I imagined a dusty weather worn community centre; a neglected building that was crying out for a lick of paint. Inside, there would be a children’s art exhibit that had was at least three years old; I would see extraordinarily poor colouring, cut-out pictures of Jesus and a weird drawing of a car. In the hall, there would be rows of uncomfortable orange plastic seats, empty except for four people, and an unloved solitary badly tuned upright piano.
In this imagined scene, I would be greeted by an elderly woman who would charge me two pounds, and encourage me to buy a scone and a mug of milky tea.
‘What’s your name? Do you want to play?’ she would ask. I would smile and shake my head, and explain that I couldn’t play the piano. Her brow would furrow, and I would take my cup of tea and scone to the second row, and sit down. Myself and the four other people would then listen to an elderly gentleman called George try to play a tune from the musical ‘Cats’.
My phone told me that I needed to go to Kentish Town, catch a train to Tulse Hill and then walk for ten minutes to my destination: a church. As soon as I left Tulse Hill train station, I recognised where I was: I was walking along the route I took to hear about socialism and Dostoyevsky’s Crime and Punishment. I turned around: Tulse Hill station was hidden down a side street; this would explain why I hadn’t seen it before.
The church was a surprise. It appeared to be a modern structure: it presented curving columns of stone. Behind the columns was a reception area, which also curved towards the rear of the building, moving towards an older structure. It was constructed from traditional brick, and modern glass and steel. It was unlike any community church I had ever seen.
I gingerly pushed the door open and stepped into the reception area. A chap, who I later found out was called Naz, came to greet me. Rather than hearing dumbed down show tunes, I was hearing the exquisite harmonies of Liszt. Rapid notes echoed around the reception area. To my left, I saw a table. On the side were some pens and the Pianist magazine.
I paced around the reception hall, charmed by the music, and caught sight of another visitor; a young man, in his early twenties. He was sitting on a black chair, peering through a pane of glass, looking out at the performance area. I noticed that he was wearing a smart white shirt, black shoes, and a pair of black trousers. I suddenly realised he was a competitor: he was moving his fingers but not in time to the music; he was practising, working through his music without a piano.
When the Liszt piece ended Naz led me into the church. I sat down next to the Meetup organiser, Fran, who was running the competition. Silence descended. The next competitor, Alan, was called. Alan walked to the front of the church, adjusted his seat, and sat down in front of a huge black grand piano. Fran gave me a programme. It told me that he was going to play three pieces: one by D Scarlatti, another by Liszt and a final piece by Debussy. He played the pieces with unfathomable precision, leaving rapid notes resonating in the air of the church.
‘Alan has got this in the bag; he’s won’ I thought.
At the end of the piece, Alan returned to his seat. I glanced towards him, wanting to learn something more about the man behind the playing. He was in his mid-forties, and was wearing a smart black shirt and trousers. He had an expression that suggested that he was at peace with himself, suggesting that he felt he had done well.
Next up was Michael. If you were to imagine what an expert pianist would look like, Michael would be it. Impeccably dressed, impressive hair, and wearing some bold round plastic spectacles. Michael played Beethoven, Liszt and an impossibly complicated piece by Rachmaninov. To my untrained ear, I couldn’t tell the difference between the two performers: they were both brilliant.
Claudia, one of the two women in the competition, also chose Liszt (who was rapidly becoming a ‘piano competition favourite’), and an interesting piece by Australian composer Percy Grainger. Next up was Marcus, the pianist who was playing an invisible piano in the reception area; he was itching to get going, and had to be gently verbally restrained by Fran.
Marcus played a combination of Scarlatti and Beethoven. I had changed my mind: I was now convinced that he was the winner. The final performer was called Sepi, a young woman who was wearing an elegant blue dress. She played Chopin (who I can listen to endlessly), Scriabin (who I had never heard of), and Ravel.
Before the judging began in earnest, there was a short introduction by a sponsor of the event: a widow of a former Professor of Piano from the Trinity College of Music. It was time for time for the judging. Fran called upon the services of a famous concert pianist who confidently walked to the front. He offered some general comments: he commended the quality of all the performances and the choices of the pieces.
‘Some of you picked up on this; it’s important to take account of the acoustics of the space where you’re performing. This space has great acoustics and is perfect for this kind of event. It’s very different to, say a smaller room’. I had no idea what he was talking about. ‘In a room like this you should use half the amount of pedal that you usually need to. One thing you need to remember is that the pedal doesn’t hide anything; it just makes any mistake worse’. Michael, who was sitting quite close by smiled and nodded at this reflection.
‘For those who were reciting pieces, do take the time to go over the scores afterwards. Even though you might think you’ve remembered everything, there are always things that you might forget; it’s important to pay close attention to the annotation on scores, so you can see how Beethoven, for example, intended a piece to be played’.
After congratulating all performers for a second time, it was time for the judgement. Claudia came third. Michael got a prestigious second place, and David (‘without a doubt’) was the champion. David was first up in the competition and I had, unfortunately, missed his performance. The programme, however, told me that he played an impressive combination of Chopin, Debussy and Rachmaninov. Everyone gave David a round of applause, and he collected a huge trophy, which he was delighted to receive. Michael seemed to be pleased with his second place. Marcus (who I believed would win), appeared to be relatively composed.
Over a period of ten minutes, the church hall gradually emptied. I edged over towards the judging table to chat with Fran and Lorraine. I asked them about their group.
‘We took it over from someone else; a pianist who created a group to run events where they would perform to an audience. Our group now has a different focus: we run different kind of events for people who are interested in getting together and playing’ explained Lorraine.
London Piano Events was a relatively small group, attracting over two hundred ‘pianists and piano fans’. Fran, who plays the harpsichord, told me that he had been playing for over thirty years, and was now a teacher. The group page had the title ‘networking for pianists’. Two events seemed to be happening per month. These ranged from other performances, through to keyboard workshops for piano teachers.
I didn’t know what to say to the pianists other than the banal phrase: ‘that was great!’ As I found my way to the street, I caught up with Claudia and congratulated her on her performance; she seemed to be genuinely overwhelmed by the whole experience.
It was time to go home. As I walked towards a nearby bus stop I also felt that I had also been overwhelmed; by the quality and authenticity of the competition. I also couldn’t believe I had heard all those astonishing performances and hadn’t paid a penny.
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