by Betty Tesh

Created on: December 31, 2008

Adventures of a Church Pianist

As a small, Southern church pianist (or pee-nan-er-ist, as the locals call it) I can truly say that every Sunday brings a new musical experience. For one thing, I never know what condition the piano will be in, having to sit in an un-air-conditioned, un-heated sanctuary from Sunday night services until Wednesday night prayer meeting, and from Wednesday night until the Sunday School hour. My particular little upright Gulbranson (circa 1923) hasn't been tuned since Nixon resigned, and the keys stick at such an alarming rate that I have learned to play 3-note chords with both hands to ensure a steady progression of sound.

For this reason, my choir relies on the piano more for rhythm than melody. As long as they can hear the thump of the pedal hitting the pine floor they can be fairly sure I am at work at the keyboard. Once the thumping ends, they generally try to wrap up the "special" and turn the program over to the preacher; unless, of course, Mr. Henry (our only man) decides to swing into another chorus-at which point the choir moves on without me.

On occasion, Miss Ella Mae will accompany the choir playing her grandfather's fiddle. She may not be familiar with the special, but that's perfectly all right: Miss Ella's deaf as a door post and plays mostly "Big Rock Candy Mountain" with a smattering of "Precious Memories." We have a choir member whose duty it is to tap Miss Ella Mae on the elbow when the choir has finished singing. The only other accompaniment we have is when the Nash family brings the twins. I'm not counting when Mr. Henry's blue tick hound gets out of the lot and joins Mr. Henry in sweet harmony because, technically, being outside the church, Max is not a true accompanist.

While the congregation does a fair-to-middling job of keeping in the general vicinity of the notes printed in the hymnal, they have decided that the time signature is merely a suggestion, and the difference between a sixteenth note and a whole note are not worth attending to. I have been known to plow through the refrain and turn around again before some of them make it through the first line of the hymn. Any Sunday that we both end up within 45 seconds of each other is considered a musical achievement of the first order, and we beam at each other proudly.

As the church pianist, I am called upon to provide music for funerals and weddings, often with little notice. I remember one hastily arranged marriage ceremony where the bride and groom wanted to walk together up the aisle to the altar. The pastor asked me to play Mendelssohn's traditional wedding march ("Here comes the Bride"). As you recall, it begins with a trumpet introduction: Da-dadadada-da-da. This couple was evidently in a rush to get married, because that's all of the wedding march I got to play before they had sprinted to the altar.

Most brides these days are opting for classical country for their wedding marches, like Golden Ring by George Jones and Tammy Wynette, or Forever and Ever, Amen by Randy Travis. If there's a solo, the brides always ask Mr. Henry's wife, Ms. Edith, who is our strongest soprano, to sing Faith Hill's Breathe. Ms. Edith's rendition never fails to bring tears to somebody's eyes.

I suppose this is not what I imagined doing when I took ten years of piano lessons. I think I had dreams of playing keyboard for The Who back then. Thank goodness, I came to my senses, got an accounting degree in college, and moved back home, where I can be with the most wonderful, tone-deaf church family anyone could wish for.

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