It’s after 1:00 AM, and I’m blogging the performance. In general it went quite well, perhaps half-plus of the sellout crowd giving us a standing ovation, etc. Yes, they are very supportive here. They also understand the privilege of attending a premiere, I guess. In any case, it generally was very successful. I found a new idiotic mistake to make, which I rectified after three bars or so BUT I STILL SCREWED IT UP GODDAMMIT, and . . . I don’t know if anyone except Michael knew the difference. My partner-in-crime Kiyoshi claimed that he made a similar error. I don’t believe him, in fact—he was rock solid, and for the alternate ending, the one by Mendelssohn, we were perfectly together, which we never were in rehearsal. He was probably fibbing to make me feel better.
Never mind. It was a very successful concert; people loved it, apparently nobody knew about my unforgivable slip (Michael: “That’s why they call it ‘live’ music”), they were very interested to register which ending (the Mendelssohn or the Moscheles) they liked better, and they were engaged as all get-out—I got many personal thanks, faces alight, the whole bit. Here in Georgetown, TX people seemed to understand that they had an opportunity to really hear something new, and they loved it, were excited by it, etc. Does it get better than this? The conversations afterward centered on how to make this available to more people, what publishing it might involve, how interested people might be. Immediately after a concert, I should explain, is when performers are at their most vulnerable. A half-hour after we’re importuning the heavens—“WHY THE HELL DO I DO THIS? WHAT WAS I THINKING??—we’re gleefully hatching projects and making plans. It’s a sickness. And a blessing.
Now, an admission: I chastise students when they focus on their errors and lose sight of the bigger picture, and here I am doing the same thing. It must be something in the performer’s mentality‑to acknowledge every popped note so as to establish that we feel guilty for our imperfections.
What the hell is wrong with us?
As I said, never mind. The audience clearly understood what I, a thickskulled pianist, can’t. And that’s the point. Feeling pretty good after three scotches, though.