Steven Blier on the NYFOS@Juilliard Residency:
Day 4, January 7
A few years ago I had the brilliant inspiration to take another pianist on board to help me with the Juilliard rehearsals. We work six hours a day, seven days in a row, and in previous years I found myself morphing into a rehearsal pianist, exhausted, taking short cuts, husbanding resources, fighting for survival. By the performances, I felt as if I had nothing left—every inspiration seemed to have dried up during the process of getting the songs ready. All of this changed when Leann Osterkamp became my right-hand (and left-hand) person for the past two shows—an ace pianist and a deeply generous, caring person. When she graduated, I began to despair…until I reached out to Christopher Reynolds, a current Juilliard pianist who had done such stellar work at our Caramoor program, a year after Leann had been there.
Chris said yes, and I knew it would be smooth sailing. He’s scary-smart, quick to learn, and so responsible that I feel he’s teaching me how to be a professional. Like Leann, he showed up knowing all the songs cold, in their transposed keys. Neither he nor Leann had done huge amounts of popular music before—they’re virtuoso classical pianists “paper-trained,” as I call it. But both of them feel the beauty of the Great American Songbook, and watch me like a hawk. This is a style you learn by listening and observing and absorbing, and I’ve been charmed to see the way Chris is starting to imitate my voicings at the piano. Yesterday he even was sitting like me (I have, perforce, an unconventional way of positioning myself in the piano chair). And when 4 PM arrives, he’s there with my daily cup of tea. I’ve chosen to let myself be pampered.
Two days ago I came back from rehearsing in another room, and found that the two pianos in our rehearsal room had gotten switched. Chris approached me with a rueful expression. “I…did a really forceful glissando, I guess, and…broke a key.” “You broke a string?” No! I broke a KEY.” And he opened his palm to reveal a piece of black wood, which used to be a C# at the top of the keyboard. We pianists carry our strength in odd places, so don’t approach us in a dark alley. You’ll be sorry—remember that C#.