Display by Label: Serendipity

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.

link to this | comments (4) | File:  Serendipity  Oscar_Peterson  Music  Game_Theory  Art 

In 2000, a friend of mine made me a mixed tape. It was filled with great music, but the sad part is that I can't tell you what most of it was. Not because it would be wrong, or because I'd 'have to kill you' or anything like that, but because I honestly don't know. However, I can tell you now that two of my favorite songs on the tape were by Soul Coughing: Screenwriter's Blues and Circles. I know this now - the names and artist of these songs - in part because the keyboardist and sampler of Soul Coughing, Mark De Gli Antoni, wound up playing my keyboard in Mat and Emily's wedding last year. But I didn't know this information at the time he was actually playing my keyboard, nor did I know it during the six years I would periodically pick up and listen to this mixed tape. No, I only made this fortunate discovery about a week ago, and it proves my theory that, if it wants to, serendipity will find you - in spite of yourself.

But . . . I don't understand. How is it that you listened to something for six years and never knew the name of the songs nor the name of the band that played them? This is a very good question. And I completely understand your confusion. The short answer is this - and I'm letting you in on a secret here: I can sometimes be a bit of a flake. (If by 'sometimes' you mean 'frequently' and by 'bit of a' you mean 'huge.') The long answer is a little more complicated . . .

People who listen to a lot of music can generally be placed into two types: those who are organized with their collections, and those who aren't. Unfortunately, I fall into the latter. My collection of music is spread out over my apartment in several different locations. There is no formal classification system, by artist, title, genre or otherwise. None of that shit, brother. I don't believe in it. I am decidedly anti-organizational when it comes to music. To me, music is far too emotional to place into some sort of rational taxonomy. There is only a general sense that CDs of such-and-such a type will almost certainly be (more or less) precisely right here, unless, of course, they are exactly over there, or - if it's a leap year - they might be underneath this thing here or - wait, wait, scratch all of that, I know where they are - in the car. And CDs of this other type - well, they're probably on top of this thing over here, but if not, they're most certainly way up there somewhere, unless they're in the batch that I put over here last month. To say there's absolutely no order is not quite right, because I do have a very good sense of where they might be. It's just that I have absolutely no sense of where they certainly are. To make matters worse, a lot of the CDs I purchased from college until about three years ago no longer have their jewel cases. I threw them away during a frenzy of life-compacting I went through about five years back, where I decided I would keep all my CDs in leather-bound folios. I have since decided I'm not a fan of this approach, which kind of sucks because all those jewel cases are now gone, along with their back insert. (I did keep the front inserts, though. I'm not a complete monster.)

The lesson for you audiophiles - people like Mat or my college roommate Frank, people who really do alphabetize their music collection - is this: do not lend me your music, at least not in CD form, unless you are honestly trying to get rid of it.

But digital music files have changed everything. I now know exactly where most of my music is at all times: On my hard drive. Or my iPod. Simple. Things lacking physical form are much easier to keep track of. And the beautiful part is that music is even stored alphabetically for me, with no additional effort on my part. Now, when I purchase something, I rip it in iTunes, sync my iPod, and carefully and deliberately put the CD in a precise location in my apartment that makes perfect sense at that particular moment in time. Then I never think about it again. I might look at the insert once, but sometimes I don't even do that. (I know this is probably a sin on par with adultery to many of you, and all I can say is I'm sorry. I've got nothing in my defense except a general laziness and ambivalence when it comes to thumbing through those little brochure-like inserts.) What matters is the music. But here's the problem: because I don't often look at the CD insert, and because I always play my iPod and iTunes while engaged in other activities, and in 'shuffle' mode, I rarely know what song I'm listening to. Oh, I have a general sense of the artist's name, and maybe what album it is, but the song title, or what order it is in on the CD is completely lost on me. So in conversation I can't even refer to a song like I used to, as 'track 3' or 'the last track,' because I never listen to an album in the same order twice. Or if I do, it's not necessarily the same order that is printed on the album cover. Sure, I could simply pay attention to the track name when it comes up, but come on man, what do you want from me?

So wait a minute, what does this have to do with the mixed tape and the Soul Coughing keyboardist? Again, good question.

See, when my friend made me this mixed tape, I promptly lost the case, as well as the insert upon which she had probably written the name and artists for all the songs ( I say probably because I'm not even entirely certain she did this.) Then, a short time later, I promptly lost the friend herself. Not 'lost' like 'where did she go?' but more in a metaphysical sense, I guess. This left me with a brilliant mixed tape, which I played frequently in my office when I wanted to hear something 'different,' but on which most of the songs remained anonymous to me. Because of my personality and music-listening tendencies (as outlined above) this was only a minor nuisance to me, instead of the incredible annoyance it might have been to others. What was more of a nuisance to me was that the song which I now know to be 'Circles,' a song I really, really liked, was cut off mid-way because the tape ran out. Apparently, it had just been a 'filler' piece. Why, oh why, did she make this particular song a filler piece? What cruel joke was this? The song was so fun and groovy, and when it would cut off abruptly like that, it always left me a little on edge. But it tended to throw enough anguish and mystery into my otherwise routine day job, that I guess I kinda liked it. I would anticipate the cut-off, would feel it coming, and then it would happen: Silence followed by the horrible 'click' of the tape deck stopping. And I would feel a momentary sense of anxiety and panic, a sense that all is unfair and unjust in the world. But then the feeling would subside and somebody would send me an email concerning some mind-numbing task, and everything was back to normal. It was a momentary segue into the dramatic before dull reality would sink back in.

This pattern continued, off and on, for years. No idea that the song was called 'Circles' (though I could probably have ascertained this from the chorus) and no idea that the band was called Soul Coughing. I was blissfully ignorant. It's almost embarrassing to admit it now.

So when Mat asked me if he could borrow my keyboard for his wedding so that his friend, who happened to be the keyboardist from Soul Coughing, could play it, I was like, 'Sure!' I had a vague sense of who Soul Coughing was. I knew I'd probably heard their music before. But I couldn't really name a song. And again, as you can probably tell by now, this didn't really bother me all that much. I met Mark at the wedding, he played my keyboard, it was all good, as has been described, and that was that.

Fast forward to last week. I was checking out Mat's playlist on last.fm and noticed the song 'Circles' by Soul Coughing. I remembered this was his friend Mark's band and that he was the guy who had played my keyboard at Mat's wedding. Also, the name 'Cirlces' sounded familiar. I thought, let me check this out . . .

And here we are today. Let me just say that it's been an incredible journey and that enlightenment is an amazing thing. It's simultaneously freeing and numbing, like a Novocain high. If I knew during Mat's wedding what I know now, I would have been far more excited about Mark playing my keyboard. But it's okay. It's just peachy, in fact. Knowledge tends to happen at it's own pace, and I'm okay with that. In the end, it's good to know that, eventually, things will come full circle.

link to this | comments (10) | File:  Music  Friends  Serendipity