Cherished memories of musical legend Peter Posa
When my wife rang with the news the first response was one of guilt. Peter Posa had died in Waikato Hospital. I had that sinking feeling.
Why had it been so long since I’d picked up the phone and given him a call?
Then the reality of the situation hit and I felt even worse, guilty for feeling guilty.
The real tragedy – or at least the real sadness – was the death of a man.
A New Zealand musician. A guitar legend. Someone I had presumed to call a friend, no matter the fleeting nature of our acquaintance. Many journalists made the trek out to the Te Awamatu property Peter shared with wife Margaret.
When I did so toward the end of 2015 it was for a particular purpose.
I wasn’t so much interested in Peter’s own story as where fame had taken him. I was told that Peter had suffered a stroke.
Movement was difficult, energy levels limited.
If I were granted an audience, I would need to be sensitive to the situation.
Having had a grandfather suffer through a similar experience, I thought I was up to the challenge.
When I first laid eyes upon him Peter was resting in a La-Z-Boy chair.
With evident difficulty, using a metallic cane, he rose and let me in.
There were smiles and handshakes and Margaret put the kettle on. It wasn’t the height of professional journalism.
Tea and biscuits came before the hard questions, such as they were.
This was the hospitality of an earlier generation. I felt like I was back in my grandparents’ home.
It seemed appropriate then to lead with an anecdote about my grandfather’s association with Frank Sinatra when briefly seated next to him at a 1945 armed services concert. The segue worked.
Peter was happy to talk me through his Sinatra moment, some 19 years later, at a Reprise record convention.
Frank had been generous with his time. Dean Martin smirked when the subject of the White Rabbit cover photo session came up.
Sammy Davis Jr was within earshot, too.
Peter had hung out with the Rat Pack. Looking back I was insufficiently sensitive to what else he was telling me.
His trip to America was a lost opportunity.
Poorly promoted, his records made no headway in the market.
A chance to become a session musician in Los Angeles went begging. He was homesick.
He was unhappy. Peter understood Sinatra because he too suffered from depression and he too was a perfectionist.
He got to witness Sinatra’s perfectionism first hand, sitting in on a recording session.
The singer’s confidence was inspirational. Despite huge Australasian success, Peter’s own confidence wasn’t always what it appeared to be.
He alluded to dark times and heavy drinking, to constant hard work and an insatiable drive to create flawless music.
At one point he suggested that his stroke had been a kind of release, freeing him from the pressure of performance.
A book case full of Christian literature reflected a new kind of faith. Peter lent me the original photographs of himself, Sinatra and Dean Martin, taking them off the wall without a second thought.
The trust and generosity involved in the gesture moved me. It also afforded an opportunity to return to Te Awamutu.
A casual interview had opened up other possibilities. We discovered a mutual interest in Hank Williams.
I sent him a biopic of Williams on DVD, a thank you present of sorts.
The thought was appreciated, the film itself not at all.
Returning the DVD, he lent me one of his own, an obscure but heartfelt drama about Williams’ last day.
It was indescribably superior. For a time, our phone conversations became weekly.
Peter’s opinions were always strongly held.
He had disdain for Bob Dylan’s recent output, especially Dylan’s Sinatra covers.
Banter on the subject led to a further – and final – visit. It’s a cherished memory now, sitting in Peter’s homely lounge, the master guitarist talking me through footage of Dylan’s appearance at a Willie Nelson tribute show, pointing out every bum note played. Friends who know a lot more about this country’s music than I ever will lament the fact that Peter Posa has yet to be inducted into the New Zealand Music Hall of Fame.
Let us hope that mistake will be rectified in the near future.
For the time being, however, the loss of the man overshadows the loss of the artist.
For so long a troubled soul, at peace at last.
Peter understood Sinatra because he too suffered from depression and he too was a perfectionist.