How a Grown-up Piano Came into my Life (Just When I Needed it)

In elementary school, when it came time to choose a band instrument, I went for the trumpet. I’d heard some hot cornet playing from Fred Vigorito, leader of the Galvanized Jazz Band, and my dad would bleat a few notes on his battered horn playing along with records on the weekend. Turns out my embouchure was not suited for the trumpet, and as there were 15 of those and no trombones, my height and substantial lips inspired my teacher Mr. Forbes to hand me a slide version with—mercifully—no valves. While I still play it (and the tuba) for fun and for casual gigs, I realized early on if I wanted to be a professional musician, I should stick with my first instrument, the piano. Maybe I chose the lazy way out; there are professional practitioners of the trombone—Wycliffe Gordon, The Allreds (papa Bill and son John), Russ Phillips, and Jim Fryer spring to mind—who with their dedication and artistry somehow turn what resembles a four-foot paper clip into a thing of beauty. Or perhaps my choice was supported by my poor math skills; I have always found dividing a fee for a gig by one to be easier than by two, three or four, and concentrating on a solo instrument freed me from such mathematical funambulism. At first, my choice dismayed my parents: the trumpet, and even the trombone, were small enough to be secluded in a coat closet if my hesitant honking, however enthusiastic, becam