The Show Must Go On, or Don’t Get Too Cocky

Tonight was the last choir concert of the year.

Because the music department adores me and wants to make sure my piano skills never atrophy, I was helping out with the accompaniment on two numbers.

Now, I pride myself on being a capable accompanist. I am at peace with the fact that I was probably not born to be a soloist, to be bogged down in perfection and playing every single note. Instead, I’m a workhorse, I’m support to vocalists and instrumentalists. But tonight, even though every. single. rehearsal. was just fine, the first song I played was a train wreck. TRAIN WRECK.

It wasn’t really that bad, and the best thing about it was the composer wrote such a ridiculous hodge-podge, multi-keyed piece of ridiculous music that I doubt anyone could tell that at one point I was THREE FULL BEATS BEHIND everyone else, frantically scanning THREE STAVES OF MUSIC to try and figure out where I was supposed to be.

But truly, it was a success. It was a success because I didn’t just stop playing. I kept playing notes in a similar pattern, and I’m pretty sure my face didn’t show the absolute terror that was coursing through my veins.

But it was also a reminder to me that no matter how confident I tell myself to be, it’s probably a good idea to still get a little nervous. It keeps a body humble.

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