Here Comes Treble: The Last Twang-O
"When a new piano is introduced into a family, it brings with it a certain excitement. There is that lovely smell of newly-finished wood; the shine of black and white keys reflecting back at themselves in the name-board when the keyboard is opened...
But what happens when the instrument reaches the end of its natural life? What do you do with a dead piano? Isabel Bradley's husband Leon came up with an unusual solution.
“Piano found at the top of Ben Nevis!” Even in South Africa it made the news headlines.
A piano, like a computer, is a wonderful thing, as long as it works. Then – well, what exactly does one do with a “dead” piano?
When a new piano is introduced into a family, it brings with it a certain excitement. There is that lovely smell of newly-finished wood; the shine of black and white keys reflecting back at themselves in the name-board when the keyboard is opened; a slight stiffness in the working, perhaps, which gradually smoothes out as the pianist begins to play; the pianist, in fact, can’t stay away – practising scales and tone exercises, then caressing the keyboard, hour after hour, day after day, with the works of Beethoven, Rachmaninoff, Chopin, Schubert, Schumann, Brahms. The piano develops on character, a mellowness of tone. It knows it is beloved, and rewards the player over many years.
One day, the pianist dies. For many years, the instrument stands, neglected. Oh, it’s dusted and polished – that beautiful woodwork is too good to allow it to deteriorate. Pot-plants, photographs and nick-knacks stand on its gleaming surfaces. Inside, the workings slowly die. The sound-board cracks, the strings begin to rust, the frame warps.
It is in the way now, standing where a gleaming new home entertainment system is wanted. It is advertised for sale. However, when the keyboard is opened and the yellowing ivory and faded ebony keys are once more played, that once-glorious instrument sounds tinny, and out of tune. A piano-tuner is called in to set things to rights. He tunes it, takes the money and goes. A week later, the poor instrument is tinny and out of tune once more. This time, a knowledgeable tuner is called in, at more expense. He sadly, one hand resting gently on its lid, pronounces the end of the piano’s musical life.
What is to be done with a dead piano? The tuner doesn’t want it, not even for spare parts. It’s really too heavy to cart off to the rubbish dump, or turf over a cliff. How did that piano reach the top of Ben Nevis? Someone must have been desperate to be rid of it.
When my old piano died, Leon had an idea. One Saturday afternoon, while I was practising my flute, he began to gut it. The poor old piano protested so violently, so noisily, that I packed away my flute, to sit mourning – and writing poetry:
The Last Twang-O
Strange, sad cluckings
And moans and murmurs
And reverberating roars
tear
the silent afternoon -
Sounds of a beast in pain.
As mournful twangs
And plaintive cries
Mingled with merry whistles –
(English Country Garden, no less) –
One by one, the happy hunter
Snipped
the piano’s strings.
“Thar she blows, me hearties!”
he cried
as he cut through the last –
A sad trumpet sounded
Somewhere distant
As the instrument died
With a final bellow
Vibrating its last Twang-O.
A piano goes slowly to death
Like a swan
Singing its song.
There, at last, it lay,
Brave hunter’s prey
Distinctly dead -
Piles of ivory and ebony and lead.
After tearing out the strings, Leon painstakingly sawed the cast-iron frame into almost-manageable pieces, which he and I lugged away with the application of huge effort and energy. Each link from keys to hammers, each hammer, each tuning rod, was removed.
Another weekend of work, of fitting mirrors, shelf-hooks, glass shelves, hinges and handles, and our new storage space was ready. That old piano has served for six years as the cabinet where our crystal glasses and bottles of hooch live. It is a good, solid, attractive piece of furniture, and when opened, the interior is beautiful. To the uninitiated, it looks just like any other piano. Certainly, it is the most unusual drinks cabinet I’ve ever seen. At social events it becomes a focus of interest. One friend said, “What sacrilege!” Others comment on what a good idea it is. Children open the keyboard, and bash away on the loose and floppy keys –then look bewildered because all they can hear is a strange thumping noise rather than the nasty jangle with which a real piano would respond.
Perhaps those who heaved their instrument to the top of the highest mountain in Britain will read this article and feel a pang of regret for a cabinet that might have been. We are delighted with our useful, dead, piano.
The “living” piano, in the music-room, awaits my accompanists’ visits eagerly, but is somehow, otherwise ignored…
Until next week, “here comes Treble!”
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