22 seconds can take a lifetime

I am not someone who makes snap decisions and does spontaneous, stupid, ridiculous things. Oh no.
 
I do stupid, ridiculous things that require planning. Things that need time, effort and involve the most infuriating early 80s disco funk that is now so far lodged into my brain that I’m pretty sure my inner child has an afro.
 
I should explain. I’ve been attempting to learn how to play the 22 second piano solo from the Pointer Sisters wedding-dance floor classic, "I’m So Excited". There are three very important words you should know about this challenge: Not. A. Joke.
 
My stand up show this year is all about solos, so I thought it fitting that I attempt one to experience the potential of solo glory or the hideous, hideous personal defeat.
 
I understand that in the scheme of things, it might not sound like much. 22 seconds? I sometimes sneeze longer than that. But to a non-musical, un-coordinated, easily distracted person with gammy hands like myself, I might as well have tried to get a bowl of porridge to play it. A triangle solo would have been a challenge for me.
 
If you can’t remember the solo, trust me, it’s hard. How hard? Well, I approached a very talented pianist (tee hee) friend of mine, who has written musicals and asked for help, to which he replied, "I’d love to Celia, but the thing is, I can’t play it". I’ll be honest. I weed a bit. Then some more. And I realised not only had I bitten off more than I could chew, but what I’d bitten off tasted like a bad decision.
 
For the first two months I played my newly acquired keyboard like you would chose an engagement ring. Pointing with one finger, "Oh that one looks good. Bing. What about this one up the end? Bung. No, I do prefer that first one. Bing."
 
I approached another music person (that’s what they’re called right?) Who agreed to help me out. After a while, I thought I was getting somewhere with all the piano buttons and he said, "Celia, if you keep calling them ‘buttons’ I’m going to kill you." So, I stopped calling them buttons and started calling them black and white pling plongers. Then I was on my own again. Just me, the keyboard and my furious, sleep deprived housemates.
 
My practising was like Britney actually singing in concert: in theory physically capable of doing it but it hurts your ears and you’d much rather listen to the CD. Not only was it frustrating, but it felt blasphemous. I’d often suspected that music was none of my business and on those long nights practicing, the terrible sounds I was making, the butchering of a classic, there was a booming voice screaming through my head, "Stop! There is no music any more. Celia hath murdered music!"

So did I do it? Can I do it? Isn’t that a lot of effort for 22 seconds of an hour-long show? Who knows. Only one thing is for sure. Tonight’s the night we’re going to make it happen. (I hope)