From The Seattle Times/Washington Post:

Oscar Peterson at the piano? Oscar Peterson was the piano.

His touch could be light and feathery, as ethereal as a memory. It could operate with blinding speed, releasing liquid lines that felt like a river bursting a dam. Or it could release rumbling cascades of notes, pounding out a stratagem of confidence and assurance.

Sometimes Peterson didn’t move much, his body swaying slowly on ballads, head bowed in reverie. At other times, constant piston motion — hands working the keys, arms sweeping up and down the keyboard — gave Peterson a supple bounce, as if that bench was hot. When he got into a particularly pleasing groove, or when his sidemen spurred him on with their own invention, Peterson would smile, and get just a little more fired up.

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