I realize that most readers turn to this column with the expectation of somewhat light-hearted commentary, so I am reluctant to unpack this month’s stock of bellyaches for public display. If this keyboard were a piano, I could play a sprightly solo that would entertain and amuse (especially when I hit clunkers)—communicating with musical sounds rather than words seems preferable. Almost all the words I have are discouraging, and the sky is cloudy all day—though the overcast is as mental as it is meteorological.
I could play a tune on these keys, but aside from lack of practice and (let me be frank) skill, the danger is that I would step on someone’s ancient copyright and I’d have ASCAP pounding on my door. If I were to attempt one of my own compositions, it is all but certain that I would offend or at least perplex my hearers. My songs are uneasy listening, by design. There is an undercurrent of anger and hostility, even juxtaposed within my gentlest melodies.
My people were a hostile people. Enthusiasm for beauty was met with derision, and all sincere enthusiasm had to be crushed. When my aunt took up the piano, she came home one day to find that her brothers had disassembled the instrument, with one wearing a mop on his head and strumming the frame like Harpo Marx. I grew up loving and wanting to make music, but I was wary of seeming too avid. I had to mask my obsession
