Unsent Letter to Rosanne Hammer

Yesterday I sent a txt to Roseanne Hammer – god DAMN it, I don't think I've spelled her name right there, that's going to dilute the soothing catharsis of this post a little. Rosanne was my piano teacher from year 8 when I was thirteen, until my enthusiasm and work ethic petered out around the age of nineteen. She wrote back immediately.

I sent her a text (why the fuck did I spell it, 'txt' before? What a fuckhead...) about a year ago simply asking “hey is this rosanne? [SIC]” and she replied then as well: apparently my name came up as 'Legend' in her address book. Legendary. I didn't respond to that message until last night, but the day that happened I wrote her name on a piece of card in my room which I stuck to the wall to remind me to formulate some sort of reply to her at a later date. That card was subsequently moved from the wall to my table where it has occupied an increasingly subordinate place amongst my heaping piles of random paper scraps during the last year, but I never threw it out.

I don't know why it was such a big deal for me to even write that text... a little over a year ago I wrote a piece called “I Used to Play Piano” which was about my gradual acceptance of the fact that I could no longer truly call myself a 'pianist' because I had lapsed into a state where I no longer remembered how to play most if not all of my old repertoire. Somehow the muscle memory of those chords and scales remains to an extent, and of that I am grateful. Roseanne was a hugely important figure for me during my tumultuous formative years though – I use the word 'formative' here like they are done... wishful thinking maybe? – our lessons provided emotional stability for me as well as a sense of direction as I worked towards various goals she set for me in my musical development. She fought battles with me, and in some cases for me, against the evil Jazz Department, and she was always in my corner, even though my prejudices must have seemed frustratingly arbitrary to her at the time.

I don't remember a huge amount from 2009 – at least not the day-to-day details, although I do have a fairly structured sense of the over-arching narrative of that period. I do remember though that in that year I had a bunch of piano lessons, and I don't think they were ever paid for. I don't think Rosanne ever even mentioned the money... or maybe my mum paid it without telling me? I'd say she knew where things were headed though. Half-guilty memories of time spent drifting off course.

This is the message I sent her last night:

“Hey rosanne! I really messed up replying to your msg a year or so ago huh? Haha I'm living in melbourne atm and have been since july last year, I dropped out of uni and im a sand up comic! HAHA! Doing my mother proud :p I do 4-5 gigs a week and m currently writing a 50 min show to take to a few festivals next year including the adelaide fringe so if you want you can come and see me although the writing process is hard and I'm not sure yet if the show will be any good haha

The reason I thought to txt you tonight though is I just finished playing piano in front of an audience for the first time since playing in your front room in adelaide and it was an amazing buzz, I played a shit version of a jack johnson song and then emaline by ben folds, but it was crazy because obviously ive learny so much about stagecraft and holding an audience that I never learned playing music so it was a totally different experience haha

I hope you're doing well... If you want to chat hit me up on email crazhore@gmail.com (hah!)
Aidan”

She replied, and I guess that means I have one more audience member for Adelaide next year (this was all a cunning marketing ploy... now to mine my past for other influential figures to spruik to). I'm pretty sure her name is actually spelled 'Rosanne'. I just fucked up at the start. What an idiot. Thanks Rosanne, that's all I'm trying to say here.

Peace, Taco.