for melodies by obsessively deconstructing songs
by Linkin Park. My techniquewhat little I hadwas derived from
YouTube tutorials and the muse of Mike Shinoda.
When I graduated from college, my gift was a beautiful Yamaha
keyboard. Between long hours at work and a barrage of personal
experiments, its beauty was mostly ornamental; its keys covered in
dust.
I was stuck. When I did sit down to play, the adolescent joy flowed,
only to be stymied by mid-twenties cynicism. Id hear myself hit wrong
note after wrong note, and think, Dude, for as long as youve been
playing, youre still terrible.
If theres one thing I suck at, its accepting my suckiness. At the start
of 2015, I made a New Years Resolution: Give a piano recital.
I initially attempted to learn my own way. In university, I taught myself
entire math courses from the textbook. Piano would be no different
just another lesson from Professor Alex Korchinski.
I decided that Id ease back into piano by learning Blank Space by
Taylor Swift (how my musical taste has grown since junior high). I
figured out the song by ear and memorized it. When I played it for
friends, they all had the same reaction: Not bad.
The implication? Not bad for someone who did it all on their own. Not
bad for someone with no formal training. Not bad for an amateur.
But it certainly wasnt good. No matter how much I practiced, my
performances still stunk of mediocrity. My technique was abysmal; my
hands moved at the speed of an arthritic octogenarians.
If I wanted to do thisto not just play piano, but to perform pianoI
had to swallow my pride and learn from someone other than myself.
At the age of 26, I decided to take my first lesson. I chose McCallister
Music Studio, which seemed nearly perfect: they had a 5-star Yelp

rating, were located 10 blocks from my apartment, and most

importantly, they hosted piano recitals in December.
I was nervous before my first lesson. The butterflies were bolstered by
a run-in with the preceding studentan 8-year old girl. She looked at
her tiny shoes when we walked past each other. It hit me: I was
effectively playing at an elementary school level.
I had this image of a piano teacher in my head. She looked something
like Ruth Bader Ginsbergwrinkly, demanding, and strict. Luckily my
teacher, Debbie, was the oppositeyoung, fun, and encouraging.
Its a good thing that she was encouraging, because truth be told, I
was worse than the 8 year-old. Years of self-teaching had ingrained
myriad bad habits.
Over the next month, I attempted to undo them. It was humbling. I
practiced playing one note over and over again with my pinkies, which
were gnarled with years of disuse. I bought my first lesson book. I
started learning the C Major scale. To be honest, it felt like I had been
serving up 5-course meals and was demoted to cutting carrots.
But on our second lesson, Debbie suggested that I pick a song to learn.
As a Pixar fanboy, I went with the obvious choice: Married Life by
Michael Giacchino from the movie Up. It was the perfect pick: beautiful,
challenging, and a song I could listen to literally thousands of times.
Over the next nine months, I learned. I first learned the melody in my
right hand. Then a waltz pattern in my left hand. Then how to play
each hand at different volumes. Then chromatic scales, and pedaling,
and dynamics. I learned the difference between legato and staccato,
and how to crescendo and decrescendo.
Before long, the song had life. It breathed and sighed and fluttered. I
was obsessed with nurturing itplaying it three, four, five times a day.
There was always something that could be smoother, a section that
could be more expressive.
It all culminated in my piano studio's winter recital. Even though it was
a friendly atmospherejust the adult students and their friendsI was
a horrible jumble of nerves. I was a walking clichsweaty palms,
shallow breaths, and a stomach struck with sudden indigestion.
Eight students in, it was my turn.

I walked up to the backlit stage. Rippling red curtains and fresh

poinsettias framed the nine-foot Steinway grand piano. I sat at the
bench and took two deep breaths. I nodded my head right, 1-2-3,
nodded left, 1-2-3, and hit that first F.
I had played the song thousands of times, but this was the moment
seventy eyes on me for the next four and a half minutes.
I hit a wrong note early. Then another wrong note a few seconds later.
Then I stumbled my way through a whole section.
My dream was becoming a nightmare. I was blowing it. This was a
disaster. A full-scale meltdown.
But I took a breath and kept going. I nailed a blistering chromatic scale.
Then let a long pause and a dissonant chord fill the air before bringing
the melody back in. Before I knew it, I had landed softly on the final G
major chord.
I let the notes linger, lifted my hands, and was greeted with clapping
and cheers. I even got an effusive hat tip.
It felt great to have people enjoy my hard work. I had learned so much
about the piano in only a year. Hell, I had learned so much from the
piano in only a year.
Piano taught me to stay diligent. To make time to practice every day. To
understand that consecutive small sips are better than huge infrequent
gulps. To sit my butt on the bench when I got home, not the couch.
Piano taught me to master the fundamentals. To practice my scales. To
learn my chord inversions. To play the songs I hated so I could play the
ones I loved.
Piano taught me to stay in the moment. To keep my mind on the keys,
not at the office. To just be one with my fingers and play.
Above all, piano taught me that its OK to mess up. No one noticed my
epic meltdown. I watched the video later. I could barely tell. And that's
what happens when you're so far inside your own headyou scrutinize
every move. Any mistake and you can either succumb to paralysis or
keep going.
And piano taught me to keep going. To let go and move on to the next
bar.

To realize that people remember the right notes, not the wrong ones.