George Shearing died a few days ago. He was one of the greatest jazz and popular music pianists/composers of the twentieth century. Some of today's so-called musicians would benefit from listening to his music. They might learn about the power of understatement versus the cacophony of overstatement, about the beauty of clean note separation versus the mush of overlapping sounds, about the pleasure of background rhythm versus the intrusion of unrelenting thumps.
Shearing was born blind in London ninety-one years ago. He learned piano at a school for blind youngsters. He polished his skills in wartime London, playing in pubs and bomb shelters with poorly tuned pianos and atrocious acoustics. He formed his own bands — including one featuring all blind musicians — and thrived with small jazz ensembles.
Not long after the war, he came to America, where he made it a point to play with the great jazz musicians of that era. He became an American citizen.
Shearing visited Utah several times, presenting concerts at a variety of venues. At least one of those concerts is not chronicled by his biographers or those who keep track of such things.
In the mid 1960s, Shearing was on his way to a concert date when he suffered a severe health crisis. (As I recall, his appendix burst.) His commercial flight made an emergency landing at the Salt Lake Airport. An ambulance rushed him to the recently completed University of Utah Hospital. He was in bad shape. Doctors worked tirelessly to save his life. It was touch and go. Skilled nurses watched over him. He recovered slowly. The staff made sure to keep his "visit" secret so that no one outside the hospital knew about the famous patient or about his brush with death.
Shearing was in the hospital for many days regaining strength. When it came time to be released, he said he wanted to do something to repay the marvelous doctors, nurses and staff members who had saved his life. He suggested a small, private concert for hospital employees. He asked that a local musician be selected to perform with him. Knowledgeable hospital administrators contacted the concertmaster of the Utah Symphony, who was known to dabble in popular music and jazz. (I believe his name was Harold Wolf.) One of my friends at the hospital knew of my interest in music and jazz, and so I was among the small number of individuals who received phone calls urging us to be at the hospital's staff cafeteria that afternoon for a special treat.
At the appointed time, the cafeteria was reasonably full, but not crowded. A small upright piano stood near the door. Shearing entered in a wheelchair (hospital rules), along with the classical violinist. Shearing said a few words of appreciation for those who had taken such good care of him. Then he moved to the piano. The two musicians had no sheet music. They simply challenged one another. "Do you know such-and-such?" Or "Let's see what we can do with this," followed by a few notes on the piano or the violin until both picked up the music. Sometimes, it was classical. Sometimes, it was a popular tune. Much of the time, it was jazz. The musicians played in harmony or in solo as Shearing directed. The music brought them together … as if they had rehearsed. Shearing chuckled or nodded approval along the way. He seemed to enjoy the event almost as much as the audience did.
Now and then, a doctor or nurse left quietly. Occasionally, a new face entered. The concert continued for more than an hour.? Shearing was superb, as usual. The violinist surprised us with his grasp of jazz and his versatility. It was an experience none of us who were there will ever forget. I have attended George Shearing concerts over the years, and I have a number of Shearing records and CDs.? None of them can match the personal touch of that impromptu concert, despite the poorly tuned upright piano and a venue woefully short on acoustics.
George Shearing may be gone, but his music will live on. Whenever I hear that music, I think about his humility, his down-to-earth gratitude and his selfless generosity.
Life is filled with unexpected rewards. We should never be so busy that we can't take time to listen to the music … or add a little "music" of our own.
G. Donald Gale is president of Words, Words, Words, Inc. He was formerly editorial director at KSL. He earned a Ph.D. at the University of Utah and was awarded an honorary doctorate by Southern Utah University. E-mail: dongale@words3.com.