That said, I have a special fondness for Testament (Paris/London), a great piece of latter-day Jarrett laced with hurt and a touch of darkness. From the liner notes (by Jarrett himself):
Then my wife left me (this was the third time in four years). I quickly scrambled to stay alive (music had been my life for 60 years) by setting up a Carnegie Hall Concert (a leaflet inserted into the program for my 25th anniversary trio concert there in October 2008 advertised a solo concert in late January 2009), but before I did that concert, Steve Cloud managed to quickly come up with two solo concerts in Europe: Paris and London. I had not played solo in London for, I believe, 18 years. These were the first solo events since my wife had left. I was in an incredibly vulnerable emotional state, but I admit to wondering whether this might not be a “good” thing for the music. It truly didn’t matter; I had to do them. Everything was put together in a dizzyingly short time.
I had to find help for packing and touring (I had lots of physical ailments that prevented me from being pro_active on the physical fronts, plus stress, plus an emptiness that was overwhelming, etc.). I decided that if I backed down now, I would back down forever. I used to tell my piano students, “If you’re going to play, play like it’s the last time.” It was not theoretical advice anymore; this was real. This was either going to achieve my survival or hasten my demise. I had no idea how much en- ergy I would have, though I prepared well (but all along I never remembered just how much it took to do these concerts).
Startlingly, Paris was an achievement I never expected. Manfred Eicher and the rest of my touring ensemble (minus one) were backstage eating dinner. It started then to be clear to me that I had a new chance at something, that nothing would stop me if only I stayed awake to the possibilities, both musical and personal. Many of the people I knew seemed to feel they were just meeting me. I was in tears going on and offstage for bows.
On the way into London, I had as close a brush with a nervous breakdown as I’ve had. Christmas shoppers were all out holding hands; the place was way too colorful for my mood. I was exhausted from Paris (only two days had gone by) and stuck in an unmoving traffic jam in the middle of London in a car without my wife, looking out the window at couples, Christmas lights, and seemingly_normal unbounded joy. I couldn’t handle it. When we finally got to the room I closed all the cur- tains (they also looked out at lit_up Christmas trees) and tried breathing normally.
Two days later we drove to the hall (the limo driver was on my side, he perked up my spirits), I checked the piano, went backstage to see what we had for dinner, was introduced to the catering lady, who was as sharp as anyone around and had just lost her lover after some time together.
I said I couldn’t help thinking about my wife, and she quietly (but firmly) pointed to a blank, white wall. We shot short, pointed one_liners back and forth during dinner, and I realized all these people, unwittingly, were helping me get myself together. The concert went on and, though the beginning was a dark, searching, multi_tonal melodic triumph, by the end it somehow became a throbbing, never_to_be_repeated, pulsing rock band of a concert (unless it was a church service, in which case, Hallelujah!). I needed heat therapy on my arms afterwards (first time ever). Even the people backstage as I came off in tears again were giving off the exactly right thing. Communication is all. Being is all. People are deep, serious creatures with little to hang on to.
So, loss may be a big thing, but what remains becomes even more important than ever. Just never let go of the thread. And be honest with yourself. A writer I greatly admire and with whom I was just recently in touch, echoed some of my words to her when she wrote back to me: “How fragile and serendipitous things are indeed, unbearably so.”