George Winston
It’s 1982. I’m twenty years old. I’m working in NYC, strolling 59th street.
It’s late fall and there’s a brisk chill in the air. I walk protected, with my hands in my pockets, my chin tucked to skirt the wind. I pass by a record store, and an album in the window catches my attention. Its cover is simple yet captivating – a few barren trees against the backdrop of a harsh, snowy countryside. It’s appropriately entitled December.
I’m compelled to walk inside and look more closely.
It’s a moment that sticks with me for life, even if I didn’t recognize it as such back then. I’d never heard of George Winston until that day, but I bought the album.
For forty years I’ve played it at Christmastime, without fail. It’s a Christmas album, after all. But it’s also not uncommon for me to play it in any season. Great works of art deserve as much. They ground you in reverence. Hijack your thoughts. Steal, and still, your mood.
In 2015, George Winston – a man who could sell out a lavish concert hall in any major city – played a Christmas concert at a local winery, here in Grand Junction of all places. I took my young girls, wanting to introduce them to pure genius, hoping they might find inspiration. It was a small venue – open seating – and we found ourselves in the front row with direct eye contact if he wanted to engage. But he didn’t. His mind was elsewhere – on the music. His eyes fixated on the keys. He ran them with precision and flow, and sometimes struck a single note with such timely perfection that it gave me chills. I looked for expression in his face, but there was none. His was in the music.
When I heard this week that he’d passed away from a ten-year battle with cancer, I was saddened with the thought that he’d must have been recently diagnosed at the time we saw him play. I got the feeling he was very introspective, a quiet person. So, of course, nobody in the audience had any idea. I can only guess the freedoms he felt when he played that night.
I’m going to miss him, as any fan will. Artists leave an indelible mark on us. They resonate and speak for us when we, ourselves, don’t have the words or the talent.
I’ll continue to play December. There is simply no better way to relax on a cold night, while sipping wine, warmed by a fire, and watching snow fall through frosty windows. The album itself reflects such moments. It evokes a certain sadness, a certain melancholy, that is laced with hope and meaning, like many Christmas albums, I suppose. On it are beautiful cover tracks. However, George did one thing that most artists can not. He made those covers better; he made them in his own genius.
RIP George Winston.
It’s late fall and there’s a brisk chill in the air. I walk protected, with my hands in my pockets, my chin tucked to skirt the wind. I pass by a record store, and an album in the window catches my attention. Its cover is simple yet captivating – a few barren trees against the backdrop of a harsh, snowy countryside. It’s appropriately entitled December.
I’m compelled to walk inside and look more closely.
It’s a moment that sticks with me for life, even if I didn’t recognize it as such back then. I’d never heard of George Winston until that day, but I bought the album.
For forty years I’ve played it at Christmastime, without fail. It’s a Christmas album, after all. But it’s also not uncommon for me to play it in any season. Great works of art deserve as much. They ground you in reverence. Hijack your thoughts. Steal, and still, your mood.
In 2015, George Winston – a man who could sell out a lavish concert hall in any major city – played a Christmas concert at a local winery, here in Grand Junction of all places. I took my young girls, wanting to introduce them to pure genius, hoping they might find inspiration. It was a small venue – open seating – and we found ourselves in the front row with direct eye contact if he wanted to engage. But he didn’t. His mind was elsewhere – on the music. His eyes fixated on the keys. He ran them with precision and flow, and sometimes struck a single note with such timely perfection that it gave me chills. I looked for expression in his face, but there was none. His was in the music.
When I heard this week that he’d passed away from a ten-year battle with cancer, I was saddened with the thought that he’d must have been recently diagnosed at the time we saw him play. I got the feeling he was very introspective, a quiet person. So, of course, nobody in the audience had any idea. I can only guess the freedoms he felt when he played that night.
I’m going to miss him, as any fan will. Artists leave an indelible mark on us. They resonate and speak for us when we, ourselves, don’t have the words or the talent.
I’ll continue to play December. There is simply no better way to relax on a cold night, while sipping wine, warmed by a fire, and watching snow fall through frosty windows. The album itself reflects such moments. It evokes a certain sadness, a certain melancholy, that is laced with hope and meaning, like many Christmas albums, I suppose. On it are beautiful cover tracks. However, George did one thing that most artists can not. He made those covers better; he made them in his own genius.
RIP George Winston.
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