I love to run my fingers o’er the keys, the ivories…

Yep, same Irving Berlin song. Can I help it if the man’s got it?

There’s something beautiful in the feel of ivory keys that synthetics & plastic simply can’t match. There’s a warmth to them, you see, & a traction. As you play, the key seems to caress your finger, reluctant to let go as you draw your hand away. The action only adds to the experience. If the tension’s just right, & you play long enough, the fingers become exhausted, but its an addictive exhaustion. After a while you want to work out that tough passage in the sonata, or pound out those couple measures in the Mendelssohn. Even on okay days some of the “work” edge associated with “practice” is dulled.

So much goes on over those keys. Pieces are learned, performances are perfected, passages are teased apart, but exchanges aren’t music-exclusive. Sometimes philisophical meanderings go on over Hanon excercises, revelations are made. Things just can happen between a piano & its pianist.