In 1962, other
than a few albums, Down Beat magazine
was my sole connection with the world of jazz. I purchased a subscription for
an inside view of the musicians and the music they were creating. In fact, the
following year a free Pacific Jazz recording of the Gil Evans Orchestra came
with renewal. Those faces -- Miles, Monk, Sonny, Dizzy, Bill Evans, and my hero
Oscar Peterson -- were permanent fixtures in a genre deep in superior craftsmen
and staggering artistry.
While savoring an issue of Down Beat I came across an
advertisement: "Win A Scholarship To Study With Oscar Peterson. “Blood soared
through my arteries sending a chill the length of my body. Oscar Peterson? The
fastest hands east of El Paso? The heir apparent to Art Tatum? I thought just
maybe I'd be able to watch my hero play then coax him to reveal a few secrets,
those which made him such a formidable pianist. There must be a jazz God! The
mind began to tease. All I could imagine was my thin frame looming above
Oscar's imposing presence and what seemed a 40-foot ebony grand piano with Mr.
Peterson's oversized fingers striking those chords I could never stay with long
enough to grasp the interior voices. I imagined saying on command, “Freeze!” and Oscar would pause, sustain one
fat 10-finger chord of sweet resonance, a sound I heard my hero play so many
times before on record. He'd hesitate, then invite me to slip my fingers under
his hands, time enough to commit the mysterious harmonies to manuscript.
I enlisted brother Wayne on bass and good
buddy Charlie Craig on drums, recorded a demo tape then mailed it to The
Advanced School of Contemporary Music, 21 Park Road, Toronto, ON Canada. Now, I
wasn't ignorant of Canada like most Americans. I didn't envision a large sheet
of ice transporting starving moose, forsaken trappers and disheveled penguins.
In fact, quite the contrary.
When I was 12, I'd begun collecting travel
brochures from around the world with just one lick of a three cent stamp, an
envelope and superb coaching from National
Geographic. Within months I had a box of glossy brochures from places as
distant as India and New Brunswick. Canada's landscape seemed far more
manicured than America's, like a place where Arnold Palmer could drive a golf
ball along 3000 miles of exquisite greens, from Nova Scotia to British
Columbia.
A few weeks passed before I received a
Western Union Telegram announcing I'd won a partial scholarship, half tuition
paid. I was gone after that. I envisioned shaking Mr. Peterson's hand and some
magic current passing between us that would transform my fists into flaming
fireballs.
My parents agreed to let me go, allowing
me a month-long reprieve as long as I could find lodging with other
Christian-minded individuals in Toronto. An elderly couple living at 11 Curie
Avenue off Coxwell Avenue offered to house me for a fee. Over two years I had
saved nearly $700 dollars playing the music of two Glens, Grey and Miller, with
a 16-piece dance band, mostly at Catholic dances and functions. One
hundred-twenty five went to the school, $120 for lodgings and $20 for my
wallet. The rest remained securely in my bank account for school.
When we crossed into Canada, my father
acted as if we'd entered the Twilight Zone. Cars passing at a swift tempo, and
right on red totally screwed up his sense of law. Downtown Toronto, bustling
with trolleys confused him so much, he vowed returning only long enough to
retrieve his son. My surrogate guardians resembled an English version of Andy
of Mayberry. I had my own Aunt Bea to upset. In fact, breakfast compared to
something starving crows would plug their nostrils at before downing. Orange
marmalade on toast and what looked like the half-baked yoke of alien fowl.
I was totally nervous the moment I entered
the brick house which was school, across from where the Hudson Bay Store now
resides. To me it was an address of mythic invention. This was the house where
Oscar hung -- Ray Brown, Ed Thigpen and Dizzy would drop by, a place where the
elite jazz community held the secret jazz codes to fluid articulate
improvisation. Day one, we were separated into groups, A, B, C, and D and given
a decisive ear training test. I swear, the changes went by so fast I thought I
was listening to a Shostakovich symphony. It was only when a medium tempo blues
rolled by that I began to identify the form. Oscar confessed the opening salvo
was no more than rhythm changes. Anyway, I was only 16, the next-to-youngest
body on the premises. A thorough grounding in theory earned me placement in C
group.
The next few days were given to lessons in
ear training and theory. Ray Brown and Ed Thigpen were constant company. I
became so immersed in music I'd practice eight hour days, then drag my tired
legs across town to Aunt Bea, who by now was less than enamored with my erratic
schedule. I didn't see Oscar again until the second week when this navy blue
Mercedes convertible pulls up. The only other juvenile on the premises (a
terrific drummer from Minneapolis) and I slipped out back and examined the
master's ride. We were awestruck. I'd never had seen such luxurious creamy
brown leather in an automobile before, especially in southern Indiana where
everyone drove Chevys and Fords. The interior looked to me like an expensive
item of European furniture.
When Oscar finally arrived, a lump lodged
in the pipe of my throat. I thought of all the things I wanted to say to my
hero, but stood there like petrified lumber. I thought about the hours I spent
locked to the charming harmonics he'd scripted for the West Side Story album. Those arrangements! I wanted to see the
manuscripts. More than anything, I just wanted to see where Peterson's fingers
lay when they made such glorious tones.
It wasn't long before I learned Peterson
didn't teach as much as inspire. He'd play a few passages, then speak about the
process. It did nothing to alleviate the frustration building in me. I had in
mind a visual statement, something I could see and apply. It didn't happen. His
hands were faster live than on record. What I did witness was positions. Places
where thick chords began and ended.
Classes passed much the same until I
trapped my hero in his ground floor office. I spoke earnestly of my admiration
for him and asked for other music to enlighten the heart. Oscar graciously
pulled a recording of Claire Fischer called Surging
Ahead and Junior Mance's Live at The
Village Gate for me to delve into. He said Mance played the blues like no
other and Fischer was on to something he found riveting. That was all I needed
to hear. Those few words were enough to throw me full tilt into jazz.
As the month passed I quickly ran out of
my small savings and began walking the distance to and from school. Although
trolley fare was no more than 14 cents, I spent my savings on restaurants,
something I had little experience with in my home town. I walked the barren
streets of Toronto through the folk-crazed haunts in Yorkville sipping the
occasional lemonade. A vacant parking lot across the road entertained a
barn-like structure I would soon learn was a popular jazz haunt called the
First Floor Club. Due to strict liquor laws, the fire escape of the First Floor
Club was the only vantage point I was allowed a view of the world inside a
Canadian jazz club. One glorious evening I peered through an open window for
hours watching pianist Lennie Tristano serve up what seemed to me Bach playing
jazz, on the metal staircase. Another Sunday afternoon I slipped in for a jam
session with Archie Alleyne and Kenny Baldwin only to be tossed half-way
through the opening strains of some unidentified song.
I lived and loved jazz. I also relished my
third floor private study where Ray Brown would unexpectedly invade with his
bass and try his best to confine my hands to the middle section of the
keyboard, in an effort to correct my scattershot tendencies. Brown knew I was
searching for the mysterious sounds the great one kept inside and it was only a
matter of time before I cracked the code. Brown's patience and advice paid off.
By the time I left there I was hearing intervals and harmonies I'd never
understood before.
It's been 37 years since I lived such a
carefree summer but the memories remain as vivid as daily life. I've mentioned
it to Oscar on a couple occasions and to Ray Brown, who first mumbled and then
sipped from a drink. Before I walked away he said "What did they call you
back then?" I said, "Louisville." Brown paused then said,
"I remember you, you don't look the same." I hope not. Back then I
was a borderline nerdball like most other teenage musicians, living and
breathing music and just finding my way in the big city, one that now seems
more like a village. All the same, it was a childhood dream, one fully
realized. A real hero, and a real believer.
