My Month in Japan: Part 2

Day 3: Shinjuku Metropolitan Building

This blogpost is part of a continuing blog series called My Month in Japan. Read the last article here.

Two grey towers, joint at the midsection, loom over the city of Tokyo. The Tokyo Metropolitan Government Building (Tokyo-to-Chousha, 東京都庁舎) is the second-tallest building in Japan, and serves as the center of governance for the city of Tokyo. At the top of either towers is an observation deck; in the Southern Tower’s deck, there is a spotted black-and-yellow grand piano, designed by Yayoi Kusama (草間 彌生). It was there that I found myself, on the third day of my trip in Japan, sweating my eyes out. 

In case you haven’t already guessed, our second excursion as part of the AYUSA program was to the Metropolitan Building. After a half-an-hour long train ride and a quick stop at the コンビニ (Convenience store) for some ice-cream, we found ourselves as its entrance. To be honest, it was one of the few things on this trip I hadn’t been all too excited about. After all, it sounded so… official. But, per usual, I was pleasantly surprised. I had had no idea there would be an observation deck (let alone a piano, but we’ll get to that in a few… don’t you worry…), and the view out of it was just gorgeous. It was like we were flying over Japan again, but with the added benefit of being able to soak it in, for as long as we’d like. (Or, at least, as long as our chaperones kept us there!) 

The clock struck two o’clock when the first piano notes filled the air. I turned to look over my shoulder in surprise, excitement building. Of course, the bright yellow piano was impossible to miss when we had stepped onto the deck, but I hadn’t realized anyone could play it. Then, candidly, I spent the next solid half an hour pacing back and forth between the glass walls, gazing out onto the skyline and working up my nerve. I wanted to play. I needed to play. I had seen so many videos online of people playing at public pianos, creating little pockets of joy on the streets and in bars and in museums. Ever since I’d picked up the piano again four years ago, I’d always wanted that to be me. And here was my chance, not thirty feet in front of me.

But there was a catch. I had memorized only one piece fully, from beginning to end: the Moonlight Sonata. And I hadn’t seriously practised the Moonlight Sonata in months: my last few pieces had all been accompaniment pieces for my school’s orchestra, band, and choir. I knew I’d be rusty if I tried to play it. Still, a small part of me hoped that, once I set myself behind the keys, muscle memory would see me brute-force my way through the six-minute piece. I took a deep breath, curtly nodded to myself, and stepped into the line. 

The longer I waited, the more my nerves spiked. I couldn’t help it. Each new performer before me drew in a bigger and bigger crowd from the growing group of people in the Southern Obsevation Deck. I swallowed hard as the man two ahead of me executed one of Chopin’s Etudes with perfection. It was a gorgeous performance; he could’ve easily been a professional, with the way his hands danced gracefully across the keys with time and expression. After that, it would be embarrassing if I couldn’t manage a bit of Beethoven. The person after me in line was a young kid; like me, he was a bundle of nerves, but even he was able to push through his rendition of a tune from Super Smash Bros. It quite cute, and certainly eased the pressure just a bit. 

But it all swelled again as I realized it was final my turn, and stepped across the threshold. I sucked in another deep breath, sat down in front of the piano, and started to play. 

And…it started well! To my surprise, the initial arpeggios came out just as I had hoped; in fact, it sounded better than it had at times in practice. I broke into a smile. Perhaps it would all work out in the end. The clouds in my head cleared as I let muscle memory take its course, my hands leaping from upper-octave chord strikes to quick arpeggios across the lower half of the piano. But as I completed the first set of arpeggios, I felt my heart suddenly sink. In all my anxiety, I had started the piece way too fast — about double the regular tempo I would play it. This was fine for the first section of the piece, but to manage this tempo the whole way through would take a miracle. I would have to drastically slow down heading into the Alberti bass section.  And then, as I contemplated how to approach this, the worst of my fears came true.

I blanked. 

I had been so distracted by my concerns with the tempo that I had forgotten to transition into the next section of the piece. As a result, my muscle memory broke; I couldn’t conjure the notes from pure memory without the sheet music. 

I still tried, of course. I even restarted the piece in an attempt to get back into the flow. But my concentration was broken. I stood up and gave a bow to the crowd ahead of me, who applauded courteously.「ありがとうございます。ごめんなさい！」I told them; Thank you. I’m sorry.

As I walked away from the piano, arms crossed tightly, I focused on one key fact: I would’ve been far more upset if I hadn’t of at least tried. You can’t be perfect all the time. It’s a platitude, to be sure, the idea that it’s better to have tried and failed than to have given up in the first place. And yeah, it sucked, in the moment. I was quite disappointed with myself, and with reason. But I knew that, the moment I got back to the US, I’d have the chance to hit the piano again. To keep practicing. To iron out the kinks that had led me to falter. I’d come back stronger, better. Someday, I’ll come back to the Tokyo Metropolitan Government Building. And I’ll finish that piece.

Despite the embarrassment, I made good memories that day. The Tokyo skyline is as beautiful as it is expansive. I repeat this because it is the overwhelming truth: the city feels so big, so full of excitement and possibility.

I was also able to be a small part of a beautiful tradition in the deck, even if it didn’t go quite as I’d hoped. The piano was put in place as a symbol of the connectivity of music between those from entirely different parts of the world. And I could really see how it was, after watching and being part of the set of performances on it that day. After all, both the Japanese man just before me and I had played classical music not five minutes apart from one another — for however short of a time. Knowing that made me happy. I’ve never formally met him, nor will we likely ever cross paths again, but for that brief moment I was able to listen to him play, to that beautiful rendition of Chopin. It’s interesting how, worlds away, so much can be the same.