Yesterday I wrote:
I recognize that there are multiple facets of musicality, and I may be phenomenally wonderful at certain specific things or specific pieces.
Oscar Peterson was a giant. Superlatives are always a bit silly, but if they had to pick somebody, most listeners would say he was the most all-around technically proficient jazz pianist of the second half of the 20th century.
The second half. Because at the all-time pinnacle of the pantheon of jazz pianists, technically at the very least, sits Art Tatum (1909-1956). Fats Waller, another stupefyingly magnificent technician, once stopped playing when Tatum walked in, saying, “Ladies and gentlemen, I’m just a piano player. But tonight, God is in the house.”
When Peterson first listened to a Tatum record, he stopped playing for weeks. (This is a common reaction.) He eventually got back to it, but during one of his first US nightclub residencies, when Tatum came by to check out the young Canadian phenomenon, Peterson froze, quickly finished the song, and refused to play any more. Then, as Peterson relates:
[Tatum] told us to come by this after-hours joint and he’d see what he could do with me. I was totally frightened of this man and his tremendous talent…We went to the club, and Art told me to play. “No way,” I told him. “Forget it.” So Art told me this story about a guy he knew down in New Orleans. All he knew how to play was one chorus of the blues, and if you asked him to play some more, he’d repeat that same chorus over again. Art said he’d give anything to be able to play that chorus of the blues the way that old man played it. The message was clear: Everyone had something to say.
Such a beautiful story! And so Peterson was forever cured of his Tatum terrors. Haha no. Peterson continues:
Well, I got up to the piano and played what I’d call two of the neatest choruses of “Tea for Two” you’ve ever heard. That was all I could do. Then Art played, and it fractured me. I had nightmares of keyboards that night.
This story is precious for so many reasons. At face value, Tatum’s anecdote is brilliant, kind, loving, truth. There’s the added kick that it’s freaking Art Tatum, the greatest pianist who ever lived, telling us even he was humbled before this country piano player. And then the fact that Oscar freaking Peterson, of all people, needed the charitable affirmation and permission to be himself.
Finally, there’s the gritty realism of Peterson’s admission that even this beautiful epiphany at the feet of the master was not an instant, all-time cure-all. Apparently, some of us need to remember and meditate on this lesson repeatedly to overcome self-doubt.
Thanks for this great post, David. I find myself wondering what Peterson was thinking would happen when Tatum asked him to play. I think he was likely expecting one of two things, or maybe both: a cutting contest (common among stride pianists at that time, from what I understand) or some kind of stern lesson. He already knew he was 'no Art Tatum' (actually, with all due respect to Tatum's genius, that's a good thing), why be reminded of it again? Tatum's wonderful parable suggests that, like a good teacher of a responsible student, he was interested in finding out about and encouraging what might make Peterson different from him, since Peterson had already done his homework as a Tatum superfan.
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