applause shame
I’ll probably never forget how it felt when, a couple months ago in Philadelphia, I pressed the final two simultaneous notes of Morton Feldman’s Palais de Mari and one of them didn’t sound. I had feared this would happen, and by the time I reached that final measure it seemed that my heart pounded louder than the music—not an unreasonable possibility with Feldman. It all came down, in my mind, to those two perfect tones—two tones that indeed I had already played in an earlier passage and thought: “See? You just played them, and played them perfectly… so that means you can play them again. Don’t you dare psyche yourself out three minutes from now."
But then it happened. Of course it happened. I failed to play two soft notes at the same time, something probably any toddler could do in their first piano lesson. I couldn’t…well, try again, and effectively compose a new ending to a classic work by Morton Feldman. No. I couldn’t do anything. I just counted the beats until the measure terminated. And then the worst part.
They began clapping. Yes, the whole room applauded. Some stood. I wanted to run straight down the aisle and out the door. Either that or start over. At the very least, I wanted to explain, to apologize. In any event, I didn’t want to bow. But I did. And I did again. And I accepted the warm words from those generous people, including even Feldman’s niece.
It was a long train ride back to New York, and I didn’t spare a single person who asked how the show went the story of those last two notes. Eventually I moved past despair to practical considerations about how I could prevent the same thing from happening next time. Next time. Always next time. Oh, how I prayed for a next time.
But you know, this happens to a certain extent after every performance. I locate an unforgivable offense, usually one that trumps a series of others, and then dig into it, digging into its origins, its implications, and all the reasons why it would never, ever conceivably happen to another pianist. Guilt, regret, shame. "It must be exhausting,” a friend once said. I’d never really thought about it. I thought it was the same for everybody.
People in the audience wept during a concert in which I played a couple nights ago. Thousands have watched a video of it and hundreds have weighed in with comments (though undoubtedly this is because I worked alongside a brilliant musician and intellectual who also happens to be a celebrity in the adult film industry). Still, I can’t bring myself to watch the concert nor peruse the comments, even though the ones I’ve glimpsed have glowed with positivity and moving testimonies. No, I still fear the discovery of someone who will call me out on a sloppy rendition of a piece that I actually know note-for-note. I know I can do better. I wish could do bett—
“You’re a textbook control freak,” said a composer friend a couple months ago. I didn’t expect it, but the reading gave context to what until then had felt like routine anguish. If I can’t control others’ perceptions of my work, I’ll stew, or avoid, or deflect, or try to beat them to the critical punch. Yes, I know that thing happened...
The person who emerges during performance is rapturous, selfless, primal and unapologetic, but also unpredictable and…yes, uncontrollable. When a piece ends and the applause starts, that performer disappears and the control freak sweeps in to assess the damage, eager to promise better behavior next time while excusing the mess. “Did he make a mess? Let me explain…"
Maybe I’m apologizing for the apologizing, or maybe, in identifying it, I can transcend a behavior that I fall back on but that doesn’t serve me in any productive way. Isn’t that what most of us would call a habit?
