The woman behind the Keith Jarrett concert that changed music history

Myths are timeless; they are alien to history because it is in their nature to found it. According to Mircea Eliade, archaic man knows of no act that, in truth, has not previously been experienced by another. What he does has already been done. His life is nothing more than the uninterrupted repetition of gestures inaugurated by others; gestures that are, by definition, mythical. It could be said that in the bustle of events ritually designated as historical, from time to time, modern man, always concerned with the profitability of time, comes face to face with his most intimate primitive (or archaic) nature, and from his daily work, there indeed emerges myth, legend, the founding act, timeless time. The live concert that Keith Jarrett gave in the German city of Cologne in January 1975 (that is, 50 years ago) undoubtedly belongs in this category. It should never have happened.

The facts are known. The piano wasn't the one the musician had requested (the majestic Bösendorfer 290 Imperial had been replaced by another, out-of-tune piano whose pedals weren't working), the stage (the Opera House) was far from adequate (the standard, we'd say today), and the time slot, close to midnight on a freezing day, promised the worst. Added to this was the fact that Jarrett was suffering from unbearable back pain, a result both of his playing, literally bent over the piano, and of the car ride from Zurich after several days without sleep. What happened next was a perfect moment, lasting an hour and six minutes, that became the best-selling solo jazz album in history. A miracle. And also a founding myth, unrelated to anniversaries and at the same time, that speaks of overcoming difficulty, of letting oneself be carried away by inspiration, of the necessity of the impossible. And so on.

The film Köln 75 recreates that myth. It repeats it because it's in the essence of myths to be repeated, over and over again. The only novelty, and herein lies its discovery, is the point of view. Everything is told from the perspective of the miracle's creator, concert promoter and music producer Vera Brandes, who is now 69 years old, having been barely 18 then. But who cares about age when there's just as much time left? "It's still a mystery today why Jarrett agreed to give the concert," says Brandes, played with irrepressible energy in Ido Fluk's film by Mala Emde.

And he continues: "There are the obvious explanations, like not wanting to disappoint the audience packed into the opera house. But, even if I'm speculating, I'm inclined to think that what had an impact on him was what I said to him in the car my brother was driving when he was about to quit on the way back to the hotel. 'Keith, if you don't play tonight, I'm going to be screwed. And I know you're going to be screwed too.' In truth, he was repeating a phrase I heard Miles Davis say to his musicians, and I'm not sure what he meant. 'Okay, I'll play, but I'll do it for you,' was his reply." Pause. "But in truth, maybe the reason was that the recording equipment was already booked and set up, and the decision was made beforehand. Or some other, even more puerile reason." Which one? "Back when Keith was in Cologne with Chick Corea, the person in charge of that tour was a colleague, Renate, with whom he became great friends and who is very similar to me. Maybe it just confused us or reminded him enough of her to make him feel sorry for me.

In truth, the reason for giving the concert matters little or as much as the origin of, once again, the myths. In other words, nothing. But why was what emerged so memorable? "Jarrett probably played the way he did because it wasn't a good piano. Since he couldn't fall in love with the sound, he found another way to get the best out of it," was producer Manfred Eicher's response at the time. It is said that the first notes heard are those of the melody that sounds as a warning of the imminent start of the concert. Hence the laughter we hear. From there, the musician establishes a connection with the audience by developing melodic motifs that transform at the exact moment while maintaining constant attention in the improvisation. What matters is the permanent sense of intimacy between the creator and his creation, always free, always recognizable, always new.

“The memory of that concert remains linked to the moment Germany and the city of Cologne were experiencing. We were living through a moment of creative explosion in every sense. Not just in music, but in every aspect and artistic discipline. And Jarrett was a kind of prophet. He was there too, with the idea of ​​breaking down barriers between classical and popular music, between classical and jazz, between art itself and politics,” Brandes reasons, in yet another attempt to explain perhaps what has no explanation, what simply is as it is. He continues: “If we compare what happened then with what's happening now, it all seems like a brutal paradox. Now we have all the music imaginable at our fingertips. And yet, everything seems compartmentalized, separated, and people have very specific musical tastes. They don't want to be surprised. Back then, with the possibilities much more restricted, everyone—audience and creators—just wanted to push the limits, to get rid of boundaries.”

Brandes says the film is faithful, that all the protagonist's irrepressible drive, vigor, and even power were hers. "I was very young, but I already had experience," she specifies. She also explains that the legendary Imperial piano that never appeared was actually somewhere else than the film says. "The problem is that the person in charge of the opera's instruments didn't communicate with the director, and since it was the weekend, there was no one to ask," she says. "Actually, it was just a series of misunderstandings. But the common belief is that the challenge of playing a piano like that was what made her play the way she did. I'm not sure, but..." she says, and in the ellipses, she establishes the clarity of the myth, the myth of timeless time.