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Memories of an Ivory-Tickled Childhood

How I learnt to march to the beat of my own tune

I can confidently say that the early years of my life were shaped by a tuberculosis-struck, late, Polish musician. My father used to start his piano practice with Chopin’s Fantaisie Impromptu in C-sharp minor, Opus 66. He also played other composers, especially Cuban. There were Ernesto Lecuona’s La Comparsa and Ignacio Cervantes’ Los Tres Golpes, for starters. Come to think of it, there were a lot of dead (mainly men) composers hovering above the piano (Lecuona 1895–1963, and Cervantes 1847–1905) like ghosts on Halloween. But most of the time, after doing his customary scales, my progenitor would invariably gravitate towards the music of Chopin, the man nicknamed in his time “poet of the keyboard”.

Unsurprisingly, aged five I tried my luck at the upright piano that took up one third of our one-bed flat. I still remember the occasion, if not the piece I played. My dad had just finished his practice, closed the instrument and made his way into the bedroom. I opened the piano again, sat at it and reproduced with one hand what I’d just heard being played with two. My rendition must have been acceptable enough for my dad, who stuck his head out of the bedroom and for what seemed like an eternity (and isn’t a five-year-old’s world comprised of extremes? Either things are ephemeral or eternal) contemplated his only son in the sort of way that invites haloed angels to be depicted on high ceilings in centuries-old churches.

I’m not lying when I say that at that moment my father thought he had his own Cuban Mozart at home.

What followed thereafter was not the way I would have wanted events to pan out. You see, readers, I was five! The reason why I sat at that piano was because I wanted to play with it, not play it (it’s great that I’m writing this essay in English and not Spanish. Otherwise, I would not have been able to use that pun). As well as extremes, a five-year-old’s world is full of play. Non-judgemental, unadulterated play.

Yet, my father insisted on giving me proper piano lessons. To cut a long story short, I never learnt how to read music, it took me at least another three years to realise that I was also supposed to bring my left hand into play (ha, see what I did there?) and my early burgeoning repertoire dried up pretty quickly amounting to no more than a dozen pieces.

Nevertheless, my love for music stayed, even though my piano-playing days ended abruptly as soon as I started secondary school. In spite of my short-lived musical career, if I can call it that (besides family members oohing and ahhing my version of the theme song of Skippy, the Bush Kangaroo, there wasn’t much of an audience otherwise) I developed a fine ear for different music genres. By then I was in my mid-teens and rock had appeared in my life. From its experimental side to its heaviest incarnation, I fell head over heels for it. The good news? There were plenty of piano-driven songs for my enjoyment.

Later on, in my late teens I added jazz to my musical mix. In my early 20s, I “re-discovered” traditional Cuban music. By then, my dad had long left home. His influence, however, loomed large over me. As a composer and arranger, he had always had musicians around our small flat when I was little. I’ve got memories of a very young mini-me getting the towels from the bathroom to mould them into forests so that my toy soldiers could hide in them. All the time, piano-playing and singing would be going on in the background. With that foundation, is it any wonder that I came to appreciate Rick Wakeman’s The Myths and Legends of King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table when I was a teenager?

Many years later, already in the UK and a father myself, both my children had the opportunity of taking up piano. I didn’t hesitate in saying yes. I’d always believed in the important role that music plays in education. At a personal level, it wasn’t the qualifications they could achieve that motivated me, but their chance to play with an instrument, as I had done when I was their age. To this day, one of my more cherished memories is Sunday mornings and my son and daughter taking turns at the keyboard in our lounge, and the hitherto silent house filling up with the sound of harmonious melodies. Both my children went on to play other instruments and I’d like to believe that in the same way Chopin’s nocturnes and waltzes shaped my childhood, the music to which my kids were exposed also influenced theirs.

I have often thought of going back to the piano. The closest I’ve got was recently when there was a table top sale not far from my house. I wasn’t looking for anything in particular. All of a sudden, there it was! A keyboard for just fifty quid. A steal! It had the works, including a well-maintained stand. I pondered, I dithered, and I dawdled. In the end, I baulked and left empty-handed.

If only I’d had the spirit of a tuberculosis-struck, late, Polish musician to talk me into buying the instrument! To reassure me that this time it’d be OK to play with the piano.

Cuban, Immigrant, and Londoner, on sale now.

You can buy me a coffee here.