Posted by 
June 29th, 1995 was a pretty big day for me. Since arriving in Ottawa for university I had been dipping my toes into the Olympic-sized swimming pool of jazz and though I was still very much in the shallow end of said ocean I was (and remain) facing the horizon, wading ever deeper all the time.
My admission into this vast world was a beautiful Canadian legend named Oscar Peterson, and I had a ticket to see him play. In his hometown of Montréal no less, and boy, did I have excellent seats!
I was so excited that I led my crew straight to the Peel Pub immediately upon arrival in the city, where I pounded dollar drafts like the young rock and roller I was about to moult out of. I’m sure I had fun, but it was a drastic mistake.
By the time I got to the show I was a little stumbly and a lot sleepy. I parked myself in the soft, cushy seat, joined the rest of the crowd in giving Mr. Peterson a standing (teetering?) ovation as he hit the stage, and spent the next ninety minutes struggling to stay awake.
I didn’t sleep through the whole concert (thanks to my friend JP who kept nudging me awake again and again) and I actually have many vivid memories from this concert. And as much as I should have gone in completely sober I still had a great time at the show, dividing my waking time between sitting riveted and picking my jaw up off the floor.
Oscar was such an enormous talent. He was so much larger than life; when it came to inside straight-up jazz piano playing nobody could touch the guy. Nobody.
After the show I decided to try my hand at getting backstage to meet my hero. Bolstered by a successful meet-and-greet with Bobby McFerrin in the same venue a few years before I urged my crew to join me near the stage door. We stood there amongst a growing crowd when security came out and told us that Oscar would only be meeting with family and friends, and proceeded to seperate the riff-raff apart from the insiders.
And somehow in the divide I ended up on the wrong side. Or the right side I suppose. Call it what you will, I found myself standing in a small foyer with the friends and family members while my crew was ushered away, secretly giving me the thumbs up.
And so there I stood, the only white person in a crowd of well-dressed, decidedly sober people, biding my time and trying to avert any and all eye-contact.
Did I mention I was wearing a pair of purple tie-dyed pants I had brought back from Thailand, a Jerry Garcia tie-dye t-shirt and my ubiquitous brown leather hat (that at this age was getting pretty floppy from constant wear and tear)? So yeah, I stood out like a sore thumb.
Finally a side door opened and I could see Oscar being wheeled towards us in his wheelchair. Simultaneously out of the corner of my bloodshot eye I saw Oliver Jones pointing at me and whispering into the ear of a security guard. Moment’s later I was ejected from the meet-and-greet and was robbed of what would stand as my only chance to meet the late, great Oscar Peterson (1925-2007).
Oliver Jones has been my nemesis ever since.
Todd Man Out 