Mother's piano and father's guitar
When I turned three years old, my mother enrolled me in piano lessons.
To be honest, I didn't find the piano lessons enjoyable. I have memories of the initial stage where I would touch the keys intuitively, following the rhythm designed for young children. But I didn't feel drawn to practicing and playing the exercises and classical pieces from sheet music. Even when I saw other children enthusiastically pounding on the keys, I felt nothing.
For some reason, "imitating" pushed me away from the instrument. I barely practiced for the lessons that would come the following week, and I'm sure my mother scolded me, and the kind teacher must have grown tired of me.
I believe I only truly enjoyed music in the very early stages. The vivid memories that remain are of standing on stage at a recital wearing white tights, joyfully playing the keys in a disorderly manner when the low notes were referred to as "elephants" and the high notes as "chicks."
Unable to find the right time to quit, I continued playing the piano until the first year of middle school, leaving behind a somewhat melancholic atmosphere. In a practice room about the size of a 4-tatami mat in our house, I couldn't play "Für Elise" for anyone, but I distinctly remember feeling the poignant beauty within that melody.
And then, I became obsessed with soccer, starting from the upper grades of elementary school.
Soccer club practice took place every Saturday. I earnestly wished for good weather on that day every week. The intensity of my wish was such that in the dim light of dawn, as the sky began to reveal itself, I would wake up with concern about the day's weather. At that time, our school didn't have an indoor futsal court, so if the weather was bad, the soccer practice itself would be canceled. Although as an elementary school student, I couldn't predict the weather just by looking at the sky, only my room's bay window could tell me what the weather would be like a few hours later, something Siri and Alexa wouldn't inform me of.
When we went on family trips, I couldn't wait to get back home to practice. During those moments away from the ball, I was driven by a mysterious delusion that if I practiced at that very moment, I would become incredibly skilled.
What was the name of this impulse?
Later, I felt it with the guitar and in music—an egocentric and invincible anticipation. That impulse always appeared when the object of my attention was not present. Those clichéd "what ifs" held infinite possibilities back then.
When I reached sixth grade, I was the captain of the team, but my mother still tells me to this day, "You were only the best because the team was weak and didn't have enough sixth graders." That mediocrity is so characteristic of me. Mother, I was probably the best player on that team. Most likely.
I entered junior high school and joined the soccer club. The uniform changed from blue and black stripes to a vibrant yellow. I received the "baptism" from mischievous seniors almost every week, and amidst the slightly turbulent atmosphere due to incidents with other schools, I calmly went about my days with my inherent laid-back nature, still passionately engrossed in soccer.
Although I had drifted away from playing music on the piano, J-POP music was always around me. The nearby bookstore had books and stationery on the first floor, while the spacious second floor was filled with rental CDs. I would go there in my father's car and frequently rent 8 cm singles.
I didn't have a particular interest in unconventional music, but whenever I heard a song on TV that caught my attention, as soon as rentals began, I would rush to the CD corner on the second floor of the bookstore to borrow it and then record it onto a cassette at home. From the perspective of musicians and labels who had tie-ups, I was probably their prime target. That's how much J-POP colored my life.
One day, as junior high graduation drew near, I unexpectedly reached out my hand towards the acoustic guitar that had probably been sitting at home all along.
I wonder why, but there are moments when something that has always been nearby suddenly jumps right in front of your eyes. I don't distinctly remember whether I had secretly reached out my hand to it a few times or if my father had coincidentally left it in the living room, but I found myself holding a YAMAHA acoustic guitar with rusty strings.
The neck was considerably slimmer compared to what I use now, and it was just right for my hands at that time. For someone who didn't know anything. In the case of a challenging hobby that couldn't be mastered easily by anyone, the first tool you pick up can influence whether you pick it up again, even if only slightly. That guitar provided me with the space to pick up that guitar once more.
As I played with sounds that didn't even resemble music, my father taught me the phrase from the French film Forbidden Games (Jeux interdits). While learning how to play beginner-friendly songs, I became immersed in the guitar.
For me, who was preparing for high school entrance exams, the guitar, which should have been forbidden play, infiltrated my body without any reservations, along with its rusty strings. Even the pain of an F chord, which I thought I could never master, became something I couldn't help but enjoy. My father, who played in a folk band (he might have been serious about it), seemed to enjoy teaching me chords.
"Even with the same chords as the piano, the resonance is so different."
When I was learning the piano, I remember encountering a sheet music arrangement of various popular songs that could be played easily on the piano. It was a newfound joy that I hadn't experienced before.
In the end, my brain was essentially shut down when it came to playing the piano, as if it hadn't grasped it as music yet. Looking back now, I feel like apologizing to solfège and Bayer.
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