‘Burning a piano is strange, beautiful and mesmerising’

[Gordon Brown]

Who'd-a thunk it?

Today's Times: Annea Lockwood: 'Burning a piano is strange, beautiful and mesmerising.' The 84 year old experimental composer made her name by recording the sounds of the instrument as it was consumed by flames.

The art form even has its own Wikipedia entry. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Piano_burning

[Lonewolf_50]

Having played piano for a few years, I find this to be both profligate and wasteful.
But I guess it's "art" for the artistes. :p

[MPN11]

Indeed a popular activity!

At Watton the road loop in front of the Mess entrance was studded with molten lead droplets from the incinerated internals. Knackered pianos for £5 were easily obtainable.

[Deep Throat]

Having played piano for a few years, I find this to be both profligate and wasteful.
But I guess it's "art" for the artistes. :p

There some **** old pianos about

[MechEngr]

A buddy worked at a company that took over a former piano sales store. They shoved the remaining abandoned pianos off the second floor into the dumpsters (tips?) as the trouble to sell them exceeded the price they would get.

[cynicalint]

I inherited my Grandfather's piano. He had bought it on hire-purchase from his miners pay over many years. He was an accomplished musician and I had so many memories of sitting around with him playing the piano. However, so many moves in the RAF rendered the piano untuneable; prior to a move to Germany in 1995, I donated the piano to one of the messes at Brampton which was closing down. To my eternal regret, I never saw it burn and wish I had kept the Middle C Key as a keepsake. But... the closing down shindig was, by all accounts, wonderful!

[Ninthace]

I was present at a dining in night at Brüggen where a piano came to a glorious fiery end, having been presented for that purpose. The blaze got a bit fierce, on account of the liberal application lighter fluid, so it was kicked down the steps onto the Mess lawn. At that point, it became apparent that the donor had hidden a thunderflash or two inside, as it went off with a bang, blowing a chunk out of the steps as it went. The chunk managed to hit the only sober officer present under the chin - me (I was SDO).

[langleybaston]

now as to burning bagpipes ..............................

[artee]

now as to burning bagpipes ..............................
That's a public service...

[cavuman1]

My father, a gifted man in so many fields of endeavor, was an expert pianist. One could whistle a few measures of a tune and, moments later, Dad could and would play a symphonic rendition! We had an old tinkly pink upright in our breakfast room. Our canary resided in a generously-sized cage atop this instrument; he would sing along with my father's honky-tonk renditions of Gershwin, Jerry Lee Lewis, Jo Ann Castle, et al.

Our living room housed one of my father's most-beloved treasures: a Chickering concert grand. She was an immensely beautiful and spectacularly-crafted piece of furniture who issued sounds so sonorous and euphonious that angels would weep in joyous celebration. Her keyboard action was far superior to that of Steinway and Yamaha - crisp, but oh so very gentle, effortless, and precise.

When I was a child, my parents' cocktail parties would always wind up with a crowd gathered 'round that fine instrument, with a spectacular man at the helm. They would all sing; sometimes even in tune. When they went home in the early hours, Dad would become Brahms, Beethoven, and Bach. His playing would lull me into a deep and comfortable sleep. Music doth have charms to soothe the savage breast! Then it was morning. On lucky days, time for canary/honky-tonk piano song.

That fine man, who imbued me with kindness and goodness and respect and a sense of right and laughter also found the time to teach me to play "The Chickering." I clearly remember watching in awe, as his long fingers danced delicately and precisely over that brilliant white ivory keyboard. He would reach into the piano bench and extract sheet music from Germany, published in the 1850's, and play it flawlessly. Then he would place the scales and elementary tablature from my piano teacher on the exquisitely carved stand. He would show me how to play, guiding my fingers. Encouraging. He would place his strong left arm around my child-shoulders and pat me on the back as I progressed. We got into duets. Clinkers or not, he would always give me a hug afterwards. Then he taught me the rudiments and then the finer points of blues and classical music. I evolved into a pretty good ivory-tickler!

Too soon - a half-century ago - this man was gone. He built aircraft carriers, ran the casualty side of the largest insurance company on the planet, fathered four children (three of whom perished from Tetrology of Fallot before their third birthday), was the head of the Vestry in the largest Episcopal church in the U.S. east of the Mississippi, a loving and caring husband and an amazing father. More than 3,000 attended his funeral.

When I was seven, my mother was expecting her fourth child. Her OB-GYN team had advised her to terminate that pregnancy in consideration of the fatal gene which she and my father carried (TOF). Being young and curious, when my mother came into my bedroom one evening to "scratch, tickle, and rub" my back while she sang me The Tennessee Waltz, I asked her in all childhood innocence: "Mommy, did I come out of you?" There was a brief silence, then she said: "Edward, let me get your father."

They came in together, and sat on my bedside. Mother stroked my blond hair off of my forehead while Dad patted my hand. Mom said: "No, son, you did not 'come out of me'". Dad said: "Son, we were so lucky! We got to choose you!" What might have been the most traumatic event of my life became one of the most comforting.

When Dad died in 1975, I could not find tears. How could I endure life without him? I hurt so much! Three weeks after my father's funeral, I walked into my parent's home to see how mother was faring. She was in the library, yakking on the 'phone (comme d'habitude.) I turned right and walked into the living room. There, framed by a large bay window and illuminated by soft crepuscular light of an Atlanta winter, stood "The Chickering". I opened her top, braced it, and sat down on the comfortable bench. I opened the keyboard, put my head on those brilliant white ivory keys. I sobbed inconsolably.

That wonderful piano is gone now, given to a friend who is a very gifted pianist. My hands are almost gone, too, eaten up by DePuytren's Contracture and arthritis. I can deal with those losses, but not the loss of the most amazing man I have ever known. How fortunate I am to have been chosen!

I shall never burn a piano nor those immensely special memories!

- Ed


https://cimg2.ibsrv.net/gimg/pprune.org-vbulletin/200x200/chickering_3_12e5af89166850edfac5a8c47319551a2548664f.jpg

[ShyTorque]

I once took part in a competition at RAF Upper Heyford, when it was still a nuclear bomber base, equipped with F-111s.

An upright piano had to be passed through a toilet seat. Sledge hammers were provided. The end frames take some breaking into bog sized chunks, I can tell you.

Edit: In view of the preceding post, I’m sorry I posted that.

[MechEngr]

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6Rn8jBzsg9U

The piano looks like a victim of a school funding cut. At least it didn't suffer too long.

Another, this with a bit more loft and range.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hZxCEkGk6HI

Also related - TV show piano flinging:
https://www.reddit.com/r/northernexposure/comments/e59kzi/til_the_fling_thing_trebuchet_was_built/

[Fly3]

It was quite normal to burn pianos when naval bases were closing. Most were donated for that purpose. On Ark Royal in 1978 however, the wardroom piano could not be set alight onboard, and so it was ceremoniously fired off one of the catapults to a watery grave.