Collector’s Item: Oscar Peterson’s Soulful Life in Sound and Style

F or Oscar, music was more than sound—it was a matter of respect, craft and unwavering dedication, reflected as much in his daily rituals as in his legendary performances. And, of course, he wasn’t just a pianist. He was a composer. And a prolific one at that.People sometimes forget that. But composing was a deep part of his everyday life. He’d get very excited about something, sit down at the piano and just create.

He composed everywhere, but the Bösendorfer in our living room was central. With its extra bass notes and rich sound, it let him express the full range of what he heard in his head. He chose the bench specifically, and Oscar always knew what worked for him. The piano also came with a beautiful key with a gothic-style letter “B,” so you could lock the keyboard. But he never did. The key would instead sit in a little box of odds and ends. He had lots of those—small boxes of doodads, carefully arranged.

He loved technology, anything mechanical or well made. That was the through-line in so many of the things he kept: cameras, tape recorders, microphones, even fishing gear. It all had to be top of the line. Before we were married, he built a studio in what became our home, probably in the late 1970s. It had a composition room with his synthesizers and other equipment, and a separate sound booth with a giant mixing board and a professional two-inch multitrack tape deck.

Later, after he had a stroke, we built another space right beside the Bösendorfer so he wouldn’t have to move too far. His original studio had soundproofing, a booth, everything. He recorded “The Personal Touch” there, a project featuring Canadian composers. He even sang on it—I found the test pressing after he passed away in 2007.

There was a time when people didn’t think jazz belonged in concert halls, alongside classical music, presented with seriousness and ceremony. But Oscar and his promoter and mentor, Norman Granz, believed otherwise. In the 1940s, they began touring with “Jazz at the Philharmonic,” an influential series of international concerts. They felt that if you wanted the music to be respected, you had to show respect for it yourself. That meant performing with grace and dressing the part.

Oscar almost always wore suits on stage, often tuxedos. It wasn’t just style, it was a statement. His shoes, for example, were all custom-made by Foster & Son in London. Every pair—loafers, boots, formal shoes—was crafted specifically for him. They made lasts of his feet, so he could just call and say what he needed, choose the style and leather on one trip, and pick them up on the next. His shirts and ties came from Turnbull & Asser: bow ties for concerts, long ties for everyday, and always a flash of color in his pocket, even with a sports jacket. Oscar loved British tailoring. He even bought his shaving soap in London.

When we got married in 1990, I started helping with his tour packing. At first, it took forever to match suits, shirts, ties and pocket squares. But it was fun. And as he traveled more, his style just expanded. He had a real eye for color and texture. His favorite color was purple, so you’ll see that appear often. Getting dressed was, in some quiet way, part of his creative process.

He also admired Norman Granz’s elegance. Oscar called him “Smedley,” a nod to his love of fine tailoring and the brand John Smedley. It reflected the care they both brought to presenting jazz. It wasn’t just about looking good, it was sending a message: This music matters. It belongs here.

By Kelly Peterson, as told to James Haldane