The music we play for love
Big band. Frank Sinatra. Immortalized as a Radio City Rockets kick-line soundtrack, cued up as celebration music after every New York Yankees home win, and known by New Yorkers of multiple generations, “New York, New York” has become an instantly recognizable classic. It—even more than the Seventh-day Adventist hymns we sang in church every Saturday—was embedded in the musical DNA of everyone in my father’s Brooklyn Italian family. It’s not an exaggeration to say that “New York, New York”— along with Grandma’s spectacular cooking—was a joyful ground of consensus in a family that nursed generational grudges.
Unfortunately, for all its attributes, “New York, New York” is a crap piano solo. Yes, I’ve written about the piece in previous posts and spoken of its connection to my family. Yes, I’ve recorded an arrangement of it and created versions of my own. It doesn’t matter. Without Frank and his swinging big band, it’s tedious to play and, to my ears, unpleasant to listen to. My opinion of this matters little to others as it is one of my most requested songs.
“New York, New York” is the one number in my repertoire guaranteed to bring out unexpected behavior in audience members. One woman started singing along with me—in the front row—in the middle of one gig. Another woman—in an entirely different performance—chose to get up and dance in the center aisle. At her 90th birthday party, “New York, New York” motivated my Grandma Rizzo (who didn’t believe in dancing), to get out of her chair and teach her 70 year old daughter how to do the Charleston.
And so, year after year, “New York, New York,” remains in my repertoire, even though I dislike playing it. It’s on my mind because in anticipation of an upcoming trip to see my father, I’ve not only been practicing it, but transposing it to a more singable key since my sister (a vocalist) will be joining in on an upcoming gig. My long-suffering husband, who has hear me prep the piece before every family visit, has made me promise that when all of the elder members of the Rizzo clan are dead that I will bury that damn piece as well.
That day is coming, and because my father is in his 80s, probably sooner than I realize. But even as I know I won’t miss the music once I retire it from my repertoire, I’ll miss seeing my Dad’s eyes light up when I play it. I’ll miss his joy in the music. He’s the last remaining Rizzo of his generation. He’s the sole repository of the Rizzo family memories of Brooklyn, the last who remembers the names of all his neighbors on 54th Street. When he dies, his stories of growing up in mid-century Brooklyn will die with him.“New York, New York” takes him back to that long-gone world where the neighbors all knew each other, kids played stickball in the street, and all of Brooklyn celebrated when the 1955 Dodgers won the World Series.
“New York, New York,” showed me the best of my father and his family. Because it brought their memories alive when I played it, it allowed me to participate vicariously in their earlier lives. This is why when my father is gone, “New York, New York” will still be a song I cherish, even if I never perform it again. In it I’ll always hear my father’s stories, my Aunt’s singing, and I’ll see my grandmother dancing the Charleston.
There are pieces we play because we love them. And there are pieces we play because others love them so much. We keep them in our fingers and perform them on repeat because sharing this music is an act of gracious generosity. In the familiar path of the notes we hear the bigger picture. We understand that while we may want to gift those we love with stronger compositions, we can only communicate with them in a musical language they understand and appreciate. And so, much like the familiar recitals of old words and ancient stories, we listen and respond with simplicity and love, never forgetting that true communication isn’t found in the notes we play, but in the love that lives under the notes. When the notes fade and the music ends, it’s the love that we’ll remember—love that will live in the memories embedded in every note of a piece we thought we disliked.
Photo by Matteo Cantenese, courtesy of Upsplash