Practice Room

Sitting in our front room listening to my son practice piano is an experience not unlike going to a cocktail lounge and gathering around the baby grand for a flurry of requests. He does touch on the pieces that he has been assigned, both by his piano teacher and the director of his middle school jazz band, but in between there are flourishes of songs that he played months, or even years ago. These sounds are then mingled with the experimental bits of songs that he is working out by ear: Green Day, Coldplay, Linkin Park. Once upon a time we searched out sheet music for a Linkin Park song that he was fond of, and it nearly killed his interest. He is much more interested in discovering the sounds than he is being told which keys to press.
He plays differently than I did. I had my lesson book in front of me, and I shuffled through the assignments I had been given for the week and practiced each one the prescribed number of times in the fashion that I had been instructed: Three times, count out loud. Left hand first, then add right hand slowly. I did these things under the watchful eye of my mother and brothers, who also played, and it was understood that each of us would have our turn at the keyboard. It is interesting to reflect at this late date on the fact that there were two pianos in our house, but we never took advantage of the old upright in the basement for getting in additional practice, or simply to streamline the process. But that wouldn't have put us under the watchful eye of the Practice Gods. There were times when conspiratorial alliances were formed when my mother was out of the house, "I'll say that you practiced if you say that I did."
I am familiar with this mild disdain for practicing in my own son. There are plenty of days when we have to stand over him, but once he finally sits down to play, the music tends to simply pour out of him. It's not that he plays everything without effort. His rhythm and tempo fluctuate as wildly as his attention, but the resulting medleys are often more entertaining than your average recital. It gives me that wonderful mix of emotions that parents often encounter: pride for the accomplishments of their child, and a sense of missed opportunity from their own youth.
Saturday morning, after a twenty minute run through of some of his greatest hits, my son announced that he might like to take up the electric guitar. He has a buddy who is buying himself a bass, and wants to put a band together. My head swam with the possibilities of the all day jams going on in our unfinished basement. It made me proud, and a little bit sad.