One of the nicest hours of the hours in my life

I live in a smaller community – about 65,000 souls at last count – and in it being a smaller community we don’t get too many visitors of major note, and those of some fame who do pass through like to keep it quiet. George HW Bush likes to fish in these waters and periodically comes ashore for a meal. Eric Clapton, another salmon angler, also drops by to a resort a few miles north.

And in living in that smaller community I, as a newspaper reporter for the then ‘paper of record’ (as they say in the biz) didn’t get that many opportunities to interview genuine notables. I had a few enjoyable chats with people who were either lesser known, or locally popular, but not many real biggies. I almost got a chance to interview Eve of Destruction’s Barry McGuire, but he bailed out before it happened.

So, you can imagine how chuffed I was when I got the chance to interview a genuine musical hero of mine. And this one came off and it remains one of the genuine high points of my sometimes-desultory career as a scribe.

I got word that George Shearing was coming to town and would be available for interview. I leapt at the chance.

I was reminded of this when I learned that the sightless jazz pianist and composer/arranger par excellence had died at the age of 91 on Valentine’s Day.

I’m a bit of a jazz buff. I’m not hugely knowledgeable and I detest jazz snobs and purists as much as I detest classical snobs and purists – “Chopin’s not classical, you philistine!” 

So, the fact that I loved Shearing’s anthemic Lullaby of Birdland made me a person deserving of derision to those who cherish indecipherable bebop riffs that on for three days, but what do I care? I also love Chet Baker’s My Funny Valentine, which makes me a ‘romantic’ in the eyes of fanatic jazzies. Again, what do I care? I loved Shearing’s stuff.

So I sat and chatted with the man for over an hour, and I was enchanted all the while. He spoke firsthand of people like Sinatra and Nat Cole. He and Mel Torme were like brothers and worked together regularly late in Shearing’s life. 

He told an amusing tale of doing a Pepsi commercial with equally sightless Ray Charles. It was a kind of Ferrante and Teicher dual pianos thing for a TV spot. Shearing told me that when they had finished and the commercial was a wrap, he said to Charles: “I hope it came out OK and that it looks good.” To which Charles replied: “Why do we give a shit, man. We’ll never see it.”

That’s about all for this tale. I am only happy that Mr. Shearing took 60 minutes out of his 91 years to chat with me.

Here’s to you, George and maybe you’re in a place where you can see clearly now.