We
were waiting in a television studio for Oscar #Peterson to show up to play the
piano in Palle #Mikkelborg's suite. One hour into our rehearsal Oscar's nephew
arrived. Large, dark, and imposing, the young man looked so much like a
mini-Oscar that you almost suspected the gods of acclimating us slowly to
greatness. He had come to inspect the facilities, the piano, the bench, the
lighting. The nephew spoke a while with the cameramen and lighting crew and
seemed to reach small agreements with them. Finding everything in order he
called to have his uncle sent on in, and indeed fifteen minutes later the real
Oscar walked in.
He
was a huge man, garbed, nay packaged in a tremendous light suit. Around one of
the middle fingers of his right hand he had a massive bandage wrapped many
times in gauze and tape. The whole backing orchestra gasped at the sight of it.
With that bandage how could Mr. Peterson ever explode into the lightning runs
that were his trademark?
We
had not counted on the pride and dignity of the man. He sat down immediately at
the piano and, as the great white finger glided bumpily along the wall
above the keys, he shot off one incredible phrase after another. If you looked
away you could not hear that he was playing with nine fingers and a white telephone
pole.
Palle
Mikkelborg who is both a great musician and a humble man approached Mr.
Peterson politely with a ballad written on sheet music. Apparently it had just been
composed. Oscar Peterson took it and we accompanied him on a trial run with
Palle conducting.
After
the run-through a cameraman approached Mr. Petersen. Could he possibly fold
down the music stand at the front of the grand piano? The producer wanted
pictures of the pianist's face taken across the length of the piano, strings
and all.
I
had grown up with stories of the little Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart playing by
heart some piece he just had heard for the first time. But I had never
experienced anything like that in real life.
Oscar
Peterson did not hesitate a moment. He took the sheet music and handed it back
to Palle who bowed, and put away the composition, which had been seen,
comprehended and memorized in one sitting by the master. When we taped the
program, Oscar Peterson played beautifully and by heart.
Just
to get the feel of the difficulty of Mr. Peterson's feat you might try right
now to retell this story. No cheating!
Let
me repeat myself: How irritating it is that greatness actually is so simple.
I
guess you know what I mean.
My book, Pieces: A Life in Eight Movements and a Prelude (WiDo Publishing) is now available.
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