When the music was dropped off at my house a few days ago, I was astonished at how many notes there were on each page. And how many notes there were in each measure. Ummm... sixteenth notes in most measures? And thirty-secondth notes? I was hyperventilating a little tiny bit.
(not the real piece I got, but with a similar amount of little black dots)
The boys wondered why they hadn't given me more time to practice. Funerals are usually short-notice gatherings, my dears. I practiced and practiced. Most of the time it was a four-handed duet. Or a six- or eight-handed number. I get lots of help in the music department. When I got together with the vocal soloist, I was impressed again at what a beautiful, clear voice she has. And I was depressed with how badly I still couldn't play the music. I went home and practiced more.
In desperation I begged Trent for some white-out. Then I went through the song and took out all the extra notes. There were sure a lot of notes that didn't need to be in there. Maybe the music was a Rorschach blot test gone awry. It sure looked different when I was done. Something like a Jackson Pollock painting, only just in white.
But now I could play the song... kind of. And we performed it nicely. Just don't ask me to play it again.