Several weeks ago, my piano teacher proposed an intriguing opportunity.

“They’re trying to form groups here, student bands. I think you’re at the level to do this.”

So I took a flyer.

“Gerry’s Jukebox All Stars”  — the name did not have the sexiest appeal, but I thought, yeah, this could be good…meet some musicians from Western Mass…jam…awesome. Plus, Martha made it sound like it would be good for my continued musical growth, so what the hell.

It’s been a goal since high school to improve my piano skills, but other interests have taken the forefront, putting steady practice on hold. However, in resuming lessons at twenty-eight, I’ve found that the love and desire to learn the instrument are still there. And from my first session with Martha, I could tell the match in mentorship was good. At about fifty years my senior, she has wisdom, and I have respect. More often than not, my lessons end with a showcase of her talent, as she embellishes on pieces that I can only play with block chords and a single note melody.

“See that,” she advises in her raspy alto, “That’s a swing bass…now I’m adding arpeggios…and on the right hand, you can throw in some notes from the chord. You just keep adding bit by bit.”

Martha’s fingers were made for the piano. They’re long, and her pinkies look to be permanently bent through years of practice to extend an octave and beyond. Here and there, I learn little bits of her history. She used to play all the local clubs and for the dance studios. It seems that she has lived well. Her ability to improvise, to craft standard pieces so that they’re full, is what I admire most. As something of a perfectionist in my early education, I strove to get things right. But how Martha plays, there’s not necessarily a right. There’s sounds good and not so good, or on and off, but enhancements to what’s written don’t make it wrong.

I watch in awe, knowing that this is where I can take it someday, if I give the time. In a fast world, where technology grants instant gratification in many aspects of our lives…I must embrace patience, if I hope to get there. I understand the basic concepts, the timing, the notes, the chords; but it’s making that knowledge flow through my fingers that demands the focus and repetition.

In Martha I trust, so with very little understanding of what this group will look like, I bring in my $100 for the eight weeks of practice to culminate in a one-time performance at the local Yarde Tavern in South Hadley, Mass.

“So, what’s the average age,” I casually ask Gerry at the front desk, trying to get a feel for the situation.

“You know, that’s exactly what the other players were concerned about,” he assures, “They were afraid they’d be playing with little kids… one of the guitarists is eighteen…let’s see, our second guitarist is, I think, a sophomore, and… the bassist is a freshman. John, the guy who’s running it, will be on drums.”

“Okay,” I smile to myself, knowing that I’ve just signed my life away to a child band — excuse me — a teenage band.

“Yeah, John is in, let me introduce you.”

I shake hands with the handsome instructor who I’ve seen around the shop while waiting for lessons to begin. As is oddly the norm for me in most first encounters, my attention is drawn to his hands where I notice two things right away:

1.  A honeycomb hammered silver wedding band.
2.  An abnormally long pinkie fingernail. (From city living, I understand that these are used for snorting crack. I assume that his must be for guitar picking purposes, but don’t ask.)

At this point, I’m still mentally quite reluctant – my twenty-eight year old self and three teenagers…silly. But then John hands me our first piece, CCR’s “Have You Ever Seen the Rain,” and I’m sold, immediately transported to a Virginia barbecue singalong. And then further back, to Jones Beach Theater, where REM opened their set as a midsummer’s night storm soaked the crowd. I’ve found that special songs follow me. John’s tune selection was a sign. Clearly I was on the right course in committing to the band, even though I’d be the oddball.

John relays the basics on rehearsal times before I scurry off for my lesson. I swear I hear him say he’ll shoot me an email with the details.

A week goes by and no email. I’m not too concerned. With some residual awkward feelings about my position as grandma rock, it’s not a top priority to figure out what’s going on; but at my next regularly scheduled piano rehearsal I see John, and uncomfortably force myself to ask what’s up.

“Ooh… you were expecting an email?? We had our first rehearsal Tuesday, but no worries, we’ll see you next week – 7:15, here.”

Definitely not off the hook, and missed the first practice…felt a fool, but what can you do.

The following Tuesday, I arrived on time with music in hand. Lessons were done for the night and the instruments and amps were set up for practice. Yeah, there were cords… and amps… you know, hardcore music stuff. I kept my distance from the unfamiliar sound modification device that sat at the end of the keyboard, fearing that any contact might produce some mortifying feedback, or simply cause it to explode.

The sound of silence evidenced our unique composition, before John requested name reminders from everyone. And so, I met my fellow rockers:  Austin and Joe, our two guitarists – high school boys, focused on their guitars; and Amara, our bassist, with a bit more consciousness of the world around her, who I could instantly tell was about seven hundred million times cooler than I was as a high school freshman.

And then John shockingly instructed in a mellow tone, “Okay, let’s go ahead and run through that first piece.”

WOAH. WOAH. WOAH. How about a drink first, John – some kind of warm-up?? An icebreaker?

I guess icebreakers aren’t very rock’n’roll, but I was kind of hoping we might get our feet wet with some “Mary Had a Little Lamb” before touching the real stuff.

Not John’s style. CCR, just like that.

Dive we did, and drown, I did.

Big, bold sound — a good sound — erupted from the amplifiers on John’s four-count. Dumbfounded by what I heard and the tempo, my fingers quickly became lost after the first measure.

I was schooled. One hundred percent the weakest link. Thank god I had inexperience on my side… but I’m twenty-eight, shouldn’t I just be able to do it perfectly the first time? As it turns out, age doesn’t mean shit when it comes to learning something new. Sure, I may have a mature understanding of the discipline it takes to learn, but it’s acting on that knowledge that counts (and not watching five episodes of West Wing in a row when I get home from work.)

After some explicit instruction on how the rhythm coming from the keyboard should sound for the CCR tune, I took it home. Left with a smile, but tail between my legs, determined for week 2 (week 3 for the good kids) to be better.

I studied the song, set the metronome to a quick tempo, repeated the chords and melody, played along with iTunes. I worked for the following Tuesday.

And when a week had passed, I was no longer the weakest link. My palms still sweat. I still got lost a few times, but there was improvement. I was on par with my company.

John gave us the next piece. Don’t kid John! You’re going to let us touch the Beatles?

“Okay Danielle, let’s give you the melody for the verses on this one, and Austin, you’ll take the melody on the chorus.”

Are you feeling well John? Is what I want to ask, but instead…

“Okay, sounds good, sure.”

(Sweaty palms.)

So we start working on “Eight Days A Week.” I play wrong notes all over the place, and grow a little rosier with each mistake. Calm down Lund, this will be like last time, you’ll take it home, you’ll work on it, you’ll get better.

After the first few practices, I quickly identified my biggest problem. When I missed a few notes, I would get completely lost, go into a silent panic, fall out for the rest of the song, and awkwardly sway and tap my foot to the rhythm before the other players ceased. This caused much anxiety in consideration of the performance that lay ahead.

The big goal became to get back on track, if I went astray. The more I heard the songs, the easier it became.

John has a way – a tactful way of troubleshooting that doesn’t make you feel like a complete loser when you drop the ball. He’d give mini-tutorials for each of us, play the parts, and target the rough spots. He was the puzzle-master. He knew how to put it all together.

“I need more bass, yeah, gotta have a lot of bass there. Austin, you’ve really gotta come in strong with the guitar for the chorus. Hmm, Danielle, how bout just playing chords at the start of each measure — there’s going to be a lot going on and we don’t want it to get too crazy.”

I didn’t want John to go easy on me because I was the outlier…because of my matronly status. I don’t think he did. With each session I believed more and more that the pinkie nail was legitimately for guitar and not crack.

“Hmm…well…let’s just play it and see how it sounds,” John instructed coolly, “You’ve gotta experiment with it. Just see how it sounds, and then play with it.”

Breaking from a history of getting things right the first time, this idea of fearless experimentation with the chance of total disaster, put me at ease. Why not? What’s the worst that could happen? It sounds terrible to us, we let one idea go, and move on to the next.

And so we continued to practice and experiment. Somewhere around week four, we received piece number three:  “Brown Eyed Girl.” For this one, the boys took the melody on guitar, and I relaxed with chords throughout…G…D…G…C…G…D…G…C. Following the pattern, I’d space out, thinking about work and life, and then be lost when it was time to transition to the chorus. It was generally good when the crash cymbal was directly behind my head…kept me sharp. However, straying due to missed notes or transitions or general space outs continued to be a concern.

I figured under pressure focus would be easier.

Practice continued. At about week five, Gerry who would linger during the sessions, brought it to our attention that we did not have a name.

“Alright team, we’ve got to think about this throughout the week,” I rallied, hoping to licit some inkling of personality from the group, particularly the guitar bros. Does school sedate kids nowadays? Clearly they were willing to settle for Gerry’s Jukebox All Stars – nope, not me, this would not be the name of my first band.

WEEK 6:

“Okay, I’ve got two.”

1.  John’s Class – I thought this was hip and really clever sounding, but I’m not sure my bandmates got it.

and…

2.  The ODDsemble

“Yeah,” Amara voted as the sole respondent, “I like the ODDsemble.”

No comment from the bros, and so the ODDsemble we became, though the oddsemble we always were.

It’s funny how fast eight weeks goes by. At the last rehearsal we ran through our set of three over and over again, worked on some trouble spots, and then reviewed the set once more.

“Okay guys, we’ve come a long way, call time’s at 6:20. Try not to give away the songs by playing little bits before we’re on. See you Saturday!”

“Don’t bring cash,” Gerry suggested as I proceeded to the door, “I’ll get you a drink after!!”

“Before please,” I jokingly (but seriously) implored.

And then I realized, this event was actually going to happen, but tried not to think about it for the rest of the week.

Saturday came. Time to wholeheartedly embrace the decision I had made eight weeks back, and play it like a rock star. I took a trip to the good old Holyoke Mall to spruce up my threads for the evening, opting to go White Stripes style (first big show) in a black and white pinstriped tee with red nail polish and some bright red shoes that once belonged to my grandma. I was ready.

I blasted a Boss song on repeat until I reached the tavern.

Oh crap, there are people here. My palms don’t sweat, because I look too cool. I casually walk past the outdoor seating…

“I’m with the band.”

No, I don’t really say that, but I’m thinking it for sure.

I go in, and there’s the crew, present before me, because they’re the good kids. I sit behind the piano. We’ve got a half hour till show time. The room is full. All the liquid from my body will sweat out of my hands if I don’t do something.

“You know, you don’t have to sit there,” John reminds.

“Okay, yeah.”

So I make my way over to the bar where Gerry and John stand, pondering whether or not I can order a drink, because after all I’m in a teen band.

I do some sleuthing.

“So what do you have there John?”

(Please don’t say iced tea.)

“I went for the Sam Summer.”

Score.  If the teacher can drink, so can I. (I opt not to share this precedent with my bandmates.)

“Nice, I’m more of an Octoberfest gal myself.”

“Agreed there, minus the gal bit.”

I go for the Green Monstah IPA, but cannot bring myself to say it like an easterner so uncomfortably request, “a Green Monsterrrrrrrrr, please.”

… and she cards me.

It’s nice to talk with the grownups, but then, halfway through the Monstah, it’s time.

I desperately need water, but it’s too late…

Gerry picks up the mic from my amp, which I’m no longer scared to touch.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this group started practicing eight weeks ago with nothing in common but a love for music and desire to perform with others…I give you The Oddsemble.”

John counts and we’re off!

“Have You Ever Seen the Rain”…flawless. (I can see my dad at a front table capturing it all on his iPhone, with the same enthusiasm as my high school musical days.)

“Eight Days A Week”…pretty good. I get lost for one measure when I try to coolly jump an octave for a verse, but get back on track quick!

“Brown Eyed Girl”…completely sick. The guitar bros do their thing!

And then it’s done, eight hours of practice over eight weeks boils down to ten minutes, and at the end, we’re all smiling.

“I was super nervous,” I confide to Amara.

“I just pretended nobody was there,” she tells me.

That had been my game plan too, but at twenty-eight it’s become a little harder to pretend. Perhaps expectations feel different from a few years back. But I think I can relearn how to quiet the room, accept where I’m at, acknowledge what it takes to move forward, and continue to grow.

I’ll keep doing things that scare me a little…keeps the heart beating.

ODDsemble forever.