For the longest time, I attributed my dwindling piano skills to my weak dislocating shoulders and their slow recovery. I found myself grappling with a sense of loss as the virtuosity I once possessed slipped further from my grasp. Once upon a time, I harbored ambitious dreams of mastering Chopin’s 24 etudes. Nowadays, I stumble through his once simple Grande Waltz Brillante.
For me, the realization that memory could be a big factor came sharply into focus as I was chatting with a jazz pianist who absolutely hated classical music. At first I laughed when he said “memory is important for piano.” This was a guy who couldn’t even read standard sheet music notation. What did he have to memorize besides a catchy melody line and a few chords?
The more I thought about it, I realized he was right. In jazz, where improvisation reigns supreme, memory is the bedrock upon which innovation thrives. Each improvised variation, each fleeting moment of inspiration, is etched into memory, waiting to be summoned at a moment’s notice.
I was forced to confront a harsh truth — shoulder injuries contribute (i.e. making it difficult to do reach far, trills, repeated notes, cross hands), but poor deteriorating memory could be an even bigger saboteur of my piano playing.
Classical music is an intricate tapestry of notes. Each piece is a labyrinth, demanding not only technical prowess but an unwavering recall of every small nuance. That’s why piano teachers ban their pupils from using sheet music during recitals. Memorizing music causes our minds to forge a connection with the bumpy 12-key terrain. Each note becomes as familiar as an old friend, transforming uncertainty into a confidence that allows for a perfect, flawless performance.
