Oscar & Makoto

Oscar Peterson at Home

Bill King Photography

An afternoon like this rarely happens in a lifetime.

It was a Thursday in 2003 when photographer Paul Hoeffler called, his voice carrying that familiar tone of urgency and opportunity. He wanted me to assist on a cover shoot for Swing Journal, the esteemed Japanese jazz publication. Pianist Makoto Ozone was flying in from Manhattan, accompanied by Hiroshi Itsuno, a senior figure at Universal’s classical division in Japan. Their mission: to interview and photograph Oscar Peterson for the magazine’s cover. Paul didn’t have to ask twice. I accepted instantly, slipping my trusty Konica rangefinder into my bag, a $25 gem from a camera market, just in case fortune smiled.

Mississauga, at this moment, the music capital of Ontario, housed Peterson in a ranch-style manor, modest yet regal in its surroundings. A block away sat an unassuming mall with three food options: the Sub Shop, Pizza Pot, and Chinese Wok. The latter won by default, providing a quick bite before stepping into the sanctum of a jazz legend.

Makoto Ozone had long been an acolyte of Peterson’s work. His journey into jazz began with a Hammond B-3 organ, his young fingers dancing on the keys before a national television audience alongside Jimmy Smith, channelling the raw soul of The Cat. At eleven, he stumbled upon the music of Peterson and never looked back, absorbing every phrase, every nuance, every stroke of genius. Juilliard had beckoned, but rudimentary sight-reading steered him away. Instead, he found his way to Berklee, joining ranks with the young lions of his era. He played in Branford Marsalis’s final graduation performance band, then signed with Columbia Records. These days, he was recording for Verve, his latest album, Dear Oscar, a heartfelt tribute to his idol. The technique was dazzling, the reverence undeniable. Classical studies rounded out his regimen—Gershwin, Mozart, all fair game.

The Japanese never arrive without a gesture of respect. A bouquet of flowers, carefully selected, was presented to Oscar’s wife, Kelly. Paul and I came armed with tripods, strobes, a ladder, and a case brimming with Nikon bodies and lenses. The shoot would center around Peterson’s Bösendorfer concert grand, a pristine nine-foot monument to craftsmanship. The cover remained closed, waiting for its moment. No blemishes, no dust, no signs of age—just an unbroken ebony sheen, a mirror of its owner’s precision. The temptation to strike a note was immense, but this was sacred ground. Ozone kept his distance, waiting for an invitation. When it finally came, he hesitated for a brief moment before settling in.

Peterson, ever the gracious mentor, urged him on. Ozone, the devoted disciple, responded in kind. Every phrase, every original composition of Oscar’s flowed effortlessly from his fingers. The admiration was mutual. At one point, Peterson planted himself beside the piano, watching the younger man navigate the hammers and keys with near-religious devotion. Then, as if moved by an unseen force, he slid onto the stool. The air shifted. It was now his turn.

Peterson’s hands caressed the keys, ushering in a wave of originals, suggestions for Ozone to explore, melodies sculpted in the master’s own language. Hoeffler moved like a shadow, capturing every flicker of expression—crouched beneath the piano, hovering above with a 24mm lens, tracking the current between the two men. Occasionally, he motioned for me to shift a strobe. Otherwise, I was an observer, taking it all in, waiting for the right moment to fire off a few frames of my own.

Then came Ozone’s suggestion—listen to the soundboard. I maneuvered behind a chair, letting my head dip into the open belly of the grand. The sound was intoxicating. Rich, thick harmonics filled the space, a fullness seldom heard in lesser pianos. It transported me back to my fourteen-year-old self, alone with a copy of West Side Story. That record had been a revelation. Peterson’s take on Bernstein’s compositions—Tonight, Maria—was unlike anything I had encountered. The arrangements were tight, intricate, his playing at its most lyrical.

And then one click of the shutter. Peterson as I saw him in those classic jazz photos. I knew I caught a moment.

The session stretched beyond its intended time. Hoeffler, transfixed, couldn’t let go. Each exchange, each shared laugh, each unguarded moment demanded another frame. Finally, Peterson turned to Paul and grinned, "Here’s one you missed." The embrace was repeated, the shot immortalized.

We relocated upstairs, into the living room off the solarium. The space was intimate, warm—a refuge filled with plants, pottery, personal awards, a stained-glass window depicting loons, a cozy workstation. Peterson, ever the perfectionist, preferred this small sanctuary to his grand basement studio. Here, he was in command, surrounded by tools of creation—a computer, a keyboard, a mixing board.

For forty minutes, we sat as Peterson guided us through compositions he had crafted for Canada’s millennium celebration. Each piece painted a sonic portrait of the nation—from the stark beauty of the Inuit North to the pastoral serenity of his own country retreat. The music shimmered with dignity, grace. One piece bore echoes of Aaron Copland, another the cinematic sweep of Michel Legrand. But none lingered in nostalgia. These were the sounds of a man forever moving forward, forever refining his craft, forever reaching for something just beyond the horizon.