Keith Emerson

Keyboard Magazine, June 1992 & April 1994

Photo © Michael Tweed

For a few brief moments, keyboard players were superstars. Guitarists had dominated the sound and spectacle of rock ’n’ roll, while the guy behind the piano or organ stood hidden in the shadows. (As an example, I remember a story going around about David Lee Roth taking a break in his show to introduce each member of his band by name before a final gesture toward the back and the words, “And here is … our keyboard player.”)

But like comets streaking across the six-stringed sky, synthesizer wizards seemed to shoot from nowhere, and grabbed the spotlight in bands like Yes, Genesis and ELP. Their reign may have been cut short when sequencers seized control of synthesizers, rendering archaic the idea of playing virtuosic solos by hand in real time.

Still, keyboardists recall those brief halcyon days with affection and maybe a little sadness. They’re certainly clear in my memory, as I was on staff throughout the Eighties at Keyboard Magazine. Business was booming for us: This was the Bible of contemporary synth players, which translated into an avalanche of product ads, transcriptions, programming tips and above all, humongous interviews. A one-on-one with Rick Wakeman, Tony Banks, Patrick Moraz or Geoff Downes could easily fill twenty of our pages. Yet our readers kept asking for more.

Of all the gods assembled on prog rock’s Olympus, none stood taller than Keith Emerson. It was easy to see why: He was dashing, handsome and a little dangerous. He swilled brandy grandly between songs, which were known to peak with him astride his Hammond L-100, stabbing it with vicious glee. Most important, though, was his command of the keyboard. With equal flourish, he conquered the complexities of his original compositions (“Piano Concerto No. 1,” “Karn Evil 9) and reimagined formidable works by others (Aaron Copland’s “Fanfare for the Common Man,” Sibelius’s “Intermezzo” from The Karelia Suite and Dave Brubeck’s “Blue Rondo à la Turk,” which Emerson cheekily adapted from 9/8 to a galloping 4/4).

Everyone at Keyboard got to know Keith personally. I remember him dropping in at our office to just chat for a while. Then there was the night that Keyboard’s editor Dominic Milano showed up with Keith at the Palo Alto restaurant MacArthur Park, right in the middle of my solo piano set. With pleasure and fear, I saw Keith make a beeline to the weathered Chickering piano to say hello and then watch my hands in action, as if studying the dance of a honeybee. He was a generous soul, though, so after a few seconds of near paralysis from intimidation, I relaxed and later enjoyed some post-set conversation over dinner.

Most of the staff interviewed Keith at least once. It was my great fortune to sit with him for two cover stories. The second one turned out to be startlingly different from any of his previous encounters with Keyboard. Where the first piece covered the kinds of topics Emerson devotees would appreciate, the last one surprised — no, make that stunned and alarmed — me even before we started rolling tape.

I never spoke with Keith again after that final encounter. On March 10, 2016, after years of wrestling with heart disease, depression and continuing issues with his hands, he picked up a shotgun and took his own life at his home in Santa Monica. To some who knew him well, this was tragic but in no way unexpected; bassist/singer Greg Lake, his colleague in Emerson, Lake & Palmer, told Blabbermouth.net, “I have to be honest and say his death didn’t come as a shock to me … He lived, in the end, this very lonely existence of someone who was deeply troubled … increasingly confused, desperate and depressed.”

To the many like me, who were less intimate friends, the event is still hard to process though it would become somewhat easier to understand over time.

Here are transcripts of my two interviews with Keith. In the first, he discusses the influence of classical music, both in his own musical growth and as a source of repertoire for ELP. In the second, I think we can see the seeds of what would become a source of depression and a loss of hope. I think we spoke more than ever before as confidants, though not to the point of my realizing that this great artist and gentleman desperately needed help.

Photo © Mari Kawaguchi

Keyboard, June 1992

… Throughout your career you’ve written and performed adaptations of classical themes. Many of your fans aren’t familiar with the source material, so they won’t be able to bring an informed perspective to fully appreciate what you’re doing.

Well, we only develop pieces that seem to demand that sort of treatment. The first time I heard the Prokofiev piece [“Romeo and Juliet,” from the ballet of the same name, featured on ELP’s Black Moon], it seemed to demand development. I had the same reaction when I heard Aaron Copland’s “Hoedown” [on ELP’s Trilogy] and “Fanfare for the Common Man [on ELP’s Works Volume 1].”

Your point is that you don’t look on these pieces as “classical,” per se.

Right. It’s pure music. It doesn’t have to be classical. It could be a piece by Bob Dylan or the Beatles. I like to set myself the challenge of trying to draw out different qualities from the music. In fact, I did that for Keyboard when you set me the task of arranging “Simple Gifts.” [Emerson and several members of the magazine’s advisory board contributed arrangements of “Simple Gifts,” from Copland’s Appalachian Spring, to celebrate the composer’s eightieth birthday in our Nov. 1980 issue.] I even get a lot of fun from arranging [songs by] Hoagy Carmichael; I did an arrangement of “Skylark” that I rather like. I also did an arrangement of Charlie Parker’s “Au Privave,” which is based on a bebop line, but I did it with the left hand playing counterpoint to the upper line.

But I certainly would’t get hold of a piece of classical music and really adulterate it. There are too many examples of people mucking about with classical music. “Nut Rocker” [released by B. Bumble & the Stingers and adapted as the final track to ELP’s Pictures at an Exhibition] is an example, although it was a fun thing to do.

When I did the Prokofiev arrangement, I listened to the orchestral version and I bought the piano sheet music. I learned to play it the way it was written; then I threw the music away. In the end, I played the piece the way I wanted to, but not until I had a full, thorough understanding of the piece. … This is Emerson playing Prokofiev.

There’s a difference, though, in working with classical repertoire and songs by Dylan or the Beatles. Don’t orchestral compositions suggest more possibilities for creative treatment in terms of texture?

That’s right, but to tell you the truth, when I first heard the original Prokofiev Romeo and Juliet, what struck me about this particular music was the similarity between it and the way that Jimi Hendrix started “Purple Haze.” The rhythm was so similar that I was sure I could work with the Prokofiev. Amazingly, you don’t have to force too many changes to make it happen. It works quite naturally, the same as the shuffle rhythm works with “Fanfare for the Common Man.”

When you begin an arrangement by studying the source material thoroughly, as you did with the Prokofiev, does that give you a deeper perspective on the composer’s process that you can adapt in your arrangement?

Right, but there is some point where you have to throw all that away. It’s like a teacher saying in school, “Read Shakespeare and give me your true opinion about it.” Every kid in that classroom will come up with a different idea. Once you compose something, it’s thrown out there and everybody can get into it in his own way. I know, for examples, that my Piano Concerto No. 1 will be performed at the end of this year by Volker Bundgardt with the Westdeutscher Rundfunk in Cologne. I’ve sent them the score and all the orchestral parts. I’m not sure of the interpretation Dr. Bundgardt will take, but I’m very proud that it’s being played.

Keyboard, April 1994

When did you become aware that something was wrong?

It’s very difficult to pin a time on it. It’s the same as when you’re an athlete: You’re running a hundred-yard dash and you suddenly realize that something is wrong. I had already had a series if damages to my hand. I had a ganglion cyst removed from my right palm in 1989; that was non-malignant. I think they also removed a small amount of muscle tissue while doing that; I recovered from that okay. I went through physiotherapy and got back into playing with no noticeable problems. Then I broke the knuckle of the fifth digit in my right hand in 1990, just through being stupid.

What happened?

I hit something. So I had to have that reset. I think the problems started after that, although I don’t really know whether they were connected to the ganglion cyst and the broken knuckle. I’ve read a lot of reports about people who have had carpal tunnel syndrome, which often starts after injuries. But Dr. Bassett and lots of other people I’ve seen have not tied my problems down to that.

Once your finger problem subsided, were you aware of any alterations in your technique?

No, I just carried on playing as well as I could. Maybe after breaking the knuckle I didn’t fulfill all the physiotherapy I should have done. But it was explained to me at that time that I was doing enough physiotherapy by just playing, so I didn’t put my problems down to that.

Did you feel any pain when you played?

No, I didn’t have any pain at all. And it definitely wasn’t psychological, because I’ve seen psychologists about stage fright and stuff. The problem was there, whether I played in front of people or on my own. It was a very definite problem.

In other words, you felt totally normal except when you had to play.

Totally normal. I could write. Now, if I woke up at night, I would feel that my fourth and fifth fingers wanted to curl up. Apart from that, there were no other real problems. But I was having difficulty in just doing simple arpeggios. I thought, “This is crazy! Why can’t I do that?”

There was no pain when you played those arpeggios …

No pain.

So was it a question of losing accuracy.

Yeah, and weakness.

You couldn’t hit the keyboard as hard as you normally could.

No, I couldn’t.

What about speed?

I didn’t have a problem with speed of playing. It was all about strength and reliability.

Still, this is all pretty terrible, especially with all those intricate lines you have to play with ELP.

Yeah, but I’m the one who wrote all those lines [laughs]. It really wasn’t that bad. Even after I’d been feeling this problem for a whole year, I was the one who was most sensitive to it. I realized it more than the audience, though there were a few times when it let me down.

If you heard tapes of those performances while all this was going on, you wouldn’t know that anything was wrong.

Right, but you know what your capabilities are. You know what you should be able to do. You know that if there’s a difficult line, you’re still gonna be able to make it. But it was the simplest things, not the most intricate things, that were becoming problems. That’s what made me decide to look into this.

Taking Action

What did you do?

Rather than go through surgery and all that, I saw a lady in England called Carola Grindea, who runs the International Society for the Study of Tension in Performance. On her team she has physicians, psychiatrists, people who teach the Alexander Technique [a therapeutic process based on alleviating physical problems through corrected posture] and all that. She’s a dear lady, possibly in her mid-sixties. I studied with her for about a year.

What was your first session like?

I came in. There was a piano. She said, “Just play anything.” So I walked over, sat down, put my hands up — and she said, “No, no! Stop! I can see what’s wrong!” I hadn’t played one note! “It’s your posture!” I thought, “Oh, God, you’re not gonna tell me about posture after I’ve been playing all these years?” But she said, “Stand up. Look at yourself in the mirror. Look at the way you stand. Obviously you are going to have problems.” After about an hour of this, she actually allowed me to play the piano. She said, “Ah, yes. I want you to play with less arm weight. Loosen your wrist. Do this and there will be no more problems. I want to see you next week.”

Photo © Mari Kawaguchi…

How long did you consult with Grindea?

I studied with her for about a year, and I played under her instructions throughout the whole ELP tour.

Did it help?

I wasn’t really satisfied. I was finding a weakness in my little finger and particularly in my fourth finger, which was tending to curl in. So I went to see a surgeon in England. He put me through nerve conduction tests, where they stick needles in your hand and your arm. the first readings came back, and the surgeon said, “You do have a problem here. But I suggest that you wait on the treatment because to have an ulnar, which is what we would recommend in this situation, is a very serious jump. So let’s have the test again in another four months’ time.”

I went away and I thought about it. A month went by and I realized that they hadn’t evaluated my left arm as well. If they had done that, then I could have seen the difference between the right and left hands. So I went back again for tests, but this time on both arms. The results were that they couldn’t find any significant difference between the right and the left.

You’ve had no problems with your left hand?

None at all.

So it’s puzzling that the results were so similar.

Yes, but the guy who did the second test didn’t appear to take the time or pay the attention that the first one had. So later on, when I was here in the States, I decided to see a physical therapist and have manipulation done.

Muscular manipulation?

Yeah, in the shoulder. Stretching. But in the end, the therapist recommended that I see Dr. Bassett at the Cedars-Sinai Hospital. I went to him and he advised me to have more nerve conduction tests done, which I did. They were very painful. Needles were actually put into the muscle in back of my arm and all the way through the shoulder. Then he checked out the left arm as well, in the same way. When Dr. Bassett saw the results, he said to a technician, “There’s definitely a problem here. Just to be on the safe side, I want you to do some EMG [electromyogram] tests [to measure muscle activity] on his right arm.”

And the results of those tests persuaded him to recommend surgery?

Let me try to phrase it the way Dr. Bassett did. He said, “Although God has been very good in designing our bodies, there are certain frailties. The arm is one of those, particularly where the nerve comes across the elbow, because this is a joint that’s constantly moving. This movement can compress the nerve so that the information it carries from your brains to your hands can become restricted. In this situation, we relieve the compression through surgery. Look, if you don’t do anything about it, you won’t get any better. If you do have the surgery done, at least you’ll be in the same position as you were before, with a chance you might get better.”

But there were no guarantees.

No guarantees. I was still not satisfied with these conclusions, so I went to see a highly recommended neurotherapist in Santa Monica who deals in sports medicine. I took my conduction tests along. He took one look at this and said, “There is no way you can get around this by doing exercise or manipulation. You need to have surgery, and Dr. Bassett is the best guy to do it.

When and where did the surgery happen?

At Cedars-Sinai, on the fifth of October ’93. I had the radial nerve operated on. As a result, I don’t have any funny bone anymore; it’s been shoved over to one side. If you bang my right elbow, I wouldn’t feel it. I’ve got a lot of swelling compared to my left arm.

How does it feel now?

I get very bad pain across the index finger and the thumb. I’ve been told that this will disappear in another three weeks’ time.

Have you played much since the operation?

I’m up to about two-and-a-half hours a day, with breaks. But it’s not up to my true standard. I’m exercising every day but not pushing it. I’ve been told to take it easy and do the physiotherapy. … I’ve done certain things on the piano and gone, “Wow, that’s incredible! Is it coming back?” But as soon as I get that far along, I try something else and I get really disappointed, although I try not to let it get me too far down. It’s clear to me that my style will have to change. I’ve noticed that when I’m looser in the wrist, it’s a little easier.

Are you concerned about your future at the keyboard?

Very. I’m still in a degree of shock about it all, and obviously fear. But I’ve resigned myself to the possibility that I may not be able to play again. I wouldn’t want to go onstage and play live if I’m unable to play to a standard that satisfies me.

What can you tell other musicians who are going through the same things you’ve had to deal with?

Oh, God. Fear is fear itself. It just generates more fear. There is no reason to get paranoid about this. First of all, I’ve had a lot of damage to my right hand, which probably accentuated and concentrated the issue. I see no reason for anybody else to get paranoid about it, even though keyboard players are the most paranoid people on Earth. The thing is, just get out and play.

I guess you could be philosophical about it and just resolve to play as long as it is intended that you play.

Well, who knows? I may come out of this playing better than ever. So, hey! Onwards.

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