"A Man Called Peter"

(Coming next: “A Bread Called Pita”)

Peter never missed a concert.  He was always there, at the 92nd Street Y or Jazz at Lincoln Center, as often as I was, at least three, four, or more nights a week.  He must have attended every great concert of jazz or music from the Great American Songbook in New York for several decades. 

The major difference between Peter and your average concert-goer was that Peter, as far as anyone could see, never actually purchased a ticket.  He would stand in front of the door and ask everybody, as they entered, if they had an extra seat. Everybody.  He was very diligent and very thorough, working hard for a freebie.  I never actually gave him a ticket, even though he asked me directly at least a hundred times over the decades.  Needless to say, he only tried this in concert halls, as opposed to clubs; this technique would only work in a situation where the tickets had to be purchased in advance, not charged as a bill presented at the end of the show. 

I would inevitably see him more than once in an evening.  First, out front.  And then, almost always on the inside.  It seemed like somebody would actually give him a free seat.  But if it was in the balcony or in the back, he would upgrade.  You would see him about 60 seconds before the house lights would start to dim, and he would be scouting around for an empty seat closer to the front.  And normally, he not only got a freebie, but he got one of the best seats in the house as well.   I am sure that there were times when the legitimate ticket holder was simply late, and you would think that one of the ushers would cast him out of that seat.  But often as not, come the intermission, and I would cast my eyes over to third row center, and there he would be.

I also saw Peter at free events, concerts at Bryant Park, or Damrosch Park at Lincoln Center.  He was a dependable audience member and a proactive supporter of any kind of good music that he didn’t have to actually pay for.  He also became a running gag with certain friends of mine who were also regular concertgoers - like my buddy Eric Friedenthal.  If we were supposed to meet at 92NY for instance, if he got there first, he would text me, “You’ll never guess what - Peter is already inside!”  

About ten years ago, when I was doing my weekly column, “The Jazz Scene” for the now-defunct “Greater New York” section of The Wall Street Journal, I had the idea to profile Peter for the paper.  I thought it would be fascinating to interview him and get his take on the concert scene, a guy who has seen more concerts than anybody, but who has never paid for a ticket.  

So one summer evening, in the middle of the 92NY “Jazz In July” series, I decided to approach him.  Not only that, I recruited some help.  It was a concert featuring Ken Peplowski, one of my absolute favorite contemporary musicians.  I knew that Peter had been to enough concerts to recognize Ken.  I contacted Peps before the concert and told him what I had in mind, and he was intrigued enough to go along with the idea.

I also knew that seeing Peps with me would help to catch Peter off guard.  And that part of the plan at least worked out.  The two of us walked up to him and started talking, and he was more than surprised that the star of the concert he was about to see knew who he was, knew his name, and was aware of his tactics for getting in to see so many “free” concerts.

He did talk to us, but when I told him what I had in mind, he flatly refused.  I couldn’t press the issue, and the proposed profile of him in the Journal never happened.  I only write this now because I haven’t seen Peter since the pandemic.  I don’t know if he’s still out there or not.

One final anecdote: a few years ago, Eric drove to Wooster, Ohio, as he then did every year, to attend the Ohio Light Opera festival.  I texted to Eric to see how he was doing, and he wrote back, “You’ll never guess - Peter says hello.”

Coming next: “A Bread Called Pita”

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