When seven, I decided and voiced to my parents that I would like to take up piano. They accepted the acquisition of their youngest offspring, but had only one rule. I had to keep it up, no matter what. Little me agreed, not really understanding what commitment was, and how much hard work it involved.
Daily practice, timed on the oven.
Most of the time, and for most of the years of learning the piano, ten all up, I hated Tuesday. I would always have a ‘headache’ on Tuesday. Hurt myself on Tuesday. Talk lots, on Tuesday so half the lesson would be consumed before we started it. My teacher’s name was Merv, and he was the most old school, old way, old fashioned gentleman. At 7, this was so uninspiring, but now I look back and see him as my first real life mentor. And possibly the coolest cat this side of the western suburbs, ever to have lived. His jokes (which I never understood at the time) were so ambiguous, and the way he spoke of his true love Dearie (who had passed away), all the time, but mainly when I was learning ‘their’ original songs was utterly gorgeous. The seven year old me couldn’t relate, but of course as with most great mentors, seeds were planted.
Merv wrote me love letter’s each week, the way he praised me was tough and gentle, but he always believed in me.
When I found out that music used the first seven letters of the alphabet, I was not as elated as when I found out how to remember them. The treble notes were remembered by saying ‘Every Good Boy Deserves Fruit’ whilst counting the lines, and ‘F-A-C-E’ whilst counting the spaces. The bass notes, ‘Great Big Deals For Australia’ and my favourite ‘All Cows Eat Grass’. When reading the notes governed by the good boy who deserves fruit, I would think about this nursery rhyme.
There was one song in particular that literally sounded like yellow.
When my finger’s hit the keys, yellow danced in the air like beams of light. The song was called ‘Beams of Morning‘ and it was one of the very first tunes I learnt to play. A simple, piece that conjures so much joy, colour, memory and love.
When playing this piece, now, 18 years later, not only did the warmth of it’s hue dance, it began to paint it’s own rhythm. Sounds, blending imagery, painting tones, envisioning sunsets glazed on bare backed poetry.
Sometimes colour can speak louder than words, and sometimes sounds can taste better than hues. Depending on moments, mood compositions, vitamin intake, stress level, love gauge and pocket money stance. When uncovered, The Rainbow Language of Colour Sound can provide relief from a life of miscommunication and misunderstanding. A singular colour can sing thousands of words, yet a singular word can create a symphony of colours. All relative to specific intent of the composer, or just because. Intention can be placed within the bone structure of the word, a sounds necklace or a within a colours heart. Imagery can dance with treble clef’s, poetic bass lines can shimmer their way across staves and earlobes, even with two left feet. Scents pressing play on stereo’s, eager to smell the sound of words, dressed in morning beams, writing love letters to be folded into paper planes. Waiting to be felt.