NYC’s last sheet music store closes. There’s something about a sheet of music.

A sheet music store was at the center of the only time my parents called the police on me.

http://www.bbc.com/news/magazine-31758304

Just like there’s something about the physicality of holding and reading a book, as opposed to just reading words in digital form, and something special about browsing a bookstore instead of clicking Amazon or BN.com, there’s something about searching for something new to play in a sheet music store — a whole store, not just one shelf of pop singles as an afterthought next to the reeds and guitar picks.

Is that store with the music score painted on the side of it still alive in Minneapolis? My piano teacher used to go on junkets to buy all of our music there, and for each of us she’d bring back something she thought we’d like, or that would challenge us. Along with structured, classical era things that used a large portion of the keyboard and had the contrast of big, loud chords and delicate plinkie plinkie parts (she said I was the only girl she’d ever taught who took double forte seriously and relished the big bass clef rumbles) she would, to little avail, bring me FingerPower and Etudes designed to improve my technique. She also brought me fun pop and rock stuff to learn so I could show off for my friends.

It’s the early ‘80s and tween me is having mixed feelings about the upcoming weekend. Wins include going to Minneapolis, staying in a very nice hotel with a pool, and the promise of time to shop. Losses include the fact that it’s a bus junket which will be filled mostly with adults older than my parents, and the purpose of the trip is to see a live show of A Prairie Home Companion — this I privately enjoyed listening to with my mom, but I really didn’t want my friends to find out.

Imagine my delight when the trip is led by not only popular Bryant 3rd grade teacher Mrs. Boise, but also her delightful and funny husband, Mr. Boise (Aunt Mary and Uncle Jim to one of you on my friends’ list!) This made the bus trip a whole lot more fun for me, and I hope for her.

We were almost to the hotel — I swear it was only a few blocks away, when I saw it. The side of the building covered in musical notes. It was that store, from whence all good music flowed. I watched very carefully out the window to note the turns between the hotel and the store — all I had to do then was the same thing in reverse to reach the store. It couldn’t possibly take more than five, maybe ten minutes to walk, right?

My father followed my eyes and told me he didn’t think we would have time to visit this time. I couldn’t get my head around that — how ridiculous. The show was only two hours — we had about 52 extra hours to kill.

We get to the hotel, and a plan — a risky, somewhat evil plan — forms in my noggin. I’m a very strong swimmer — I ask if I can go to the pool right away. Yes, they say, but don’t go in unless someone else is in the pool area. We’re going to get settled and one of us will be down in a half hour.

I slip into my suit, then pull on my khakis and sweater over it — so clever! I pull on my sneakers and say airily, “I’ll be back in a few.”

Minneapolis at pedestrian level looks a lot different from what I saw before. Still I remembered walk, turn, turn, turn, walk, kick turn from before and head off. I did take one wrong turn, but quickly recovered. I couldn’t have lost that much time. Remember, I only have a half hour — maybe 40 minutes if I claim I went to find a bathroom or look around in the gift shop.

The smell of paper and leather and wood polish I think made me a little high, frankly, when I walked through the door. There were floors full of music. All music. Every inch. Much of it piano music or piano/guitar chords. It was even better than I imagined. The world faded away.

I remembered an incident that seemed so ancient to my preteen brain — I’m three, and my cousin, Ted, is about the age I am now. He plays the piano in his home and I sit beside him on the bench, staring in raptured bliss. It was fascinating to see up close someone hitting the keys at the right time, in the right combination, and having amazing sound come from his efforts. The adults remarked on my attention span — being able to sit for hours and listen to him practice.

Okay, that’s going a bit too far — I really don’t think Ted practiced the piano for hours. But he was really quite good for a tween with a variety of interests and pursuits, and from that time forward I did pester my parents for piano lessons.

I’d had to wait until the first grade.

I snapped to the present and realized I had probably been in the store for a while. I had covered most of the sections, and even found a couple of things to buy. There were a few people ahead of me in line but that shouldn’t delay me for too long. An issue — what to do with the purchases I made in a place I didn’t have permission to go?

Give me a break — I had very little experience with the subversive and transgressive and no sibling to help me learn (actually I have recently found out I did and do have a sibling, but just was kept from knowing him until this year, but that is a story for another day and future time; — had I known my sibling when I was young, I would have constantly insisted on visiting or on being allowed to bring him places with us as it was hard being the only kid on excursions like this).

Whoa. It’s a little dark. It was only like 1:30 in the afternoon when I left. It’s got to be, what, 4 by now? I’d better run.

There were two squad cars outside the hotel and one down the street. My first thought was that my mother had become ill and collapsed, as sometimes happened with her heart condition. I ran for the elevator. I think I heard someone ask, “Was that her?” More people were milling about the lobby area and as the elevator door closed, I felt them staring at me.

The door to our room is wide open; my father is sitting there beside my mother. A hotel doorman and another man in a suit are standing there, trying to hand her a cup of tea. Two police officers are also in the room. My mother had been crying. Hard. My chest ached and I felt worse than I had yet ever felt.

Time had been lost inside the music store — I was gone for four hours, and now it was time to get dressed and leave for the show. The officers snapped shut their notebooks and the hotel staff backed out of the room. I don’t even remember the conversation with my parents or what the consequence was — dad returned my purchases the next morning before we left.

We did get dressed, we did go to the show. The show made mom laugh, and I saw on her face that she forgave me. She had always encouraged my artistic pursuits, and I felt her pushing me into my music even more after that. She said it was clear I had an unwavering passion for it. I accomplished some things on the piano, was very much into composing in my late teens, but ultimately lacked what the young people my age who did succeed in music had: the drive to practice hours per day at the expense of other pursuits, a parent who was a music teacher or had a band or played in the symphony, and the discipline to become as good at technique as they were at expression.

Fast forward over three decades — through issues and lack of availability of practice time, I’ve lost much of my musical ability. I certainly can’t play with any virtuosity in front of people anymore. Twelve years of lessons and a decade thereafter of trying to stay with it has come to nearly nothing.

This is my advice to young musicians — if your love for music would extend to getting into trouble over it, to getting the cops involved, if music transports you to another world, put yourself into it with all you have. Maybe it will become a full time career/maybe not, but at least you’ll be able to do something to requite your love.