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I am a Los Angeles-based twentysomething. I have a profession, and I have a secret life in music, and this blog isn't about any of that. I like Blogger because I can't read what you're thinking.

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Thursday, May 6   >>


2003 was the last year I had formal classical piano instruction. It was also the year I finally learned to really understand what it meant to play music. My final project with my teacher was Chopin's Nocturne Op. 9, No. 2:

Notice the dynamic ebb and flow. Notice the extreme sensitivity to the sustain pedal. Notice how much restraint there is. Notice the fluctuation of tempo.

More importantly, notice how freaking gorgeous it is. I've made countless women orgasm while playing this piece. It's the classical music equivalent of "SexyBack."

Upon doing some Wiki research, it turns out Chopin was a lady fan. He got so much ass. Like, Diamond Dave-levels of ass.

That's aside from the point.

To really play this piece, I had to do something I didn't have any experience in doing: tap into my emotions.

So I dug really deep into my sick soul to find sentiments worth dedicating each performance to and all I could get was:

1. Cereal
2. Sleeping in

I've gotten better at it. I just pretend Chopin's looking over me, telling me to ignore the traditionalists, and just play the hell out of those lush, crunchy chords.

I wonder if Chopin ever got a BJ in the composition process. Probably did. Lucky fuck.