The Fire In The Attic

"The Piano Sounds Like a Carnival..."

    Hello, my name is Benjamin James Spanner. I read books. All kinds of books. Tolstoy, Foer, Blake, Stephenson, Hemingway. I listen to music. Radiohead, Vampire Weekend, Dylan, Buckley, Lennon. I read interesting blogs, keep up to date on progressive social issues, and have had my foot in the door of social change. I'm culturally cool and am part of the growing electronic buzz that is my generation.
    Now what if I told you I loved Billy Joel.
    Yup, look at your face right now. I bet all the money in my pockets against all the money in your pockets that your face went from interested smile to confused twitch.
    Don't worry, you don't have to pay me, but instead do me a favor and hang with me for a couple more paragraphs.
    I grew up like most every American kid. We listen to what our Dads listen to, keep some, discard others, and have a weird attachment to the rest.  My father loved Billy, like most of the college youngsters growing up in the 1970s. They attached themselves to him as a lighthouse of emotional ballads, classic rock and roll, and the different sound a piano makes in ever-expanding world dominated by the guitar.
    From my dad's old red pickup to my 250 gig hard drive, I have everything Billy Joel has ever made. In fact, when I was a kid, it was Joel who got me started playing the piano and I know about ten of his songs by heart and can glide over the black and whites quick and fast belting out "I've seen the lights go out on Broooooaaaaddway!"
    That being said, I traveled up to Pittsburgh with my dad, the origin of my fascination with the piano man, and saw him live at the Mellon Arena. I have a weird demeanor before a concert. I don't allow myself to get too excited until the curtain goes up, so my expectations were on a strange level sitting there. I've never seen Billy live before, and that's kind of a shame considering how big a fan I am. I never got to see him for his popular River of Dreams tour, and now, approaching 60, I prepared myself for - not really a bad performance - but a one orchestrated by a more tired version of the piano player I learned and loved from studio albums and early live recordings.
    The lights were hit and a piano rose from under the stage. I could hardly make out this silhouette, a little bulkier version of pictures I've seen, seated before a massive grand piano.
    Then I heard the infamous rattling of middle C in Angry Young Man.
    I'll be honest, it's a really tough song to play. I remember in high school spending 3-4 months just trying to play the instrumental prelude to that song and even with young fingers I could never really pulled it off.
    But there he was, approaching 60, and pounding those keys harder and faster than I've ever heard through headphones or car speakers.
    He was, well, awesome.