Played to Perfection

The time I started learning the piano was when Mom left for graduate school. It was sweet relief. I could do my exercises and drills whenever I wanted, and Mother would never know. There wasn't a telephone in the house, and cellular phones were still far way back to the future.

She knew she couldn't check on my practice, so she settled on one strategy. She took a piece of cardboard, printed some words and pasted it on the wall in front of the piano. The paper said in bright neon colors, PRACTICE MAKES PERFECT.

She had outdone me, ha, ha. Practice whenever you want but it must be perfect. The message stuck and practice was (made) perfect. To this day, I strive for perfection in everything I do. (Sometimes to a disadvantage, if you know what I mean.) And as for my mother's dream of an in-house piano virtuoso, well, I'm still her son.

My virtuoso dream may be over but my life is still a big soundtrack being orchestrated by piano masters, both living and departed. I live in tune with the urgency of their staccatos, the sweet caress of their pianissimos and the fluidity of their legatos.

Among the old masters, I love the drama of Russian composers like Rachmaninoff and Tchaikovsky. Mozart to me is too joyful. More than ever, present-day Russia still churns out piano prodigies of the likes of Arcadi Volodos and Ivgeny Kissin.

In the non-classical field, a number of piano players and composers command my undivided attention. The works of Ellington and the Gershwins can make me sit by the piano for hours. I have developed a liking for jazz and standards so the works of Mr. Joel, Sir John and Ms. Keys don't interest me much anymore.

The first jazz standards pianist I really liked is Harry Connick Jr. With a voice like Sinatra and a genius for making sublime arrangements, he can never go wrong. Well, he did once, when he tried to infuse pop into his music. He never ventured into that arena again.

Before the rest of the world learned to embrace Norah Jones, my copy of her CD was already full of scratches. I had a premonition then that she’ll get Grammys in the jazz category but she just didn't. She even romp away awards in the major categories.

Right now, my ears are full with the music Jamie Cullum, a 24-year old jazz pianist from Britain. He writes his songs and shifts with relative ease from Cole Porter to Radiohead songs.

Jamie's recent album was recorded and mixed in the analog format. The reason: compared to digital, an analog recording gives a warmer, clearer and more realistic “live” sound. This is the same reason why Pearl Jam released their Vitalogy album first in vinyl. In the case of J. Lo., a vinyl record will never work for obvious reasons. Not counting Latino and male votes, she'll get booted out of American Idol before any other contestant.

Going back to where all this started: perfection. The analog format is a way of showcasing a perfect performer; the digital masks away the imperfections. One music producer succinctly puts it; don’t fix it if it ain’t broken. As for my piano playing, I guess I have to go digital.