Concert Indianapolis Indiana

Memory is a funny thing.

I've been known to get up, walk to someone's office, and forget why I just got up and walked to someone's office.  More times than I care to admit, I send emails and forget to include the promised attachment. I know I've said this phrase more times than not: "Didn't I tell you that already?"

Luckily, my long-term memory is better. I can still rattle off the books of the Old Testament in seconds (taught to me as a young kid in Sunday school). I memorize lyrics quickly, and they stick with me forever. And speaking of music, my first and most poignant musical memory occurred here: 7310 17th Ave. NW Seattle, WA 98117.  My childhood home. I've never forgotten the address.

[Present occupant: Please forgive me while I blog about your house for a bit. By the way, the picture of it on Google Earth looks nothing like what I remember. What did you do?]

This week, I reach back into that good/bad memory bank of mine and recall the address where I heard Tchaikovsky's Piano Concerto No. 1 in B Flat Minor for the first time (on vinyl for you young kids - here's a picture just in case).



My mother kept a pretty impressive record collection of classical music.  All the masters were in our library--Beethoven, Brahms, Tchaikovsky--and these records rounded out the Crawford family's diverse musical tastes (Scott Joplin and the Kingston Trio for Dad, Elton John for brother Judd and Really Rosie featuring Carole King for me). I would come home from school and open the door with my Latchkey, invade my mother's closet in search of that fancy pale pink dress with the pleated skirt, select Tchaikovsky's first piano concerto, carefully place the needle on the record in the right spot, turn up the volume on our huge 1970s cabinet turntable (this sucker was a piece of furniture!), and dance around the room in my own little world...at least until my older brother replaced my beloved Tchaikovsky with Pink Floyd.

My memory is clear as crystal: As soon as I would hear the horns blasting those first four notes, shivers ran down my spine. I'd strike a pose once the orchestra answered. Then, that gorgeous melody by the strings put me into my dance routine of gliding and twirling until that pleated skirt was a perfect parallel to the ground. And of course, I would stop occasionally and play air piano.



I didn't need a TV to be entertained. I didn't need video games (although I tried begging mom and dad for an Atari, to no avail). I don't remember ever feeling lonely. I had music. I had Tchaikovsky.

It wasn't until I reached Music Appreciation class in college when I realized there was more to the concerto. You mean there's more to the piece than just the first movement? Fantastic. But the first movement is my first classical music memory.

If you come to the concert this weekend, look for me in the first mezzanine. I'm the one who will visually respond to the first four notes and then the melody.  It will go something like this: twitch, grin, sit back, smile, wipe a tear, close my eyes, and remember that pale pink dress.