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In 1994, my heretofore trusty shelf audio system was on the fritz and I decided to go the component route. As I had the limited budget of a graduate student, I could not afford the pricey audio salons in Harvard Square, despite the fact that the sounds emanating from their gear made me drool with avarice. I took the T, Boston's Mass Transit system over to the Cambridge Side Galleria, hoping that I could find something within my means at Lechmere, a now-defunct New England area consumer electronics chain.
When I arrived, I realized that it was going to be difficult to hear the speakers, receivers, and other components that I hoped to buy -- there was a lot of noise being made. Two fellows with a penchant for big-bass house music were trying their best to break as many of the store's speakers as possible. Their thumping soundtrack and turn-it-to-eleven sensibilities actually managed to cause not one, but two pairs of JBLs to fail while I was there. I distanced myself from them as much as I could, earplugs firmly in place, and hoped for the best.
I only brought one CD with me to test the gear -- I only needed one. I cued up the first track and tried out a pair of unassuming Infinity bookshelf speakers. A frenetically filigreed yet still gently swinging rendition of "Someone to Watch Over Me", the first track on pianist Oscar Peterson's first solo album, began to waft into the audition area. Suddenly, I felt someone at my arm. Worried that it was yet another sales clerk trying to sell me a home theater rig, I avoided eye contact.
"What's that," asked one of the bass thumper twins, who both had crept up behind me. They had abandoned their quest to rend speakers and ear drums and come over to check out the Pied Piping of jazz standard goodness. The watchful store manager breathed a sigh of relief, and he too, ambled over to see who was playing on the recording. Soon, a housewife from Dorchester, a father and son pair from Natick, and a tourist from Beijing had all come by to pay homage to Oscar -- after which they scurried off to the record bins on the other side of the store in hopes of finding a copy of My Favorite Instrument. Alas, Lechmere didn't carry jazz of that caliber -- only fake-jazz like Kenny G and a couple of releases by the Marsalis brothers.
In quick succession, Peterson fires off nine chestnuts from the jazz canon: "Someone to Watch Over Me", "Perdido", "Body and Soul", "Who Can I Turn To", "Bye, Bye Blackbird", "I Should Care", "Lulu's Back in Town", "Little Girl Blue", and "Take the A-Train". Not only is the playing on this 1968 album absolutely superlative, but the sound is exquisite -- especially given that it was recorded in a record executive's living room! You can hear every nuance of Peterson's touch; it's like you're sitting right next to him on the piano bench. For both reasons of music and sound, My Favorite Instrument has always been my reference disc to test new equipment, as well as my palate cleanser at the end of a rough listening session.
While many of the aforementioned "Evergreen" melodies are almost required repertoire for traditional jazz musicians, Peterson wrings something singular out of each tune. His version of "Body and Soul" is at least as imaginative and engaging as "Someone to Watch Over Me". However, it is the "least standard" of these standards, "Little Girl Blue", on which Peterson lavishes his most affectionate and lyrical attentions. There is little need for arpeggiated filigrees here; Peterson sticks to the melody, and harmonizes it with right hand chords for much of the tune. The chords seem to melt from his hands into luscious progressions. Probably the most intimate rendition on the album, it stands with Peterson's best ballad interpretations from his entire oeuvre.
Lest you think that My Favorite Instrument is filled with too much sensitive stuff, there are also several nice uptempo tunes. "Perdido" exhibits Peterson's considerable virtuosic capabilities. "Take the A Train" defies you to not tap your toes; Peterson starts sparely, but very quickly fills in the texture with cascading runs and a perky stride accompaniment. "Lulu's Back in Town" is an all too brief excursion, with more infectious good cheer and ample splashy playing.
The store manager saw dollar signs in the flurry of activity my little disc had caused. "Hey, you must have a decent record collection! Everybody wants your CD. Whaddya say you bring a bunch of titles in like that? If I can order 'em in, and people buy 'em like they wanted to with that Oscar Peterson, I'll knock 10 percent off your stereo."
I smiled ruefully. "Only one problem. They didn't make any others like My Favorite Instrument."
-- Christian Carey
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