daverea.com

At least once or twice every day, I pass by my dusty Yamaha pf85 keyboard. It sits at the bottom of the stairs that lead down to my office. Since I moved into this apartment, I’ve only played it a few times.

My parents bought the seven-octave, weighted-key monster for me when I was in grade-school. Between them and my Aunt Kathy, I took lessons for seven years. Finally, as seemingly more-important things crept into my schedule late in high school, the lessons ended.

With all the changes in my life recently, I’ve been trying to revive a few important things. Exercise, for one, has been reintroduced to my daily schedule. But I miss playing the piano. I don’t exactly miss practicing, or lesson books, but I do miss hearing music as I create it. I miss playing with the windows open, wondering if my notes – whatever form they take, mistakes and all – are helping shape the sound of someone’s evening as they walk by. And I miss the emotional outlet that the piano has been for me – whether it helps me express joy in C-major or vent sorrow in A-minor.

Today, this article popped up on my newsreader thanks to Make magazine. As I read through it, I remembered weekend days spent at my keyboard, splicing together melodies with a MIDI sequencer, a Yamaha MU-5 and a Macintosh Portable. Before that, a Roland MT-32 – the original – backed me up with strings and thumb bass.

I remember trips to the House of Guitars with my Mom, both of us trying to look cool (or at least not stick out like sore, suburbanite thumbs) as we picked through the pile of used synths, and glanced at the long-haired surf rockers and garage pop guys (who I probably ended up working with a few years later) as we stood in line to buy MIDI cables.

I could let my mind wander about this all afternoon – and I’d probably have a good time relating countless stories – but I need to go get the ’409 and dust off my piano. Because my fingers are getting itchy and this computer keyboard just ain’t cutting it.