It was fitting that I was in Montréal the day Oscar Peterson died. It's weird, because I've actually discovered a number of interesting parallels between my life and the life of my favorite piano player. Of course, there's the obvious one in that we both loved the piano. (Though there is an entire universe of difference between what he heard and produced with that instrument and what I hear and produce with it.) But here are a few other similarities: Peterson was born and got his start in Montréal, which is a city that, for an entirely unrelated set of reasons, has become dear to my heart in the last 10 years. Peterson's birthday was the same as my mom's (though he was many years her senior.) He lived the latter part of his life in Mississauga, Ontario which is where C was born. He had a life-long interest in photography (Quicktime Movie). And get this, he was a freakin' blogger, which is something I only recently discovered. How cool is that?

And you might say: Come on Dave, these are just coincidences. Millions of people, for one reason or another, love Montréal. And so what if he had the same birthday as your mom. Or that he blogged. A lot of people blog these days. A lot of people enjoy photography. Don't you think it's a stretch to call these things "life parallels?"

Well, maybe . . . okay, okay . . . probably. I mean, yes, I hear what you're saying. But I've always believed there are no coincidences in life. That lives cross, planets align, systems spin . . . because they were meant to. And if given the chance, things will ultimately come full circle. But this post isn't about all that . . . well, not outwardly, anyway . . . though, in a way, I kind of think . . . well, isn't every post about that in one way or another? Okay. Sorry. Enough.

Let's focus on the important thing here: Oscar Peterson. He was quite probably the best jazz pianist, hell the best pianist period in our lifetime. And perhaps ever. And I know . . . this is a whole lot of hyperbole I'm throwing out. I mean, this kind of thing is subjective, after all. Isn't it? Calling an artist or musician "the best" is like an Italian kid calling his grandmother's meatballs "the best." One day that kid realizes that every other Italian kid he meets thinks their grandmother's meatballs are "the best." There are definitely people out there who are not crazy about OP's style. They think, perhaps, that he played "too many notes." This is a criticism which I think is crazy, by the way. I do happen to think there are jazz pianists out there who play too many notes. But that's only because they're the wrong fucking notes. When the notes being played are all the right notes at all the right times, there can't be too many of them. It doesn't make sense. It's like somebody complaining that there are too many gorgeous women in skimpy two-pieces at the beach. What are you saying? Do we speak the same language? Sorry . . . I tend to get emotional about this stuff. I will just have to concede that not everybody loves OP's style. But I think you'll find that, even among OP's critics, there isn't too much debate about his reign as a technical virtuoso on the keys. And when you add that technical expertise to his impeccable sense of rhythm and his natural talent for improvisation, which he always seemed to make sound more like an "instant composition" (his words) than some random, conceptual mixture of scales, what you wind up with is somebody more akin to a modern-day Beethoven then perhaps any other pianist/composer since his time. There. I said it. You disagree? What, you think your grandmother makes better meatballs than mine, too? Okay, that's fine. It's just that, unfortunately, you're wrong. On both fronts. But that's okay. Really. Don't feel bad. We can't all be right about everything. There's plenty I've been wrong about as well. Just read my archives.

For the record, I had several false starts in writing this post. For one thing, I didn't want the tone to be too heavy or somber. It's sad news that Oscar Peterson died, but he was 82, after all, and I kind of think he wouldn't want people drowning in tears or anything. His music was celebratory. The other problem I had getting this post off the ground was that each time I wound up going off on this conceptual, academic-sounding tangent about improvisation and competition in jazz music. About how all great art comes from these elements and Peterson is a prime example of that. About how, in Peterson's words, improvisation and one-upmanship allows "moments of great beauty to emerge." And this is all great stuff, to me. I kind of love talking theory when it comes to art and the creative process. And believe me, I'll definitely find ways to work this stuff into future riffs (and do it in a way that hopefully does not induce sleep or glazed eyes). But for this riff here it seems less important to dwell on that stuff (even though I just did — damn I need an editor) when what I really want to talk about is Peterson's music, and the great effect it had on me over the years, and how yeah it's sad he's gone, but how wonderful it is that his music will stay with us indefinitely, and how lucky we are that we live in an age where all of those many improvisations are recorded for history, unlike with Beethoven, who's stuff only survives on the page.

I figured the best contribution I could make to the fray of voices out there on blogs who are all writing about Peterson's death and what it means to them and to the world of music would be to simply describe why I liked his playing so much, and why it had the effect on me it did. And that seems easy at first. But it's not. The problem is that it's always difficult to describe why art appeals to you, or to explain the emotional response you get from a certain artist, or "art object" or performance. It usually boils down to some version of "I like it." That's really as far as you can go with the thing, because you can't "implant" the feeling in somebody else. You get a little closer to being able to describe it when you find other people who appreciate the same piece of art. Then, you have a shared language with them. Or rather, the communication doesn't rely so much on the language. And you get that affirmation. That conversation might go something like this: "Shit. Do you hear that?" And the response: "I hear it. It's good." Ah, sweet validation.

The best way I've found to describe that moment when a piece of art hits you in all the right ways is to say it's like I'm catching glimpses of God. Now, I'm not particularly religious. I mean, don't get me wrong, I do have a "spiritual side." But I haven't managed to consistently dedicate myself to going to church or anything. I've just never felt that going to church and "practicing" religion would necessarily make me any more liked or disliked by what I believe to be a benevolent God. I can't imagine that an all-knowing, all-seeing Being would be that petty. And if God isn't benevolent? If he's all brimstone and damnation? Well, I guess I wouldn't necessarily want to be loved by that kind of God, anyway. I like to think God is the type of God that would just show up at your door one day with a really cool object and just be like, "Hey man, take a look at this thing I brought you. Isn't it fucking amazing? I'm partly responsible for it existing, you know. Don't forget it, brother." And what I can tell you — and it would be the truth — is that when I listen to Oscar Peterson, I believe I'm running into this kind of God. Because I can't imagine any other way those sounds could be produced other than through some divine communion. And when it happens, when I'm witness to this kind of thing, my reaction is usually a combination of wanting to laugh and cry at the same time. And my heart races a little bit. And it's hard to breathe. And for a moment I think there can't possible be anything better in the world than this right here. And yeah man, I hear it. I won't forget.

So there it is. And instead of talking about it at any more length, I'm just going to point to a couple of my favorite Oscar Peterson recordings. The first I happened to find video for on YouTube, which is very lucky and convenient. Hopefully it'll stay up there for at least the next couple of weeks or so. It's a recording of "You Look Good to Me" and it's from a session he did at the Montreux Jazz Festival in '77. There are two great Oscar Peterson live recordings that came out of the festival that year. One is titled, simply, The Oscar Peterson Jam. In this one, he's joined by Neils Orsted Pedersen on bass, Bobby Durham on drums, Dizzy Gillespie and Clark Terry on trumpets, and Eddie "Lockjaw" Davis on tenor sax. It is an unbelievable session. The other is titled The Bassists, and it's just Peterson playing with the two bassists he played with most often in his career: Ray Brown and Niels Orsted Pedersen. The clip below is from that session and it's great to watch because it really cuts to the heart of what I love about jazz — the tension between the two types of games being played here, one of just having fun and "getting high," the other a good natured competition propelling things forward. Watch their expressions. The sweat. The casual trade off of licks. (If you've got headphones, plug 'em in.)



The other recording I wanted to share is one I couldn't find already online anywhere, so I'm putting it on my server. It's the first time I've posted music on my site and it could prove to be a bad idea. But I love the track and had to include it in this post. This track plays like a story to me. And just for the record, if anybody out there with an expensive lawyer ever wants me to take this recording down, I'd be more than happy to do so. Just let me know. :-). The track is called "Peace for South Africa." It's a bluesy ballad Peterson himself wrote. This performance was recorded during the "Live at the Blue Note" series he did with Ray Brown, Bobby Durham, and Herb Ellis in 1990. I highly recommend any of the CD's from this concert series, particularly the first one, which is where this recording comes from (note: if you're in a Feed Reader, you may have to click through to the post to listen):


A few years after this concert, Peterson suffered a stroke which laid him up for a couple of years. But eventually, even with limited hand strength, he still continued to play shows in the late 90's and early 2000's. Peterson died of kidney failure on December 23rd, 2007. He was 82. Thank you, Mr. Peterson for your music. And I hope wherever you are you're still jamming, and catching your own brief glimpses of God.

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