My father’s
mother, Alice, was a divorcee in the early forties back when there weren’t many
around. Her shoes and bag always
matched her hat and she wore a size 10, even though she was a size 14. If Alice was lunching at Lord and
Taylor she would pull a little bottle of vodka from her purse and add it to her
beverage because she maintained, “It’s uncivilized to not have a drink with
lunch.” She went to Elizabeth
Arden once a week where she got her hair done along with all the gossip about
movie stars in town. She never
went out in the sun and as she aged semi-gracefully, passersby mistook her for
the Queen Mum.
Alice was a
concert pianist who never played the piano. She enjoyed the single life in Manhattan and had many
friends, most of whom were gay. At
the parties she went to there was always a fair amount of singing. Alice loved to sing and most everyone
in those days had a piano, even if it had to be lifted into your 9th
floor apartment by a crane. Not
wanting to be caught unprepared, she kept a list in her purse of all the songs
that she knew all the words to, just in case. If no one asked her to sing, she would sidle up to the piano
player and offer her list. Knowing
Alice, if he didn’t choose a song, she probably chose one for him.
When I first heard
this story in college, I too, set about creating a list of songs I knew all the
words to so that I would always be ready.
Besides twenty or so standards, there were also the titles of various
eighties tunes like Roxanne, Heartbreaker and 867-5309. I kept this list in my purse and waited
to be called upon to sing. My
shoes did not match my hat, but I was ready.
I was never called
upon to sing. Most apartment
pianos were long gone and the days when folks stood around a piano and sang at
parties were gone, too. But
sometimes if the lights were low enough and the stereo was loud and Billy Joel
or Prince came on, we all sang, in unison, at the top of our lungs. We sang and danced and jumped on
furniture and sweated so much that the mousse we’d scrunched into our hair ran
down our faces alongside our mascara.
We had a ball singing our hearts out—shouting the lyrics we knew so well. It was admittedly uncivilized, but it
was crazy-fun. And thankfully, I’m
happy to report, if the lights are low enough at parties and the music is loud,
it still happens—this crazy-fun singing and dancing.
The business of
singing around the piano, however, is taking more effort to resurrect. But, it can be done. It helps if the guests know what will
be expected of them, and it helps if you live in a community where two out of
three people either sings or dances or plays a musical instrument—or is married
to someone who does. Then, after
dinner’s been cleared and the lights have been lowered, folks with pianos sit
down to play. Or if they don’t
play they ferret out the guests who do.
And those guests, rather than pretending with false modesty that they
don’t want to play or no longer play say, “Why, yes! What the heck, I’ll play!” Then the magic happens.
This past holiday
season I witnessed it all come together beautifully. The piano player began with a few recognizable favorites and
one or two ringers were tapped to mosey over to the piano and sing. People came out of the woodwork, edging
closer like moths to flame. Before
we knew it, there was a robust group singing round the piano and many more joining
in from the sidelines.
The words on the
sheet music for some of the more obscure songs were printed in tiny font, which
drew us closer together, huddled over the pianist like a squinting scrum. He persevered under our elbows as a
table lamp was moved closer to the music stand and folks found their
glasses. Then a standing lamp was
plugged in and a cell phone flashlight was aimed. We chuckled at our poor eyesight and laughed when the piano
player commanded us to sing the last verse, “Now, in Latin!” But we sang our hearts out and it was
marvelous. My list is long since
gone and my shoes still don’t match my purse, but Alice would have been proud.
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