In My Country, If You Suck, You Keep It A Secret

“Just show up. Don’t worry about sucking,” are my mother’s words of advice to me about my rusty piano recital over the weekend. I shrug my shoulders and decide I can do at least that much- not completely suck. The Japanese are keen on performance. And it’s true – as long as you show up resembling something of a warm, animated body it doesn’t matter if you get up and perform Sergei Rachmaninov’s piano prelude in c# minor perfectly or play “Hot Cross Buns” with your pointers, you will automatically get points for just being there and breathing. Much like my job.

My ride picks me up. She is wearing a short, fuzzy white coat that a thousand bunnies had to die for, their tails oddly scattered around the garment in little cotton balls. I am mismatched as always in Japan, wearing a long black and white coat, which I qualify as ‘fancy’ with converse sneakers. Japan is the land of mismatched foreigners who have been unable to do their laundry for weeks on end because the rain gods are angry.

We arrive with just a few minutes to spare. All the other guests and performers are sitting, scattered around the large living room on folding chairs, arm chairs and couches. They all face a baby grand piano, illuminated with a harsh overhead fluorescent light that makes everyone look ugly. A huge scroll of paper hangs off the wall with the program in kanji and katakana written in an elegant black calligraphy pen. There’s going to be a whole lot of piano music. I brace myself for the worst and my fingers start to sweat as always before a performance in semi-nervous anticipation. The music proceeds.

The collection of participants is diverse and unexpected. A young Japanese man wearing a Mickey Mouse jumper gets up and bows deeply. His fingers RUN across the keyboard, his large hands enveloping all the keys. Shit.

Why is this man going early on in the program? I do not want to follow the man wearing the tan Mickey Mouse Jumper. Thankfully, there are people in between. The skills vary from Meek-Unexpected-Mickey-Mouse-Jumper-Savants to housewives who peck their way through pieces that are chosen because they are simple, but sound impressive with big, inverted chords and fortissimo dynamics. I work that element as well, making more of the dynamics than is really called for. If you play it loud, they’ll never know it’s wrong, as most of them are undoubtedly tone deaf.

Where is the logic in that statement? How can I possibly be sure? The violins come after a short five-minute intermission; this confirms it. Now, while a beginner on the piano can manage to sound halfway decent, a beginner on the violin simply cannot. My scarf, which I have left on in a vain attempt to warm myself in the chilly, unheated house, becomes the outlet on which I unleash my pain. My ears begin to boil and blister and still the screeching continues. The cows that died sacrificing their intestines so that this woman might have a violin to torture unsuspecting audience members with, get their revenge by having their bowels unleash harrowing, jarring, screeches of pain. I, too, almost join in the wailing.

I look around the room. Everyone is smiling pleasantly – their faces immobile and frozen in politeness. My fingers curl around my scarf twisting it tighter and tighter until it resembles a rat’s tail. It takes all my effort not to snap it across the room and send the instrument of evil flying from the woman’s hands. The vision plays out in my head: Everyone runs over and effusively thanks me for saving them. I am paraded across the living room on their shoulders. I am given the place of honor and warmth next to the heater, and perhaps a crown. The violin is shattered and the bow broken in two so that it may no longer plague the innocent.

The piece is over. Everyone claps. I clap too more out of relief than anything. My ears can now start to heal. But I am too hasty in my thoughts of safety.

A new source of pain approaches. She looks the part of an accomplished violinist. She is wearing a sheer red shirt with rhinestones sparsely decorating it, catching the unflattering fluorescent light. She fiddles with her violin, tightening the strings, appearing to tune it. She cloyingly declares she will play a mini Christmas piece for us as the holiday season is approaching.

“Silent Night” screeches in my ears, bringing a sense of irony to the lyrics that have been programmed to play internally every time I hear the song. Silent night EEEEE. Holy EEEEEE night. All is calm EEEEEE. All is bright EEEEEE. Each note damages part of my inner ear and reeks havoc upon my cochlea. She ends with a sweetly spoken, “Happy Christmas.”

Happy Christmas indeed, you heinous banshee.

The night proceeds with mixed musical performances including mine, which fits nicely into the bracket of sucking, but not too much. Food follows and the crowd breaks off into the appropriate age and interest groups – the English speakers flock to each other and the Japanese housewives congregate as the night wears on and everyone grows weary of attempting to speak a foreign tongue.

The two children present are a hoot. A simple game like blackjack keeps us entertained for prolonged periods of time. The little boy who has been dubbed “Monkey” by his foreign-exchange-student brother has the worst poker face I have ever seen, but the best luck. An ace and a face card are routinely dealt to him. His arms fly up, he proclaims himself THE MOST AWESOME CHAMPION EVAR and reminds us proudly of his ever-growing tally of wins. His sister is much more reticent but adorable as well smiling shyly at me and happily grinning when she manages to beat her brother or smack him over the head.

A friend leans over, “They just NEVER let you leave, do they? You’re a prisoner until they’re done having fun.” I nod in grim agreement. As a foreigner in Japan one has the advantage of being invited to all sorts of little soirees. As a foreigner who cannot drive one is susceptible to being forced to stay till wee hours of the night when your ride possibly notices you curled up in the corner, sucking your thumb and internally hoping that they’ll use that keen Japanese power of intuition to pick up on the fact that you have already killed them and stolen their car keys numerous times in your imagination, and are therefore ready to leave.

Finally we are released and eight of us start towards a mini-van suitable for a soccer team. The Little Monkey Boy grabs my hand and with arms swinging we make our way up a dark alley that would be an axe murderer’s dream come true. Streetlights are a rarity in Japan and given the deep rain ditches that line almost every street and the hazardously narrow roads it’s a wonder that I don’t see bodies lying in the gutters on a daily occasion.

Our driver doesn’t know where she is going. Between entertaining us with jokes and riddles in Japanese the Little Monkey Boy shouts directions to his mom.

Well, I’m glad at least the eight-year old knows where we’re going.

Details:

You’re currently reading “In My Country, If You Suck, You Keep It A Secret,”

Published:
12.31.06 / 6pm
Category:
amusing incidents, what i call life, culture, unschoolish