What is That Sound?

By Connor Bonin

As a kid, every week or so me and my family would visit our grandparents. It was a routine that defined my childhood and helped shape me and my siblings. It was the spring of 2016, a calm rainy day. “Boys! It's time to go!” Our mother called out. My twin, my little brother, and I all came rushing out of the house, packing ourselves into the backseat of our car for our weekly visit to our grandparents. 

In our car, classical music droned on like usual. I usually kept quiet, watching the landscape blur together as our car drove us closer to our destination. My twin, Jack, sat across from me and kept our little brother, Matt, entertained. After a few minutes, the car pulled into the driveway of my grandparents’ old home.

My mother ushered us all out of the car. I eagerly went up to the door first, followed by my twin, and then my little brother and mother. After a few seconds, our grandmother welcomed us in. We waited at the door, Jack and I glancing at each other in boredom as my mother and our grandmother exchanged pleasantries. 

As we entered, the familiar smell of coffee, espresso, and fresh bread welcomed our senses. We all exchanged greetings and embraces with our grandparents, remaining in the living room as the usual conversation between our elders unfolded. Jack and Matt both eventually migrated elsewhere in boredom as my mother and grandmother made their way to the dining room as usual. I was left in the living room with my grandfather, who was reading a book as he always did. An old record played softly in the background. It played a sound I found unique to my grandparents’ home. A sound I didn’t yet understand.

I stood up from the staircase where I had been sitting and moved to the couch, playing with the old cat, Missy, who had made herself a permanent fixture atop the couch. My grandfather looked up from his book, calling me over to the armchair in the corner. I looked back and eagerly went over, hugging him as usual. “Be careful when playing with old Missy there,” he chuckled, his raspy voice rang low as usual, worn from a lifetime of singing and smoking.

I nodded and sat beside him. Watching curiously as he adjusted the position of the needle on the mysterious box from which unique, captivating melodies emanated. As a kid, I was extremely curious; I had to know what everything was.

“Grandpa, what is that thing?” I asked, pointing. “The spinning thingy?”

“It’s a record player,” he answered, the music starting to flow again as he dropped the needle. 

I nodded in response, listening to the music attentively for a second before asking him another question. 

“But what is it playing?” 

“Jazz,” he responded, a small, satisfied smile on his face. “It’s a type of music, it’s what I like.”

Jazz. It was nice to put a name to the sound of life here, but I still didn’t know jazz. I was still as curious as ever. I glanced around the room before settling on the piano. I had heard him play jazz on it a few times before, and that raised more questions for me. 

“It sounds like what you play on that- that thing,” I spoke, glancing at the piano behind him.

“What thing?” He responded, confused, before the realization hit him. “Oh! It's called a piano,” He chuckled, an amused smile on his face.

I watched as he rose slowly and walked over to the piano, taking off the cover that rested on the keys. I followed behind, curious as ever.

“C’mon, sit with me,” He spoke, patting the spot beside him on the piano bench. “We don’t have all day.”

I sat next to him on the piano bench, looking up at him attentively. He started to play, and those same unique frequencies began to flow from his dark, weathered fingers. I watched in innocent amazement as he played a slow, soft tune I would come to learn was “Misty” by Erroll Garner. It was eye-opening and utterly captivating to my young mind. I needed to learn how to play like that, even if it was daunting.

By the end of the short song, I was staring up at him in amazement.

“How did you do that? It looks so hard! What was that?!” I asked, excited and confused by his simple performance.

He laughed, smiling down at me. “Did you like it?” He asked, amused by my innocent wonder.

I nodded excitedly, still looking up at him as I responded. “I loved it! I want to play that someday! Is that also Jazz?” I asked.

He nodded, still smiling. “Yes, that was jazz.” He responded. “I think it's time you learned some piano.” He confirmed, before guiding my hands to the keys. “Just feel around, press some keys.”

I explored, my hands untrained. The keys were foreign to my hands. I pressed a few notes separately, paying attention to them as they rang out. I pressed a few together and listened to the sounds that resulted. Some were pleasant, some weren’t, but all of them were exciting.

“Here, let's try this.” He spoke, his rasp cutting through the sound of the keys I was pressing. He guided my right hand to rest properly along the keys. “I want you to copy what I’m doing, alright?” He asked, before placing his hand an octave below mine.

I followed him attentively, each finger from thumb to pinky depressing one after another. It sounded alright, but more importantly, it was fun. I heard him announce the keys with each press, and after time started saying them as well. “C, D, E, F, G,” we listed together, slowly gaining speed. 

I kept following his instructions, we moved octaves, switched notes, and tried using the left hand. By the time my mother and brothers had come to collect me I was begging to stay just a while longer.

“Please, Mom? Just a few more minutes?” I whined, not wanting to stop. I heard my grandpa chuckle beside me. He ruffled my hair and patted my back. “It’ll be here next time, don’t worry.” He reasoned. 

I reluctantly left with my mom and brothers. The car ride home left me disappointed. I left with the music stuck in my ears, the piano stuck in my mind. All that I wanted—all that I needed was to get back on that piano. The feeling of the keys was ingrained in my hands, and the possibilities of what I could learn to play in the future were tantalizing.

Throughout the next two weeks, the desire to continue playing the piano only grew. I tried to stay quiet, but I could not help myself; I wouldn’t be stopped. I would continue to nag my mother, “Mom, can we go to grandpa’s?” every single day of the week. I needed to continue learning the piano. I needed to feel the keys under my fingers, and the notes ring aloud. 

Eventually, it worked. One day, my mother brought me with her in the car. I knew something was different about this outing, as none of my brothers were present; it was just me and her. When we got out of the car, she led me into a building in a plaza. 

As we walked inside, I could hear it—the piano. I stayed by her side as she talked to the receptionist, staying still and calm, and yet I couldn't help but feel the excitement slowly rise as I realized I would have the chance to play the piano again.

That was the day I started piano lessons. I learned the piano for many years, my love for it only growing. Over time, I tried and learned other instruments like the flute, the cello, and various percussion instruments. I began to learn about the history of music, the theory of it, and the production of it. 

My passion for music is something that has stuck with me throughout my life. After 6 years of learning the piano, I eventually switched to playing the drums as my main instrument, as I had greater talent for them. I still love Jazz, and I’m eternally grateful to my late grandfather Coleman, who introduced me to it, for unlocking my passion and mentoring me throughout the years.

About the writer

Hi, I'm Connor, the author of the memoir. I'm currently a student at BCS, where my early discovered love for music production and media continues to develop. Music and creativity are undervalued in modern education, but they have developed amazing transferable assets like self-discipline, rigor, and innovation in me and many of my peers. I'm striving towards an education and career in business, where I hope to find and scale ventures shaping creative media, music, and culture.

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