Thoughts on the Tyranny of the "Piano Police"

There are two things that will turn a certain breed of mild-mannered piano teachers into judgmental harpies: a performance by someone else’s student, or a performance by a colleague. The fact that most of these instructors haven’t played publicly for years (or, in some cases, decades) only makes things worse. Separated from the humbling experience of re-creating a piece of music in front of an audience, and armed with historical recordings, they become armchair experts on the “right” way to play every single major work in the piano repertoire. These are the teachers who crane their necks to see if students are using the pedal in Bach (and if so, how much). They’re the ones who bring scores to colleagues’ performances so they can “follow along” (and enjoy a moment of schadenfreude if mistakes are made). These are the ones who consider themselves the guardians of musical purity and the bearers of true standards that must be upheld or the purity of the music will be forever defiled.

I call these people the Piano Police. Anyone who has taught piano lessons knows the challenge of protecting students from such individuals. Anyone who performs learns that the Piano Police are as constant as death and taxes, and that survival as an artist means finding ways to keep poisonous comments from destroying confidence and artistic expression. Fueled by their own insecurities and frustrations they damage many budding artists. One quickly learns what one can safely present to an audience of critics and what one is wise to play for oneself behind closed doors.

Like many pianists, I carry the scars of my own encounters with the Piano Police. When I was in my 20s and just starting my music career, their vindictive judgment did real damage to my ability to enjoy making music. Had I not transitioned from performing standard repertoire to presenting new music, I’m certain I would have left the profession. New music gave me breathing room because the Piano Police didn’t know how the music was “supposed” to go. In the absence of the constant drip of criticism, my confidence increased and my playing improved. The thought of playing Chopin in front of an audience struck fear in my gut, but striding out on stage and premiering a new piece of music (even with the composer in the audience) excited me. New music freed me from the airless box of others’ expectations and allowed me to play with love rather than fear.

It took years for me to discover that this freedom came at a price—the subconscious belief that (despite years of performing challenging new music) I was incapable of playing standard repertoire well. It wasn’t until I retired from performing that I dared approach some of the big Romantic pieces I’d not attempted to play for decades. With no one but Mr. No Dead Guys and Rudy-the-Cat to listen to me, I stopped worrying about satisfying those who cite correct performance practice and interpretation and approached the score with fresh eyes. That’s when I made a startling discovery—that freedom from the Piano Police translated into freedom at the piano, and that even large masterworks were accessible when I wasn’t afraid. I probably wouldn’t have chosen to present standard repertoire when I was performing, but knowing this years ago would have allowed me to be a better musician in everything I played. 

My story isn’t unique. Most musicians have experience with the Piano Police because they’re everywhere. We learn to avoid the external ones, but the most dangerous are the ones that lurk in our own minds. That’s where the decades-old criticisms of colleagues and old teachers do the most damage. How do we know that these internal Police are crippling us? When we think mistakes aren’t just mistakes but indications that we’re bad pianists; when we freeze at the thought of attempting a piece of music we’ve secretly loved for years; when the fear of failing to play a piece well keeps us from sinking our hands into the music and working one-on-one with the composer to find a joint way to make music from black ink on a page. When these things stop us, we’re presented with a choice—allow the Piano Police to hold us hostage forever or figure out how to clear our heads of them so the music can sing.

‘Cause here’s the truth: no one will die if you play Bach with the pedal. No one will suffer if you and Chopin come to an unsanctioned interpretation of one of his Ballades. In fact, unless you tell someone you’re playing something the Piano Police have told you you’re not good at, no one needs to know! The experience is between you, the composer, and the keyboard. All other intruders are not welcome. And so I challenge you: reexamine the beliefs you carry about your own playing. Ask yourself if, perhaps, some of them may be coming from the Piano Police. If so, give yourself permission to give the Police “the finger” and play anyway. Life’s too short to go to our graves without at least attempting to play the music we love.