Oliver Jones. Marthe Sansregret
When Oliver heard this anecdote, he told himself that even if Oscar Peterson could earn a living by playing the piano, it was definitely not the case for him. Getting paid would be nice and the money was needed, but Oliver was not ready to accept conditions imposed by strangers. He was content to play for the pure joy of it. For additional pleasure, when he did not perform at night, Oliver liked to indulge in escapism by going to the movies. Mr. Jones regularly went to see films at the Corona and Lido theatres on Notre-Dame Street. But the movies at the Corona that interested Oliver were restricted to people sixteen years of age and older. The fourteen-year-old Oliver decided to try his luck anyway. Approaching the movie theatre, he tried to make himself look older, and straightening his back, he hoped the doorman would let him in. Unfortunately, he was turned away. Humiliated almost to the point of tears, he walked back home.
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During the summer of 1948, Oliver made his first visit to Toronto. This was quite an opportunity; very few boys and girls he knew had travelled. He had been chosen to compete in track and field for the Olympic Athletic Club, under coach Joey Richmond. The team ended up in second place, and Oliver came home with the satisfaction of having played in a major competition and of having met young people from all over Canada.
After this one-week trip, he returned to his regular routine: piano practices early in the morning, school, homework, piano practices after school, then playing with friends. Once in a while, there were performances on weekday evenings, in addition to those on weekends. When he compared his life with that of other young people, Oliver found that it was rather busy.
In June 1949, wanting to make a little money, he got a summer job at a suit factory in the Belgo Building on Sainte-Catherine and Bleury Streets, thanks to his friend Luigi Vani who already had a job there. Oliver did not enjoy the reality of working from eight in the morning to four in the afternoon at heavy, monotonous tasks. Fortunately for him, at night he could return to his preferred reality: playing the piano with friends and for people in his neighbourhood.
When it happened that he had a little spare time, Oliver listened faithfully to the handful of American radio stations that could be picked up in Montreal. One evening, he heard excerpts from Rhapsody in Blue by George Gershwin. Transported by the beauty of the music, Oliver immediately reproduced parts of what he just heard on the piano.
He also liked going to Scouts with Bruce. They were surprised to learn at one of the meetings that their pack had been invited to meet Governor General Georges Vanier and Lord Louis Mountbatten, who was visiting Canada. Not only that, but it had been requested that Oliver and Bruce perform on this occasion. When the day arrived, Oliver helped Bruce carry the drums to the Mount Royal Hotel. Nervous at the idea of playing for the distinguished guests, who were already seated, they sought out the other Scouts. To add to their stress, the organizers had arranged the drum stand for a left-handed percussionist, and Bruce was right-handed. After a switchover, the talented duo played their best and received a standing ovation. Oliver was encouraged by this experience and excitedly told Richard Parris about it. However, the future for their trio was threatened when Bruce came down with a severe case of rheumatic fever. He was in hospital for the entire summer. Oliver visited him whenever he could. “Oliver was always there and ready to help. When I was sick, he would visit me at the hospital and he would bring baskets of fruits, chocolate bars, and things like that.” When he was released, Bruce left town to convalesce at his uncle’s house in Virginia. In spite of Bruce’s absence, Oliver continued to perform on evenings and weekends, either solo or with Richard Parris. During this period, Mr. Jones boosted his son’s self-confidence by showing him a greater measure of trust.
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Oliver also accompanied tap dance lessons for boys and girls of his age, held in the basement of Union United Church. Among them was Norman Griffith, four years younger than Oliver and the brother of the tap teacher, Charles. Norman, who would later be known as Norman Marshall Villeneuve, was an excellent dancer, but his first love was for the drums. He began hanging around with Oliver, who soon witnessed the transformation of another butter crate. Norman described making his first drum set: “I took a little wooden butter box, I turned it upside-down, put on four little legs about six inches long that I cut from a piece of wood, and I had a little platform. To make the drum set right, I took an old metal tray like the 14-inch Black Horse trays for serving beer, took a piece of thick brown paper, soaked it in hot water for ten minutes, put the paper over the tray and wired it down around the rim to make it sound like a drum. For my high hat on the left side, and for a cymbal stand, I took an old music stand – a tripod to hold music sheets – took the top off and put my cymbal on it. Then I got a small piece of metal that I used to knock on the butter box.”
Oliver didn’t have a chance to appreciate the merits of Norman’s set because Bruce Parent returned from Virginia to rejoin the trio. But Oliver and Norman promised each other they would play together as professionals some day.
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Oliver lived not too far away from Sir George Williams College, an institution that grew out of a branch of the Montreal Young Men’s Christian Association, or “Y.” On Saturday afternoons, jam sessions were held there. In 1949, in one of these sessions, Oliver met Vic Vogel. Born to Austro-Hungarian parents, Vic was a year younger than Oliver. His father played gypsy violin music and his mother constantly sang at home and belonged to a choir. They lived on De Bullion Street, where Vic learned about life young. There were days that medical students at the Université de Montréal would decide to empty the brothels of the neighbourhood – particularly the one at 312 Ontario Street – not with the idea of cleaning it up, but to shock the policemen whose workplace was on the other side of the street.
Vic remembered the day, when he was four years old, that a piano for his brother Frank was delivered. Frank was only one year older than Vic, but when Vic touched the keyboard, his father slapped him on the face and shouted: “Don’t touch the piano, it’s for your brother!” “It was a tradition in European countries to give the best suit and all the best things to the oldest one in the family and call it the law of primogeniture,” commented Vic. Hurt by this unfair treatment, he decided he would teach his father a lesson. The day came when he followed his brother to his music lesson at the home of Madame Rachel Martineau on Laval Street. Vic noticed a bronze plaque marked “Piano, Cello, and Cigars,” and understood that if you wanted something, you had to make it graphically clear. He went home, drew a big keyboard on a huge piece of wrapping paper and stuck it on the left side of the living-room doorframe. This appeal produced results: Vic was allowed to learn to play the instrument – but on his own. His parents soon learned a second lesson: their younger son had a special talent for music.
That was just one of Vic’s many exploits; he never ceased to amaze Oliver. “He’s a character. Once you meet him you’ll never forget him.” Vic was a forthright person, a self-taught young man who made his way through life by quickly grasping the dos and don’ts and adapting them to create his own rules. He spoke English, French, and Hungarian with an accent, mixing up the three languages and inventing words; this colourful way of talking was a great part of his charm. Rapidly, the shy Oliver and the extraverted Vic became close friends. They shared their passion for music and took turns accompanying each other – Oliver would play the accordion when Vic was on the piano, and Vic would play the vibraphone while Oliver played the piano.
As far as meeting girls was concerned, Oliver at fourteen was not introverted, but shy. “I was never able to say what I wanted to girls back then, and the only time or place I felt comfortable was at the piano. It always seemed to be my security blanket.” Vic made out that discussing the subject of girls wasn’t worth his while.
But he and Oliver still had a lot to talk about. Oscar Peterson once said to Eddie Higgins: “Pianists are the worst old women in the world. When they meet each other, they gossip. There’s a lot to gossip about. Because of the very set-up of the instrument.”
Soon after Oliver met Vic, Richard Parris was introduced, through mutual acquaintances, to a youth from Notre-Dame-de-Grâce named Len Dobbin. Discovering that Len had been crazy about music, especially jazz, from the time he was eleven years old, Richard asked: “Did you ever hear Oliver Jones play?” Len had not, and the two boys jumped