Just the Two of Us

“This is a band. Play down.” Mr. Teolis was always eager to impose the values of orchestral musicianship: group acoustics over individual expression. Until 8th grade, my musical education had been oriented around these strict principles. But now — barely putting air through my saxophone, playing “Ye Banks and Braes” for the 100th time, hiding beneath 60 other instruments in the cramped linoleum classroom — I was getting bored. What could musicianship look like outside of these restraints? How could I make music feel free again?

That Christmas, a Yamaha keyboard found itself under my tree. These 88 keys would ultimately unlock the incommodious handcuffs of my regulated musicianship. Unlike most instruments, the piano was polyphonic, crafted for solo performance. Now, I could be a full orchestra all by myself, empowering a new musical individualism. I wouldn’t even take lessons. Instead, I would teach myself.

The first song I tried was Bill Withers’ Just the Two of Us. I practiced religiously, and with my jazz saxophone experience, the syncopated rhythms came intuitively. But with the piece demanding improvisation, my experience had limited use. I cycled through YouTube tutorials, phone a centimeter from my disoriented eyes, failing to discern what fingers were playing which keys. By New Year’s, I had unplugged the keyboard, thrown it back in the box, and printed the return tag. I was done.

My brother stopped me steps from FedEx, challenging me to persist. I calmed down: after four years learning one instrument, the piano’s demands weren’t really surprising. Still, I worried my determination to study independently was short-sighted. The dynamic licks of Ray Charles, Herbie Hancock, and Dave Brubeck raced through my mind. All three of these melodic revolutionaries had piano teachers. Who was I to succeed without one?

I remembered the linoleum classroom and reignited my mission. I couldn’t get by just memorizing notes on my own. I had to intimately understand all the complexities, theory, and practice. This project still offered exciting possibilities.

I set the uneven piano bench back up and plugged the keyboard back in. Compensating for my learning curve, I discovered an Alex-specific technique: “button mashing.” Put simply, I’d play any note with my right hand while my left carried the primary chords. This unexpectedly led me to five keys that sounded good above almost every progression. I had magically unearthed the power of the pentatonic scale. This organic discovery alone vindicated my experiments.

But, back at school, surrounded by the high-level instrumentalists from Mr. Teolis’ concert band, my discoveries felt insignificant. I tried to jam with them on the classroom piano, but my five-note shortcut was no match for their chromaticisms and non-diatonic key changes. I sounded like a child in a room full of adults. I felt like a child, too. No mature person would delude themselves into taking my unstructured ventures seriously. 

I was finally, conclusively, done. But then — COVID struck. With isolation guaranteed, band rehearsals were no longer possible. The structured musical environment I begrudgingly respected was gone. My monophonic tenor saxophone embodied loneliness. 

That’s when my family purchased a piano, placing it right behind the first-floor windows. I remembered my original dream: creating a full orchestra with two hands. Hesitant, but resolute, I sat down on the new leather seat and started playing again. As lockdown dragged on, I even opened the windows, performing for the masked neighbors walking by. In an infinitely separated world, this was our only way to connect. What’s more, people were really enjoying it. By the summer, I had a small fan base, regularly strolling by to listen to me play.

It was never about individual expression versus external structure. In music and beyond, true understanding lies somewhere in between. And, returning to Mr. Teolis’ class this Fall, I was certain my exploration was successful. For the first time in years, music finally felt free.