If at Birth You Don't Succeed (34 page)

Despite my frustration over my own musical expression, my passion gave my grandmother and me a new language to speak. Our shared love for music overcame a cultural gap spanning seven decades. I had grown up with TV shows like
South Park
, while the only television she watched were things she called “progrims” that were all British, aired on PBS, and had laugh tracks. She canned ketchups and jams, and made chocolate chip cookies using leftover chicken fat. I ate Skittles off the floor after struggling for ten minutes to open the bag. I was a creature of comfort, whereas she was one of survival, shaped by the Great Depression. But all those differences collapsed whenever music brought us together; when we talked about jazz standards, we understood each other.

In 2004, when I was nineteen, my dad told us that our favorite pianist, Oscar Peterson, was going to give a rare performance at the Hummingbird Centre in Toronto. This not only promised to be the concert of a lifetime but one of the few opportunities I'd get to see my grandma genuinely excited about something that was set to happen in the future. At eighty-eight years old, she tended to think of the future as the time when she'd probably be dead. She'd taken to ending all of our visits by cheerfully saying, “I'll see you next time … if I'm alive that long!” So it was nice to imagine something on her calendar other than “Prune Apple Tree” and “Plan Funeral.”

Oscar Peterson was returning to the stage at the age of seventy-eight. He had suffered a stroke and reportedly couldn't use his left hand at all anymore. After several years of not performing, he'd learned to play again, with the assistance of guitar accompaniment that could fill in the parts previously covered by his left hand. Even if compromised health and old age had drastically reduced his technical ability, I couldn't miss the chance to see one of the performers I admired most with one of the people I admired most. So my dad, my grandma, my friend Kevin, and I all headed up to Toronto on a Saturday afternoon in May.

During the two-and-a-half-hour drive up from Buffalo, the conversation in the car was mainly about whether Oscar would be able to recapture any of his former glory or if it would just be kind of depressing to see an artist who had once been able to light a cigarette for someone in the front row mid-song without missing a beat, reduced to using only five of his ten fingers. The only other thing we talked about in the car was Kevin's lovely new girlfriend, Kate. He brought pictures along from the prom they'd just gone to. Thankfully, upon seeing them, my grandma had the good graces to say that Kate was pretty.

When we finally arrived at the Hummingbird Centre, the only handicapped seating available was in the very back, but it didn't matter—we were just glad to be there. At the front of the theater, we could make out two technicians carefully tuning the grand piano. As the lights went down, Oscar's opener, Oliver Jones, took the stage. We were all surprised and delighted when we realized that although he was a pianist none of us had ever heard of, Oliver Jones was a tremendous talent, playing with almost the same speed and ease that Oscar had on some of his recordings. During Oliver's onstage banter, we found out why. Oliver, like Oscar before him, had gotten piano lessons from Oscar's sister, which prompted us all to wonder how good of a pianist she must have been and ask ourselves why no one was aware of this amazing woman as a solo artist in her own right.

As the audience was let out for the twenty-minute intermission between sets, Kevin, my dad, and I all exchanged excited “That was AMAZING!”s and “Wasn't that awesome?!”s, as though we had contributed to the performance ourselves. My dad, never one for sugarcoating, remarked, “If Oscar's not at a hundred percent, he might kinda suck compared to that!” Even I thought this was a distinct possibility. I'd never seen someone play an instrument so well in my life, so everything to come had the potential to be underwhelming. We all agreed that Oliver Jones would be a tough act to follow.

My grandmother expressed her awe more quietly. The thing she couldn't contain was her appreciation that the piano technicians had returned, and after only an hour of use, they were tuning the piano again, just for Oscar's performance. To see such care and respect given to an instrument was something that affected her so deeply that every single time I saw her after this night until the end of her life, whether we were eating hot dogs or on our way to my aunt's house, if there was a lull in conversation, she'd say, “You remember during the Oscar Peterson concert? What was so interesting to me was that they were TUNING the piano in between performances. My gosh!” as though it was something new to marvel at and remember each time.

As the crowd returned and the lights went down again, none of us was sure if Oscar could live up to his own legend. Oliver Jones came out to introduce him simply as the world's greatest jazz pianist. After a few moments, a frail and feeble Oscar limped onto the stage with the assistance of an aide and sat at the piano bench, the rest of his quartet already waiting in place. He launched into a song called “Wheatland,” a grooving, entirely hypnotic tune he'd composed in the '70s. It wasn't flashy, but it was still the tightest group of musicians I'd ever heard. While he played the lines of his right hand with great fluidity and finesse, his left hand mainly rested on the keys, only playing the occasional chord, while the guitarist filled in most of the accompaniment.

Next, he transitioned into another original called “L'Impossible,”
1
a tune I'd listened to a hundred times before and that had been, in its recorded version, a prime example of his ambidextrous mastery. It starts with a simple melodic phrase with smooth, rolling chords beneath, and then quickly ramps up to what would be the equivalent of ten fingers in a drag race. Every time I listen to that song, the frenetic energy pulsing through Oscar's hands leaps out of the recording and smacks a smile on my face. I didn't think the age-encumbered live version could possibly elicit the same joyous response, but it did! He wasn't playing as many notes, but he was playing the right ones. All our fears and doubts regarding Oscar's form had faded, replaced by absolute wonder. With only one hand at his disposal, Oscar Peterson had bested the best pianist I'd ever seen live, and he'd done it within ten minutes. Then, another truly extraordinary thing happened.

As he moved through the set, playing a Duke Ellington medley, his left hand began to play, waking up more and more with each tune, like an old friend that just couldn't stand to miss a good party. His brain had told his body that regardless of what it was going through, his spirit as a pianist would not be denied. He had a will and a love so strong that it overcame a brain injury that should have stopped him cold. I was inspired by his resilience.

The next morning, as the rest of us ate breakfast, my grandma sat down at my aunt's piano and played Gershwin. After witnessing the transformative power of music, it didn't matter what limitations I had, I just wanted to be a part of the magic. We may not have seen Oscar Peterson in his prime, but we saw him at his finest—as an irrepressible performer who kept an audience in the palm of his hand, despite only having one that worked! Music wasn't just his living—it was his life. It was the same for Grandma Ruthie too.

At the age of ninety, she became gravely ill and almost died after she lost her position as church organist. It was no secret that she didn't play as well as she once had. During the last few years, she'd often played pieces in whatever key was most pleasing to her ear, even if it didn't match the register of the choir.

Not having purpose gave her little to do, and her health deteriorated over the next three years. She eventually recovered enough to sit at the piano, but my dad expressed genuine concern when he heard her playing “Somewhere over the Rainbow” after dinner one night and noticed her struggling to find the right chord to resolve a song she'd played thousands of times.

During those last few years, we were thankful for the moments when Grandma Ruthie managed to rally against old age and infirmity to share her prodigious talents. On Christmas Day in 2009, as her children and grandchildren all gathered 'round the piano at my uncle's house with their violins, violas, flutes, and other instruments, she was able to confidently play every carol without a single piece of sheet music. Sadly, the next summer, no amount of passion could keep her from succumbing to a stroke. She died at the age of ninety-four, leaving a rich musical legacy behind in the lives of her family, her students, and her church community.

The last time I saw her before she passed away was three weeks after my Oprah audition video went viral. For once, the woman I'd previously only seen in cardigans and dresses was wearing a
SEXIEST OF THE PALSIES
T-shirt. Like all other conversations since that night in Toronto, we talked about the Oscar Peterson concert. I told her that I was going to write the story in a book.

That evening at the Hummingbird Centre and the years that followed helped me realize what music truly meant to my grandma—it sustained her. She supported herself and seven children on little more than a garden and a piano, and five of those seven kids went on to have musical careers of their own. Even when music wasn't what put food on the table, it was what nourished her and gave her life purpose.

When something sustains you, no matter what you're up against, you'll find a way to get it. With my first paycheck from my show on the Oprah Network, I immediately went online and bought a collection of piano samples I could compose with on my computer using a MIDI keyboard. These were actual recordings of a Bösendorfer, the same kind of piano that Oscar had played in Toronto.
2
For the first time, I was able to write music, note by note, the way my grandmother had taught me, except now I could digitally manipulate and edit every mistake and nudge each note until the phrasing was just right. It's a roundabout way to the musical expression I'd always longed for, using technology my grandma couldn't have dreamed of.

While comedy is the medium I use to express myself to the public, music is more like my diary. When I'm working through something emotional that I don't have the words for, I'll put my headphones on and sit down at the keyboard. What comes from these sessions is rarely good, but it's always transportive and ignites my imagination in a way that nothing else does. The best music is a collaboration between the composer and the listener that transcends space and time and can be as much about recalling a memory as it is about living in the moment. In the past few years, I've not only written pieces for the piano, but have also commanded entire synthesized orchestras with my fingertip. I've composed themes for my show
Riding Shotgun
among dozens of other ditties ranging from “pretty good” to “no one can EVER hear this!”

I wish I could tell you that I shared some of my simple tunes with my grandma, but I didn't have the courage to let anyone hear them until after she passed away.

It wasn't until 2012, after a long night of Apples to Apples and a box of Franzia split among my brother and two of our friends, that I finally got up the nerve. Hoping the alcohol would be enough to impair their critical faculties, I plugged in my speakers, opened up iTunes, accepted that if I used iTunes I gave Apple the right to eat my firstborn child, and then pressed Play on a Zach Anner original.

It was the longest two minutes and eleven seconds of my life as Jess and her fiancé Josh listened in silence. It was a sparse piano instrumental, with a wandering and contemplative melody that I composed while reflecting on days at the beach with my aunt Bethany. As my friends listened, I tried to read their faces but couldn't bear to lock gazes. The entire thing felt like a walk to the principal's office. I was preparing for the emotional equivalent of being sat down at an administrator's desk, having him look me dead in the eye, and say, “I just called you in here to tell you that your heart
sucks
. You're horrible at everything you love, and no one loves you.” When it was all over, the last sustained note hanging in the air, everyone was quiet. I wondered if I should apologize. But instead, Jess finally spoke, her voice broken up with emotion. “That sounds like the purest expression of love I've ever heard. I want to play it at my wedding.”

The only reactions I'd allowed myself to fathom ranged from befuddlement and indifference to vague, patronizing words like “nice” or “interesting.” “Beautiful” was not a word I thought my music would ever be called by anyone other than my grandma. Thinking back on it now, I realize that maybe Grandma Ruthie had lied and said that my noises were beautiful just so I would stick with it, until one day my music actually was. “Keep playing, Zachary,” she'd say, “just keep playing.”

 

CHAPTER 18

The Wurst and Best of Berlin

Growing up, my mom and my dad had two very different interpretations of the word “vacation.” When we went on trips with my mom, vacation meant a hotel with a pool, a bag of bulk candy from the grocery store, and playing bingo with the fifteen-year-old lifeguard at the Knights Inn. When I'd get back from Easter vacation and kids would ask me what I'd done, I'd say, “We went to Baltimore and stayed in this awesome hotel with shields and swords on the walls!” and they'd follow up with “Why were you in Baltimore?” Confused, I'd try to clarify: “We went to a hotel.”

For my mother, vacations were about getting away and having someplace to relax. For my father, they were about going somewhere and doing everything. He took us on trips to New York City to see Broadway shows, the Statue of Liberty, and that gigantic piano from the movie
Big
. Though, if I'm being honest, I was disappointed when my four wheels, planted firmly on the keys, didn't cooperate to play chopsticks. On one of our camping trips, my dad disregarded the signs warning that food could attract bears and fried up a steak teriyaki in our tent. Later that night, we heard the hungry and heavy huffing of a very curious black bear just on the other side of the nylon. All vacations with my dad were adventures, but none more so than when we went to Europe for the first time in 1997.