Hi. Play this:


Pretty tough, huh? It shouldn’t be. It’s just your typical Schubert page-long transitional bridge tripping down the chromatic scale departing from G and arriving eventually at B-flat.

It’s nothing that difficult.

And these two bars are killing me.

I can’t deal with all the key changes. (Do you sniff today’s little Life Metaphor beginning to gestate and take form here?)

I mean, I can deal with sharps. I can deal with flats. But my little mind is not equipped to absorb double-sharps, natural-sharps, natural-naturals and flats all in the same godamned measure within triplet eighths played at Allegro Moderato eight measures in a row, know what I mean?

Oh. You don’t know what I mean? Well neither the fuck do I and that’s my point!

I get comfortable playing in one key. And I think a key change now and again is quite necessary to keep things rolling. But come on, Schubert man, what the fuck? Who do you think you are, Gershwin? Sondheim? Does this weird transition absolutely need to be a page long?

It makes me feel stupid. Inept. Without talent. Thick and slow. This makes me sad. And yet I go at it again and again, determined to get these couple of bars down, without brainfart pauses, and up to speed.

And then I think, there will be a reward, for it really is a cunning little passage, and I will then be able to add it to my repertoire. And I will feel some minor (or major or diminished-7th or chromatic) sense of accomplishment. And this makes me happy.

But then I think, when played properly, it will seem effortless, like all good music should (except Liszt who should seem virtuoso and that’s why he’s fun to play). And no one will understand the pain and suffering and eventual orgasm inherent in these two bars that should last no more than 8 seconds in real time. All that hard work and the stretching of my little mind to accommodate Schubert's whimsy — and nobody will get it. Unsung hero. And that makes me sad.

But then I think, Fuck It, I will know what pain and suffering went into those two bars, and it will bring me satisfaction. And I will always hear the beauty in Schubert’s meandering transition in this particular Sonata in C. And that gives me the strength to go at it for another ten minutes until the mood switches again and I want to flee the piano, dart into the kitchen, and chop off my sluggish fingers with a butcher knife.

And then I’m depressed again.

Ah well. Good music is emotionally moving.

And while I don’t mind being emotionally manipulated by a piece of music (ravish me, Mssr. Chopin!), I do mind being jerked one way and another, from elation to peacefulness to agitation to aggression to nacrolepsy, like a puppy flinging a rag doll back and forth in its clamped jowels.

I guess that’s why they called Schubert’s age the Romantic Period.

Personally, I prefer raw sex to romance. Maybe I should take up the drums instead.

Feel my pain.

Check out the Marquis’ Crush o’ the week! He doesn’t have these kinds of problems!