The day I played with Billie Holiday in New York (and got incredibly high during the interval)

I first met Billie Holiday in the 1950s, when I was invited to a party at Billie's apartment, which was on the second floor of a building. Ringing the doorbell from downstairs, I heard the sound of some kind of disturbance. The door opened, and I walked into the hallway, not quite sure what to expect. I found the singer's accompanist tumbling down the stairs and landing at my feet! Up above, Billie was hurling insults at him, even throwing a bottle at his head.

I was obviously stunned. But she immediately said, "Oh, it's you, darling. Don't pay any attention to him. Step over him and come ."

I headed down the stairs with trepidation, and the beautiful woman greeted me with a hug and a kiss . I remember that that evening she seemed to have taken a fancy to me, showering me with attention every time I was in her presence. She kept shouting to the others to bring me something else to drink , as soon as possible.

My nationality also seemed to arouse his curiosity, as he kept asking me questions about it: –So you come from that northern country where it's so cold , huh?

Or: –And what kind of jazz do you hear in Canada?

My place of origin fascinated her, but she never imagined that it could have any connection with the world of jazz .

Late in the evening, she suddenly came to my side, took my hand, and led me to the piano that dominated the living room. An occasion that has been seared into my memory because of the shock I felt when her hand grabbed mine. Billie Holiday had a very sweet face, and her presence was radiant; however, her hand turned out to be rough and abrasive , which made me flinch. Well, we arrived at the piano. She had me sit on the stool and sat down beside me, then looked me up and down with that penetrating gaze of hers. So close to her, I fully realized how incredibly beautiful this woman was. The texture of her skin was exquisite, and her full, well-defined lips barely moved when she spoke, so that the words escaped from the side of her mouth. Her lips simply pursed the slightest bit to produce them, which perhaps explains her way of slurring them when she sang at times. Sitting motionless while I played my version of a ballad for her, she seemed hypnotized by the movement of my hands. She rocked her head from side to side, following their movement across the keyboard; the tuft of hair on the back of her neck swished like a puppy's tail as she watched me play.

"Hey, Leonard!" he suddenly exclaimed to someone in the next room. "Come hear what this kid from Canada is doing ."

She turned to me and urged, “Play that chorus again, go on.” I did so, trying to make it sound the same, but she interrupted me.

–No, no, you left that little ornament from before . Play it for me, please.

I tried to rewrite the chorus to his liking; I certainly didn't succeed, because he immediately intervened again: "No, not like that. Not like that. You've played it differently again. You have so much music inside you that you don't even remember what you just played ."

And suddenly she came up with another one: "Play it in my key." Assuming I knew her key, I switched to the key of G, hoping it was in her vocal range, and she started singing the lyrics.

Relieved, I told myself I had gotten close enough.

I must say that until that moment I had never been a great admirer of Billie Holiday. Until this moment of personal contact, I hadn't fully appreciated the impact of her phrasing, as unique as the quality of her voice . Previously, I had only heard a few early, very poor recordings that didn't do her justice. The woman sitting next to me had a voice of pure velvet and a style entirely her own; she approached the lyrics of a song with such an interpretive, personal approach that you thought she was creating them as she sang.

Playing for her was so effortless it was almost ridiculous. When playing for someone who could blend melodic line and lyrics with such sensitive musical interpretation, I felt it best to limit myself to suggesting the appropriate lower harmonic structures to complement her vocal ability without hindering or destroying in any way. Holiday's voice was so soft , almost hesitant, that I waited to insert my very few piano fills until her phrasings were fully completed. I crafted my responses to her melodic lines using a shifting base of harmonic figures, very similar to those often used by the late Jimmy Jones.

I used this pattern to capture the elongated effect Billie created with her voice . We finished the song, and she turned to me. With that innocent, childlike laugh of hers, she asked, "So, when are we going to record an album ?"

Still amazed and bewildered by her recent vocal wonders, I muttered something like, "Whenever she sees fit," or some other bland response along those lines. Considering I'd just witnessed what happened to her partner, whom Billie had physically kicked out of the party, I panicked for a second. And what would she have done to me if she hadn't liked the way I played for her?

For the next two years, I only saw her by chance. We would occasionally bump into each other at a New York club, hug each other, and chat for a while. But in 1952, Norman decided to record her with my trio, augmented by a pair of wind instruments. Once again, I had the opportunity to play for Billie Holiday. She came into the studio projecting that inimitable air of feminine sophistication . She stopped to greet us all with hugs and kisses, then sat down and had a drink.

While Norman conducted the recording with minimal intervention, Billie carried the session with such ease and musical understanding that I began to question all those rumors about her inconsistency, unpredictability, and the like. What she was asking Herb Ellis and me for made perfect sense; she knew exactly what she wanted.

At the end of the session we were all happy with the result, and she was downright jubilant .

The rumors about her unpredictability were finally confirmed at a performance at Carnegie Hall in 1955. A truly horrifying experience. Norman had decided that Holiday would appear at the JATP concert as a guest artist, without any prior announcement, since Billie hadn't worked in New York for four or five years . The reason? Billie didn't have a "police card," issued by the city police force and required for all nightclub performers. Apparently, if you had a criminal record (for drug use, let's say), you couldn't get one.

For her part, Norman believed that her surprise appearance at the JATP concert was a good trick to circumvent the ban and would allow her numerous New York fans to see her on stage again. Granz did everything in his power to make everything go smoothly; he even gave strict orders to keep an eye on the backstage area so that no one would give her anything to drink or try drugs.

And he was very careful to choose each song with Billie and me to ensure we were in sync.

I admired his determination to bring Billie back to the stage in a big way; however, how could he justify it to Ella Fitzgerald ? Ella would undoubtedly find it inexplicable that he had added another vocalist to the concert. I still don't know how Norman handled this. He flatly refused to tell me —and I did ask him—simply saying, "Don't worry about that."

During the presentation, Norman told the audience that there would be a guest artist that evening. The concert began, and after the trio's performance, he reappeared and announced, "The great Billie Holiday!"

The audience, wild with enthusiasm, rose to its feet and applauded wildly. I blasted through the introduction of the first piece, and Lady Day delivered with flying colors throughout her performance, with the same self-confidence she'd displayed in the studio session. She performed an encore and returned to the stage, where she received another standing ovation. We were all beyond happy for this historic moment in jazz: the return of Billie Holiday.

That night there were two concerts at Carnegie Hall. After an hour-long intermission, necessary to clear and re-enter the hall, the second set began. Busy greeting some friends backstage, I didn't see Norman until he stood on stage and announced my trio's performance. I thought I saw he was upset about something, but I didn't have time to ask him, as I immediately went out to play. At the end of our set, he reappeared on stage and walked to the microphone. I've never seen him with such an expression of rage and frustration . He stood in front of the microphone, took a deep breath, slightly hunched over. He reintroduced Billie, almost exactly as he had in the first set. He walked to the backstage curtain and escorted her to the microphone, his shoulders hunched.

I was curious to know what was going on, but I just played the agreed-upon intro to I Only Have Eyes For You .

There was an endless silence as Billie stood there, swaying back and forth, her expression blank.

When we made the appropriate stop to let her in, I immediately knew something was wrong , that she wasn't going to answer. There was an interminable silence , which seemed to last a lifetime, while Billie stood there, staggering back and forth, her expression blank. On stage, at moments like this, you get the impression that time stretches unpredictably, so that a minute takes on the dimensions of an entire hour. Sitting on the stool, embarrassed, not to say stunned , I finally had the impulse to play another piano introduction for her. I resorted to a much more pronounced attack and simplified the phrasing so that she could have no doubt as to when the stop was going to come. We made it, and were once again met with an oceanic silence.

I panicked. My mind was in turmoil. Where is Billie? I wondered. How can I reach her? Is she aware we're here? How can I get her on board without making a complete fool of herself in front of so many people?

By now, the audience sensed that something strange was happening on stage; they shifted nervously in their seats and spoke in whispers.

I ignored it and played a new, clear, and powerful introduction for her. We made our next stop, and I was overcome with fear and sadness, as a wailing, exhausted, toneless voice echoed through the silent auditorium, a voice that sounded like a plaintive sob. A voice that slurred its words to such an extent that the cadence of the song was irrevocably lost in those absurdly elongated phrasings.

–Ar…et…he s…ta…rs…

Suddenly, Norman appeared on stage and whisked Billie away . Sitting on the stool, I was both stunned and devastated , unwilling to admit what had happened, even though it couldn't have been clearer. Norman reappeared and introduced the next segment of the show.

When I finally made it offstage, backstage, I looked around and saw Billie hunched over in a chair. I went over to her, trying to comfort her a little, but she looked up at me with teary eyes. Her beautiful mouth twisted into a grimace as she exclaimed, “Here he is! Here comes Oscar Peterson , the guy who just really fucked up my music !”

I stopped dead in my tracks. The unease and sadness over what Billie had done to herself suddenly faded, giving way to rage, until I realized it was the drugs talking , not her. And I realized that I would soon forget almost everything that had just happened, that I would eventually lose myself in that narcotic stupor.

He understood why Norman felt so outraged. It was obvious that someone had evaded Granz's surveillance and made it possible for the singer to grab that balloon during the intermission between the two concerts. Norman had clung to the hope that, somehow, she would be able to perform at the second one without losing her composure, but that wasn't what happened.

Billie Holiday had once again committed to her career as a jazz vocalist, a career that could have been even more magnificent and meaningful. Since then, I've been telling myself that, because of drug use, which so many others also engaged in at that time, Billie was in fact part of the dark harvest alluded to in the lyrics of the song she made her own: "Strange Fruit ."

Norman Granz liked to pit musicians of different styles and traditions against each other, believing the result would always be interesting and revealing. He did this with the various JATP groups and also in numerous studio sessions. Some consider this approach somewhat mechanical, or even artificial, but I know for a fact that his sole motivation was to establish a meeting of improvised music between exponents of the various movements of the time, something that became abundantly clear when he chose five saxophonists to participate in the session now known as the Charlie Parker Jam Session .

In 1952, Charlie "Bird" Parker was riding the crest of a wave, the most famous jazz musician of all. Norman had him meet Benny Carter, Ben Webster, Johnny Hodges , and Flip Phillips , and, to top it all, he also added trumpeter Charlie Shavers . Benny was considered the epitome of musicianship. His virtuosity was as legendary as the wonderful sound of his alto sax, not to mention his talent as a composer and arranger. Ben Webster, who had risen to fame as a member of Duke Ellington 's peerless orchestra of the early 1940s, was the epitome of tenor saxophones with a whispery yet powerful sound. Johnny Hodges' alto sax was admired for its velvety delivery and legato playing; he was also known for his generally calm and unflappable demeanor.

About the book

Oscar Peterson's career spans more than five decades, during which he recorded more than 100 albums and earned numerous accolades—including those from the Grammys, the Black Theatre Workshop, the Peabody Conservatory of Music, and the National Academy of Recording Arts and Sciences—and was inducted into the Jazz Hall of Fame. He shared the stage, the dressing room, and the discomforts of the road—as well as the harassment and harassment of his racist neighbors—with such greats of the genre as Ella Fitzgerald, Dizzy Gillespie, Billie Holiday, Count Basie, Nat King Cole, Louis Armstrong, and Duke Ellington.

His memoirs, entitled "My Life in Jazz," which will be published in Spain on September 1st by Kultrum, are packed with interesting material and provide a wealth of anecdotes about his contemporaries and his era. Very few pianists from Oscar Peterson's time have left us their memoirs, and no book about Peterson's life and work has been translated into Spanish. Therefore, these memoirs are a unique document for understanding the work of this cult pianist in the world of jazz.

Flip Phillips, who had established his reputation as a member of one of the first horn sections in Woody Herman's orchestra, was by now best known for his JATP recording of Juan Tizol 's Perdido . And Charlie Shavers was as happy and content as ever: happy to be the trumpet player on the recording, and happy not to have to deal personally with any of those saxophonists. The rhythm section consisted of Ray Brown, Barney Kessel , drummer JC Heard, and myself.

Norman and the horns soon agreed on the pieces to be played, and the session proceeded fairly smoothly until I began to notice that two of the soloists weren't exactly keen to take over after Bird 's solos. Neither Carter nor Hodges had a reluctance; Johnny, in fact, volunteered to take over from Charlie at any time, on any piece. It was just in his nature. Johnny Hodges didn't know what fear was, and however much he respected Bird, he knew he was never going to come off badly in a comparison . Curiously, it seemed to me that Parker failed to notice the other two's apprehension. He seemed to be thoroughly enjoying himself, listening to each of the other saxophonists with rapt attention, his head tilted slightly to one side and appreciation written all over his face. Those of us in the rhythm section also had a great time, due to the challenge that playing represented for each of these great musicians, and how fascinating it was to evaluate their individual performance as they played.

At the end of the recording, we were all happy with the result, or so I got the impression. I'd say no one was musically harmed , as each of the soloists focused on expressing whatever they had to say in their own voice, without holding back.

With a clean knife

Long trips breed boredom, and boredom can lead you to do stupid or strange things. Once, for the simple reason that I had nothing better to do, I decided to buy a straight razor. My usual razor worked perfectly, and I had no idea how to shave with a straight razor. All I knew was that it was very dangerous if you weren't good with the contraption. As I say, at the time it seemed like a good idea. So I bought it, with its leather strop and its booklet of safety instructions. Somewhat deviously, I left it untouched for a few days. Until one afternoon, in a motel in Kansas , I decided it was time to bring it out. I arranged everything carefully, took a shower, and, standing in front of the mirror, lathered my face with foam and took hold of the straight razor.

I hadn't realized two things. First, I'd left the bedroom door half open, so anyone passing by could see me as God made me. Second, and more important, Dizzy Gillespie was on the loose and was looking to cause a stir . Just as I made the first pass across my cheek, something bit me on the ass; I yelped and, naturally, cut myself with the razor.

Suddenly he was naked, in plain sight, and bleeding like a pig, to top it all off! Dizzy, meanwhile, had run off down the corridor, laughing like a madman, completely unaware of the damage he'd done .

That night I showed up at the concert with half my face conspicuously covered with cotton and tape . A few hours later, the razor ended up in the trash.