9: Rocky Theme Song
How long has it been since my last public performance?
Akashi Dakashima tried to remember, but his memory was failing him. He decided on the occasion, two years ago, when he provided the background music for a friend’s wedding.
As he entered society and worked in services, as he became a husband and a father, he’d become more serious, more solid somehow, and he’d always thought himself to have a strong stage head—and yet, on the morning of the competition, he was nervous beyond imagining: an utterly unfamiliar sensation.
No, not “yet,” but “because.”
To have responsibility, to keep promises, to be a part of society: these experiences had raised the stakes on a hitherto enjoyable romp, injecting it with a newfound fear and tension. He had things to lose.
* * *
Competition day one.
A sky piercingly bright, without a single cloud in the sky.
Akashi had arrived in Yoshigaë the day before, and lodged in a chain hotel. With his order being the last performance of the first day, it would have been fine to arrive the day of, but, fearing some transportation meltdown, he played it safe and came a day early. He had practiced late into the night: a friend from the instrument store had family here, and they had graciously afforded him their piano.
Akashi: number 22. The First Round sees eighteen contestants per day, but due to some last-minute cancellations, he was bumped up to the first day.
He couldn’t speak to the strategic advantages or disadvantages of playing last, but he does know that the longer he sits around, tense and nervous, the worse he’s apt to play.
Thankfully, the first day is on a Sunday, and so Michiko comes down to see him in person; Akihito is left to her parents. Because of school the next morning, she would have to take the first train back the next day, but it was worth it to see him play, truly play, in a long time. Though the competition provided recordings of every performance, and Masami would be filming his part anyway, naturally she wished to see him in person. After all, should he not make it to the Second Round, it would be his first and last performance. Out of the ninety of the First Round, twenty-four to the Second: the remaining sixty-six are out. The Third Round takes half of the Second; the Final, half of the Third.
He slept surprisingly well. The hotel didn’t have a piano, and the room was so bare that he somehow managed to let himself relax. Sitting at home, the piano was wont to catch his eye and tempt him toward it.
He peacefully ate and read the paper. Twenty minutes of performance. Alongside young conservatory students who practiced all day, every day, from all over the world. Whose teachers listened to their every note and strategized with them over how to spend every minute of their time in Yoshigaë.
For the past year, he’d asked an old acquaintance several times to listen to him play and critique him, and had practiced every spare moment he had, but it was still certain to be far below anyone else competing—a gap which constantly ate at him. But, at his age, practicing to death was suboptimal: he had to make up quality for quantity. The care he put into each minute of his performance—precious minutes spent away from earning or with his family—was beyond most conservatory students, and he believed he enjoyed playing more than virtually all of them. But still.
Akashi thought he’d be the oldest by far, but, seeing the distributed program book he felt a bout of relief: a Russian contestant was the same age, and there was another Russian and also a French contestant who were both one year younger.
Might they still be students? Maybe they’re working, like me? No matter what country you’re in, I guess living off of music is hard. Probably they don’t have a kid.
The long-running competition forced him to take time off—a fact he was apologetic for—but both his coworkers and his boss cheered him on. Presumably it had a little something to do with working in an instrument store, where many employees were also musicians. A number of folks had very kindly come down; his boss had even said that, should he make it to the Final Round, they’d close the store for a day and all come hear him.
The Final Round: a dream of a phrase.
As a student, he’d once made it to the finals of the largest, most prestigious domestic competition in Japan; there, he’d gotten fifth. It was the best result he’d ever had.
But this was Yoshigaë: internationally renowned, with hefty prizes. Well-heeled Chinese, government-funded Koreans. Both countries had dramatically advanced artistically in recent decades, and contestants of those two nations usually took up a plurality of the slots.
He knew the odds were low, but he wanted to survive until the Final Round—wanted to play Chopin’s Piano Concerto no. 1 with an orchestra.
Surely every competitor must be thinking along the same line in this moment: to play the Tchaikovsky, the Rachmaninoff, the Grieg they were raised on with an orchestra.
He realized he had tensed up without even realizing; he took a deep breath. Relax, relax; the day is long. What are you going to do in a fighting stance all day.
Standing, he saw that his shoelace was untied. Bending down to tie it, he suddenly felt overwhelmed. The shoelaces he tied every day, for decades, felt foreign in his hands: he pawed the laces, but couldn’t remember how to tie them.
What the hell is going on?
Finally, after a great deal of struggle, he tied them up and then looked at his watch: fifty minutes had gone by.
Well. I guess I’m nervous.
A cold sweat erupted over his entire body. It was the first time he’d ever felt like this. Looking back on his past experiences onstage—sure, he was nervous, but never a wreck like this.
He shivered. Doubt swelled in his heart: his first stage in ages; maybe his fiercest competition ever. The image of sitting before the piano, forgetting how his piece opened, unfurled ugly and shocking. He shook his head wildly. No, no, no. I’ve practiced so much. It’d never happen. It’s never happened.
But then again, you did just forget how to tie your damned shoes, a chilly voice whispered. You’re not a musician—you don’t have the right even to think it. You’ve been spent running a household and working a job. “The common man’s music”—sure, it sounds nice, but you’re in over your head. You’re just afraid to admit that that part of your life is over.
The same voice had poisoned his thoughts multiple times in the last year. If he’d had true talent, he would have chosen to become a concert pianist and not even considered other professions, would have scorned or laughed at the foolish people running a household and working a job and blathering about “the common man’s music” when they had no idea how hard it really was.
Then what am I doing standing here? What am I, standing here?
He felt a loneliness deep within him, so intense it was as though the ground had disappeared beneath his feet. It was a loneliness of the same kind one would feel onstage—the feeling of being beyond help and therefore beyond redemption—but today’s was deeper, more overwhelming, a loneliness that couldn’t be shared with others: a loneliness of unending hopelessness, bordering on despair.
“Good morning, Akashi.”
It took a few moments to register that he was to respond to the sound he’d just heard. He barely comprehended that Masami was here to report on him.
Of all moments. He wanted to tsk but held his tongue and tried to straighten his expression.
“Oh, yes, morning.”
Maybe it was the coarseness of his voice or the mess of an expression he wore, but Masami looked more than taken aback. Akashi unconsciously avoided her gaze.
He didn’t want to be filmed. What right did this woman have to come all the way here and stick a camera in his face?
The last few days had begun to bother him a great deal, with a camera following him everywhere like some unwanted growth. Masami was sure to have noticed his irksomeness, but, as both of them were just doing their work, they had continued with their respective tasks with a heavy unease between them.
But today—just no. He didn’t know what he’d say if he had to deal with it for another moment, or whether he could control what came out of his mouth. He took a deep breath.
“Sorry, but today—”
When Akashi opened his mouth, expression hard, Masami nodded almost exaggeratedly as if to stop his speaking. Looking more closely, he noticed that she had her usual large backpack but no camera around her neck.
“No worries, I’ll just head over to the hall and film some of the staff or other contestants.”
“Sorry” was all he could muster.
“But I’m going to be in the green room, and backstage. Without those, I can’t make the documentary, so I’ll have to ask your pardon there,” she said, pleadingly but firmly.
Akashi, relieved, nodded. “Sure.”
“Good luck,” Masami said, and then immediately backed away. It was as though he’d gotten stiff for nothing.
She also seemed to understand his nerves being on edge during the filming, but he regardless felt a pang of regret at what he saw as his immaturity. If he couldn’t get himself together even for this, then he really was no better than any of the children out there. He wanted to show off a unique, mature music, but his lower-than-expected capacity of understanding shamed him.
At the same time, the short conversation with Masami soothed him somewhat. He gathered himself and took a big breath. Yes, let’s show them an adult performance. All my complex feelings and loneliness, the contradiction that is my music, in performance. This is the only advantage to being a dinosaur.
Akashi straightened and folded his newspaper, and then asked the passing waiter for a refill of his coffee.
* * *
Masami, rushing from Akashi’s view, unconsciously let out a loud sigh once alone.
So Akashi can feel pressure too. Thank goodness I didn’t take out the camera.
The last few days, when she had sought out the other contestants, everyone’s nerves seemed razor-sharp, and rejecting the cameras had become commonplace. Many of them were calm about it (which was concerning in its own right) but especially the Europeans did not hide their emotions at all; on several occasions, the hosting families, stopping her at the door, had looked at her apologetically and said, “I don’t think this would be a good time.”
She thought Akashi would be OK, but she could tell that even he was on edge. Close-quarter filming inevitably creates moments of discomfort and antagonism. To be filmed—recorded, exposed—is not pleasant. Even Masami herself feels that way, so for the ordinary person, it’s greatly stressful. She wished desperately to leave Akashi alone, but given that her own work was on the line, nobody had much choice. With today being both the first day of the competition and the day Akashi was performing, she very much wanted some clips, but she was happy to have followed her instincts. Surely, this came at the benefit of being able to record back- and onstage.
As the first day of the competition approached, Masami too became more nervous, as though the torment of the contestants had become contagious.
Could there be another such brutal and unforgiving world.
With every further day spent researching and experiencing the world of classical music, her surprise only increased.
Those who live as concert pianists: the few, the proud. Most earn their keep by teaching. Even the reasonably famous must accrue some debt to perform, and some even pay for advertising and publicity out-of-pocket. The CDs sold in record stores are usually self-produced, and rarely leave more than a smidge of profit, if that.
Classical music: one pictures an endeavor elegant and noble, but reality is much different from that image. Indeed, continuing with an instrument at all is a challenge without financially stable parents. Practicing in a Japanese household itself is a challenge—those with wind instruments can’t even practice at home after college. It’s not as though you can attach a mute to every instrument, and many shun them for the altered timbre as well as volume. And let’s not even talk about finding an instrument that you like—buying it, maintaining it, transporting it.
The piano competition today is a massive industry.
The contestants and the associated attendees—staff, judges, coaches, family, concertgoers—do help the local economy and raise the profile of the hosting area—the result being the creation of large and small competitions all around the world. Contestants look for competitions that will elevate their résumé, and competitions find eligible contestants to elevate their prestige.
As a contestant, one looks for competitions with big prize money and lots of trimmings, and so seek out those well-financed competitions. Likewise, from the competition’s point of view, someone who’s bound to be a teacher or academic—i.e. not a star—is not entirely welcome. But aligning these two hopes takes more wrestling than either side would want, and so many competitions crop up but nearly as many fade away after a few years.
The “competition” among piano manufacturers is no less fierce. To be used by a piano competition is to gain free advertising. At large competitions, several manufacturers’ pianos are available, and contestants may try them and even have them tuned especially for them. Naturally, each manufacturer wishes for its piano to be chosen; some competitions even have unsavory rumors that, because a manufacturer is a major sponsor, only those using its pianos can win; at such competitions, as contestants only choose a given manufacturer, other manufacturers slowly pull their provisions.
During the competitions, each piano is tended to by a tuner or team thereof; having their time scheduled down to the minute, combined with dealing with totally different and often very sensitive performers, renders tuning for competitions an onerous, stressful duty as well: many tuners claim to sleep in increments of tens of minutes when they work competitions.
Anyhow, when every contestant is so marvelous, how ought one pick a first, and a second, and beyond?
As Masami watched the participants practice almost reflexively, she unconsciously grew a little fearful. As far as she could tell, they were all quite excellent, hardly differentiated; and yet, out of nearly a hundred, only a few receive any recognition at all. To be one of them, culled so soullessly, and to have devoted literal years to the god of the piano …
—What a world.
Masami recalled letting the statement slip to Akashi, who had extremely soberly replied, Yes, it is.
—That’s why it’s great.
—What do you mean?
When Masami asked, Akashi laughed embarrassedly—Ah, um,—as though he had been speaking to himself when he replied.
—It’s no fun if you’re the best in the world at an instrument that only a hundred people play, you know? When all these amazing people, who all want to make amazing music, thrash about like this just to pursue their own music, and then only a handful make it to the peak to be blessed, basically, and to become a musician—that all the more elevates the greatness, the regal-ness, almost, of a musician. Their music is all the more beautiful for the despairing musicians whose music it isn’t, kind of.
—Um, sure, maybe, Masami said unconvincingly, and Akashi laughed warmly.
—We’re just people, anyway.
Masami’s heart shivered at Akashi’s smile.
Ah, I’d missed that smile.
His smile had been that way from long ago. It wasn’t that he craved being liked—being not the self-oppressive kind of nice, but rather the sincere, simple, instinctively generous kind of nice. As a result, he had a way of being extremely strict, ascetic almost, when it came to himself; maybe people noticed this, but he was extremely popular with women, and even men appreciated his company.
It would be no exaggeration to say that she was following Akashi in particular because of his personality. His way of being polite, close and not yet discomfiting around others, and having that sort of personal, self-restraining strictness was beyond reproach, and she was just happy to catch as many moments with that damned smile of his.
And so, now, to see him so nervous: c’est le concours.
Masami decided to go to onsite and find a volunteer to interview. As she was an official member of the press corps, she didn’t anticipate having any difficulty catching someone on the first day of the competition.
So it begins.
Masami shivered. As she walked, she wished that Akashi would realize a performance that he could be proud of, and that he would last until the Second Round.
Because the documentary becomes a little boring without, you know?
Pushing aside the rudely practical thought that had floated in, she began to run.
This afternoon, the competition would begin under the swelling roof of the concert hall, visible from any point in town.