Gösta Rundqvist

My old piano teacher died yesterday, aged 64. As a teenager in the early Eighties I trudged up the hill to his house in Sandviken once a week, always a bit ashamed that I hadn’t practised more. He had tons of talent; I had none. Should have played the trombone, but I never told him that.

Now and then I would proudly play him something simple I had written for our band. He probably thought I was a retard, but he never let it show. As encouragement he would take over and play my piece with jazz improv chords instead. It all sounded way better. I never understood how he did it. It just came naturally.

When I was about to graduate high school (I played at the graduation ceremony, so I must have done something right) Gösta told me he was thinking of trying his luck on the Swedish jazz stage. He did and became one of Sweden’s most accomplished jazz pianists. At least he got 20 years doing that, so I hope he didn’t feel like he wasted too much time on me. Because that’s what he did.

I should have played the trombone.