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In early 1969, John Hammond introduced me to Bobby Henderson, a marvelous pianist, who was almost too ill to play. A couple of decades later, in 1991, Dick Hyman introduced me, via a cassette, to Johnny Costa. He was also very ill, but the illness had not affected his ability in any way. In fact, it may have even made his playing more remarkable. In 1991, I’d never heard of Johnny Costa. The cassette Dick sent revealed a phenomenal pianist, someone with Tatum-like technique and a remarkable sense of melody. I looked him up in the Jepsen discography. There were two entries, LPs on Savoy and Coral from the early 1950s. There was a short entry in The Encyclopedia of Jazz. I learned he was now nearly seventy, had studied with Oscar Levant (which he never mentioned to me) and seemed to be based in Pittsburgh. Nothing else. I remained puzzled. How could someone this good, someone who’d been around for seven decades, be without any current recordings, and totally unknown to me? A telephone call to Dick Hyman provided a couple of clues, but didn’t answer the question satisfactorily. This is the short version of the story. Johnny came of age in the 1940s. He loved Tatum and others, served in World War II, became ill, returned to Pittsburgh after the war, played with a number of world class artists when they came through town, met Art Tatum (who was very impressed with Johnny), went to New York City in the early 1950s, made a handful of records, played fancy clubs like The Embers, didn’t like being away from home, returned to Pittsburgh, worked at radio station KDKA and rarely left town. He became the regular pianist and music director for Mister Roger’s Neighborhood and, in the process, brought good melodic jazz to millions of children over the years. He was idolized in western Pennsylvania, but his name barely caused a ripple outside of that area, except among selected pianists who knew better. I telephoned Johnny; we seemed to hit it off and said I wanted to come out for a visit and possibly some recording. I booked a flight to Pittsburgh as soon as it was practical; I wanted to find out what it was all about, and discovered a modest man who could play rings around almost anyone I knew. He didn’t practice, could lay off for months, and come back without missing a beat. He discovered this during World War II. He came down with rheumatic fever and was bedridden for a year. When he was finally told he could get up and move around a bit, he discovered he couldn’t walk. Yet, when they wheeled him over to the piano, he could still play. This is a typical Johnny Costa story. One day at a recording session, we finished early. We had everything needed for a fully stuffed CD. There was about twenty-five minutes left of the clock. Johnny said, “Well, you paid for the time, we ought to get something down for the next one.” He sat down and played seven songs flawlessly. No time to slate them; he just played out the time. On another occasion I went into the studio after he’d completed a take. I leaned against the piano, and asked what he’d like to play. The answer was simply, “I don’t know.” Johnny noodled around a little, looked up and said, “Well, I could try this.” He then tore into a version of Elegie, from Massenet’s opera Thais. The same tune Art Tatum recorded in the 1940s. He played about two minutes, in a Tatumesque manner, then stopped and said, “But somebody’s already done that.” I asked him when he’d last played the piece. He looked at me and replied, “Oh, a long time ago, probably when I played it for Art.” I never visited Johnny at his home, but I’m told he didn’t have a record player or a piano. He just had everything in his head. The lack of piano or record player may or may not be true, but he definitely had a phenomenal amount of music at his fingertips, ready for a perfect performance at a moment’s notice. Recording sessions were a breeze, there were alternate takes, but never because of a flawed performance, it was just Johnny wanted to try something different. The only person I ever worked with who was this close to perfection was Earl Hines, but the difference was Earl never wanted to try anything a second time. In Earl’s case the challenge was to get it just the way he wanted in one try; with Johnny, perhaps he wanted to see just how many different ways he could play something well. The most amazing thing about Johnny was that his illness didn’t seem to diminish his ability in any way. About the only restriction was that as time passed he couldn’t travel very far from Pittsburgh. The only time I heard him play outside that city was an outdoor concert in eastern Pennsylvania, where he was only a day away from his doctors and a transfusion if needed. Even then he used his long time trio, just in case he needed some support. All the recording sessions were proceeded by transfusions; they gave him an energy boost and allowed him to play at optimum level for three hours or so, for two or three consecutive days. My guess is he also had transfusions to do the Fred Rogers tapings and his leukemia was possibly similar to Gene Krupa’s. The transfusions prolong life and, for a few days, allow a modest level of activity is possible, but, eventually, they lost their effectiveness. Despite this, Johnny had incredible determination and somehow managed to complete the last two projects we undertook, a George Gershwin CD, and one dealing with songs featuring lyrics by Johnny Mercer. There was one day during the Gershwin recording that I didn’t think he could continue. He was just wiped out. Then a strange thing happened. The recording engineer pulled Johnny aside and suggested they go into another room for a chat. I didn’t know what was going on, but the two men went off together. It turned out the engineer was a very religious fellow and felt a little prayer and spiritual contemplation might get Johnny back on track. I still don’t know what went on in the back room, but whatever it was, it worked. Johnny completed the date and didn’t miss a note, even though he did make some inserts for a couple of parts of the Rhapsody In Blue segment, the only time he didn’t play something from start to finish. The Mercer project was recorded in the spring of 1995, and by this time, Johnny was failing. He was moving slowly, looked terrible (there are no photographs from these sessions) and required more transfusions and medication. Yet, somehow, Johnny rose to the occasion and recorded in excess of thirty songs, and each was exceptional. In the process he may have produced the best CD of his career. When it came time to assemble the CD, and there wasn’t much time between the end of the recording process and the beginning of assembly, it was virtually impossible to make a selection based on “this one is better than that one.” We asked Johnny to pick out his personal favorites. He insisted we include Dream, the only song that featured words and music by Mercer. He may have picked two or three others, but the selection chore fell to Bill Hillman, Elsie Hillman and myself. It was sort of like I’d pick one, then Bill and then Elsie, then back to me and so forth. Bill Hillman designed a wonderful cover. Commentary on each song was supplied by Ginger Mercer and Bob Bach, thanks to Jean Bach, who allowed us to quote liberally from Our Huckleberry Friend, her husband’s wonderful book about Johnny Mercer. Johnny was pleased with the CD, lasted a month or so, and died in October 1996. He was much mourned in Pittsburgh, but his passing still didn’t cause a ripple in many other places. Sales of the new record were negligible. I was probably one of the people in New York City who was deeply saddened because I lost not only a friend, but I also sensed a loss of opportunities. I regretted I hadn’t met him earlier, because I felt there wasn’t any type of solo piano project he couldn’t undertake and not only accomplish, but also accomplish in an extraordinary way. I never encountered anyone like him and probably never will again. If you don’t believe me, just listen to any of his late recordings. You’ll be hooked in a second. |
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Johnny Costa, Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, April 11, 1991