The Story of Music
A Memoir by Ewing Klipspringer
Music is who I have been, who I am, and who I long to be. Music comes to a person in strange ways, sometimes it arrives in the form of a haunting whir of harmonics. But for me, its power resonates through the pauses between notes, the sound that breaks silence, and the moment of reflection in the chaos of life. For me, music came in the form of the instrument of my heart. The piano, a forgotten relic from the previous owners, towered in our sitting room like a sixth member of the family. There she stood, proud and unfaltering in our small dingy shack with creaky floorboards, broken walls, and rats for pets. Yet my parents never sold her. Instead, my brother and I learned to play her; first scales, then Sonatinas our father used to hum while cooking dinner. My mother even made an attempt at cooking tunes, plunking away at the unfaltering grace of chords as I sat under its old wooden frame in the boom of the tingling strings. And somehow, music became our survival, as my brother and I toured around playing duets and cheerful dinner tunes for dimes.
After the war, I never went back to that excuse of a home; rather, I ended up at many. I started off playing at small parties where men and women sat in around me with their coffee-cups. I saw them as a circle of ghosts, lifeless and uncaring, sipping oblivion out of delicate china. And through my popularity, I was consumed by a world of lavished parties, figures of silks and satins, and faces of shining teeth and slickbacked hair. A wandering musician, I travelled from house to house, with music as my only luggage. I was a master in the practice of benefitting from others' wealth and hospitality; money flowed from their pockets like notes soared from my piano. But just like the house where my childhood began and ended, each large and stately manor I stayed in was just a house with yet another Steinway. Somehow, this beauty of mahongany surfaces and ebony skipping stones remained in my life as my fingers glided to Chopin's rhythms and I shared my gift with the glitterati of New York. From house to house I traveled, nothing but an overstayed guest with music as a token of my sincere appreciation. Then there was Gatsby, a surprisingly young man who attained an English accent. I met him at a tournament which Jordan Baker, the professional golfer of questionable integrity, was participating in, and his remarkable smile shone just as much as the hood of his Rolls Royce. He willingly invited me to stay at his house, evidently unaware of my reputation for a short stay to become anything but short. One would assume that to Gatsby I was just another object in his mansion, another nameless guest at one of his overdone parties. But I was not just another acquaintance whose name he couldn't be bothered to learn, another one of his "old sports". For the first time, I felt welcomed. With Gatsby I was more than just a guest. Just as he provided me with shelter and protection, I did the same for him. There was a part of Gatsby not many knew, hidden behind the Italian shirts and polished shoes. He told me tales of an impoverished childhood, a lofty goal, and his motivation in acquiring his fortune for his love. For that, I traded my own story of a cold and empty childhood, warmed by my passion for piano. There we would sit, as the sun stretched out her rays in a yawn at the touch of morning after all the champagne had been drunk, and the laughter had died off. I would play, and he would talk, and together somehow we would sing a song of sorrow and hope more beautiful than any other I had ever heard.
A Memoir by Ewing Klipspringer
Music is who I have been, who I am, and who I long to be. Music comes to a person in strange ways, sometimes it arrives in the form of a haunting whir of harmonics. But for me, its power resonates through the pauses between notes, the sound that breaks silence, and the moment of reflection in the chaos of life. For me, music came in the form of the instrument of my heart. The piano, a forgotten relic from the previous owners, towered in our sitting room like a sixth member of the family. There she stood, proud and unfaltering in our small dingy shack with creaky floorboards, broken walls, and rats for pets. Yet my parents never sold her. Instead, my brother and I learned to play her; first scales, then Sonatinas our father used to hum while cooking dinner. My mother even made an attempt at cooking tunes, plunking away at the unfaltering grace of chords as I sat under its old wooden frame in the boom of the tingling strings. And somehow, music became our survival, as my brother and I toured around playing duets and cheerful dinner tunes for dimes.
After the war, I never went back to that excuse of a home; rather, I ended up at many. I started off playing at small parties where men and women sat in around me with their coffee-cups. I saw them as a circle of ghosts, lifeless and uncaring, sipping oblivion out of delicate china. And through my popularity, I was consumed by a world of lavished parties, figures of silks and satins, and faces of shining teeth and slickbacked hair. A wandering musician, I travelled from house to house, with music as my only luggage. I was a master in the practice of benefitting from others' wealth and hospitality; money flowed from their pockets like notes soared from my piano. But just like the house where my childhood began and ended, each large and stately manor I stayed in was just a house with yet another Steinway. Somehow, this beauty of mahongany surfaces and ebony skipping stones remained in my life as my fingers glided to Chopin's rhythms and I shared my gift with the glitterati of New York. From house to house I traveled, nothing but an overstayed guest with music as a token of my sincere appreciation. Then there was Gatsby, a surprisingly young man who attained an English accent. I met him at a tournament which Jordan Baker, the professional golfer of questionable integrity, was participating in, and his remarkable smile shone just as much as the hood of his Rolls Royce. He willingly invited me to stay at his house, evidently unaware of my reputation for a short stay to become anything but short. One would assume that to Gatsby I was just another object in his mansion, another nameless guest at one of his overdone parties. But I was not just another acquaintance whose name he couldn't be bothered to learn, another one of his "old sports". For the first time, I felt welcomed. With Gatsby I was more than just a guest. Just as he provided me with shelter and protection, I did the same for him. There was a part of Gatsby not many knew, hidden behind the Italian shirts and polished shoes. He told me tales of an impoverished childhood, a lofty goal, and his motivation in acquiring his fortune for his love. For that, I traded my own story of a cold and empty childhood, warmed by my passion for piano. There we would sit, as the sun stretched out her rays in a yawn at the touch of morning after all the champagne had been drunk, and the laughter had died off. I would play, and he would talk, and together somehow we would sing a song of sorrow and hope more beautiful than any other I had ever heard.
