It may sound peculiar to some, the idea of falling in love with one’s instrument.
But there are others, those who have fallen themselves, who understand completely.
There’s just something about the piano that I find enticing. Always has been, now that I think about it. Perhaps it’s the versatility of the instrument, switching easily between blues and Bach, from symphony orchestra to jazz orchestra.
Or maybe it’s because of its range of sound. It can sound moody, stormy, and bassy one minute, then flighty or gentle in the upper register the next.
But there’s something else, too. Something I can’t place, something without a name. The only way I can think is that there’s something both personal and universal about the ivory and the ebony. I don’t know, you can try all day to think of some way to articulate it, but words simply don’t exist to describe that cincher quality about the piano.
Ah well. The reasoning doesn’t matter, really.
Can I help it if, in the words of Irving Berlin, “I love a piano”?