Jazz is nowadays often considered a genre of intellectual, maybe slightly snobbish listeners with intimidating vinyl collections at home. The stereotype is similar to what we may think about classical music fans. However, being a jazz fan is much more than being idiosyncratic, and having a huge vinyl collection at home.
I’m a 23-year-old jazz enthusiast. I don’t have jazz vinyl at home and am not really arrogant about my fandom (at least, I hope not). Yet, I have a deeply ingrained love for jazz since my early childhood, that first started when my mother bought a CD called Swinging Christmas. This CD introduced me to all the great jazz stars from Ella Fitzgerald to Count Basie, from the 1920s to the 2000s. I was hooked. I urged my mom to buy me CDs with songs from the great jazz stars. I even started playing with the Swinging Christmas CD like it was a toy, scratching it until it was unplayable (many years later, we bought a new one).
One day in 2019, when I was lying in bed after a surgery, I discovered Oscar Peterson. I was bored and started listening to music on YouTube. I suddenly found Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong’s rendition of the classic Cheek To Cheek. It was on this song that I first noticed Oscar Peterson’s magical play. He accompanies Louis and Ella, but the melody he plays sometimes completely dissolves from the melody they sing. I fell in love with the beauty of his chords. They come unexpectedly, sometimes shrill, and they always swing with the beat.
The African American pianist and composer, Duke Ellington, called him the “maharaja of the keyboard,” while his friends only referred to him as “O.P.” Over the years, O.P. became my friend and companion, too. I could never meet him, because he had already died in 2008 when I was six. But it was O.P. who taught me to truly understand how jazz works. Through his music, I learned that jazz means spontaneity and improvisation. Jazz is about the enjoyment of music, and it has a lot to do with personal connection. The proof? I’m from Germany and my favorite album, Oscar Peterson: Live in Munich, was just released last year. This concert was recorded thirty years ago. At that time, O.P. was almost seventy (he would have turned 100 this year). The album’s release was thus a small jubilee, one could say. The early 1990s were not a good time for O.P.. In 1993, he suffered a stroke that affected his left hand and led to a one-year retirement. Depression followed, but in 1994, he returned and started a tour in Europe with a detour in Munich.
On Live in Munich, we hear a slowly flowing “Love Ballad,” the calm sound of “Night Life,” and a “Gentle Waltz” (all his own compositions). After all, O.P. wasn’t “only” a pianist but also a stunning composer who loved epic and ingenious themes. He admired classical musicians such as Bach and Chopin, and he even composed entire piano suites. On this album, O.P. plays with absolute perfection, even though his left hand is weaker from the stroke. He is accompanied by three musicians who play guitar, drums, and bass. The pieces are quite long, sometimes up to nine minutes. This is not unusual for jazz, especially during concerts, when the musicians improvise together or play solos. But the deep beauty the four musicians integrate in his songs makes you forget everything around you.
Often O.P.’s interpretations, hands running up and down the keyboard, sounds so different from the melody that it makes it seem like he is on a rocket takin off for space. “Satin Doll,” for example, almost explodes with energy and verve. For me, it sparks the same feeling as when I want to go dancing on a dance floor. You can’t resist the vivid piano melody. It vibrates; it has such a strong beat that the walls start to shake. It could perhaps even be a rock song. The guitar solo is not far away from it. My heart stops for a moment every time the four musicians abruptly make a pause to emphasize O.P.’s powerful following chords. As you listen, you start to realize that you couldn’t be more alive, and you wish that you had had the opportunity to have sat in that first row thirty years ago. You can’t sit still. You have to clap with your hands or tap your feet on the floor.
One of my favorites on this album is “City Lights.” It is a calm waltz that makes you feel O.P.’s passion when he gently forms his melodies. It somehow harks back to one of O.P’s earlier compositions from the 1960s, “Wheatland,” a charming and peaceful homage to the Canadian countryside. As a proud African Canadian, he would dedicate two entire albums to Canada. He composed “City Lights” in 1977 as a dedication to his hometown, Toronto. I often listen to “City Lights” when I stroll through the streets of Berlin in the evening. I see all the streetlights, the cars, and the brightened buildings in the dark, and in my heart, I have a soft feeling of warmness. It is my friend O.P.’s warm “City Lights” that accompanies me through the night.
“City Lights” begins with small, quiet tones on the piano that become louder during his improvisation. But only slightly. You can notice that his right hand does most of the work. But when the left hand announces a change of key by walking up the keyboard, you feel that OP’s spirit was never lost—no matter if a stroke or a hard year affected him. Peterson passed away in 2008, but his music will always linger on. On Live in Munich, he produced deep beauty and dreams in his pieces. Dreams for everyone that will forever exist.
by Luis Pintak
