Music Snob Told Billy Joel & Ozzy Osbourne “Real Music Isn’t For You” — Until They Started Singing D
May 17th, 2017. On Canyon Drive in Beverly Hills, the glass door of a small music shop opened with the chime of its bell. Two men walked in. One wore a gray cashmere sweater and a worker’s flat cap, Billy Joel. The other had an old cap reading Aston Villa pulled down over his round glasses, Ozzy Osbourne.
Neither of them had been recognized on the streets of Beverly Hills that morning. The caps and the glasses had done their job. The shop’s owner, Matthew Hartman, was studying a Brahms score behind the counter. He looked up and saw them. Within half an hour, one of the world’s best-selling vocalists and one of its best-selling pianists would be performing Schubert in front of his 1923 Steinway.
No microphone, no preparation, just bare vocal cords and the resonance of a 95-year-old German piano. But Matthew Hartman didn’t know that yet. As he raised his head, his 30-year-old rule ran through his mind. What was the customer wearing? What accessories did he have on? Matthew was 52. He put on his thin-framed glasses the same way every morning and combed his gray hair to one side with water from a glass.
30 years ago, he had tried to get into Juilliard’s piano department but had been rejected on his third attempt. After that, he had never touched a single key again. The shop he had inherited from his father was Beverly Hills’ most established address for classical instruments, Hamburg-made Steinway pianos, Maggini and Cappa violins, viola da gambas, harpsichord replicas.
A Stratocaster or a Marshall amp had never set foot inside Matthew’s shop. “This is a place for real music,” he would tell customers. “Anyone looking for rock or metal can find another shop on Sunset Boulevard.” He had said that sentence at least 2,000 times over the past 30 years. That morning, he would say it for the last time.
At that same hour, two blocks down from the shop, a 68-year-old man was drinking his second espresso at the corner table of a small Italian cafe. His face was one of the most recognizable in American music history, but that morning, exactly as he wanted, no one in Beverly Hills was seeing him. Ever since becoming famous, Billy Joel had regarded going unrecognized on a street corner as one of life’s greatest luxuries.
He pulled out his phone, checked the time, then slipped it back into his pocket. Aussie was 10 minutes late, but Aussie was always late. Billy had long accepted this as a natural part of 40 years of friendship. His phone buzzed. He looked at the screen. A message from Aussie. “Can’t find the street, mate. Be there in 2 minutes.
” Billy smiled. A few minutes later, when Aussie arrived, the two of them embraced silently. “This morning, Sharon told me,” Aussie began as soon as he sat down. “Aussie, call me the second you get there, because I can’t imagine a single day when you wouldn’t get lost in Beverly Hills.
” “And I said, ‘Sharon, love, I’m meeting Billy. It’s not the Amazon I’m heading to.'” Billy laughed. As they were leaving the cafe, they checked the time. Their studio booking was at 2:00 in the afternoon. They had more than an hour. “What should we do till then?” Billy asked. Aussie shrugged. “Let’s walk,” he said.
“I miss strolling around like a normal person.” Then they began walking slowly toward the southern end of Canyon Drive. After two blocks, halfway down the street, they came across a small display window. Inside it was a handmade violin, and behind that, a glossy black Steinway baby grand. Above the window, a black wooden sign.
Billy stopped. “Aussie, look at that,” he said. “There’s a 1923 Steinway in there. Let’s take a look for a minute. Ozzie tilted his head and peered into the window. You know I don’t know much about instruments, mate. He said, but if you want to go in, I’ll look around, too. When the little bell above the door rang, Matthew was studying a Brahms score behind the counter. He looked up.
The two men who had just walked in could, by his 30-year-old rule, be summed up in a single word. Random. One of them looked like an aging American retiree, worn cashmere sweater, no on his face, a cap on his head. The other was even stranger. Round glasses, a faded black t-shirt, and an Aston Villa cap.
Matthew completed his assessment within 30 seconds. Neither of these two had the money to buy a 1923 Steinway. He set the score down gently and stepped out from behind the counter. Welcome, gentlemen. He said, his voice beyond cold. Is there something I can help you with, or are you just looking around? Just looking, thank you.
Billy said in a soft tone. He stepped over to the Steinway and ran his fingers gently along the lid. This must be a 1923, right? Did the owner bring it over from New York? Matthew pushed his glasses up slightly. The technical accuracy of the question had caught him a little off guard, but his face didn’t change. 1923, yes.
He replied. Hamburg made. The owner brought it from New York to California in 1962. $35,000. Billy nodded, impressed. Meanwhile, Ozzie was standing at the back corner of the shop in front of a display case looking at an old wooden accordion inside. Mate. He called out to Billy. This one looks like a fancy piece.
The moment Matthew heard the tone of Ozzie’s voice, everything became clear. This man was either a tourist or a nightclub singer. He had a British accent, but in Beverly Hills, accents were already a brand of their own. Matthew returned behind the counter and raising his voice just slightly, but still politely, spoke up.
Sir, the accordion in the display case is a Marcello Cooperativa Sociale piece, $22,000. The owner had it made in Milan in 1958. Ozzie turned, looking at Matthew over the top of his glasses. $22,000 for an accordion? Bloody hell. Matthew’s lips pursed slightly. Sir, it’s a very special instrument. He said, “Not something everyone can appreciate.
Do you play the accordion?” Ozzie shook his head. The only thing I can play is a bit of harmonica, and even that’s rubbish. Vocals are more my thing. Matthew responded to this with a polite smile. Vocals, he said, with a hint of mockery so faint it might have gone unnoticed. A lot of people claim to be vocalists, but singing, sir, means 30 years of conservatory discipline, breath control, resonance points, proper structuring of the phrase.
Singing Schubert’s Lieder is one thing, shouting into a microphone on a Las Vegas stage is another. Billy, meanwhile, was touching the Steinway’s keys gently, but didn’t say a word. I myself have listened to nothing but classical music for the past 30 years, Matthew continued, his eyes fixed on Ozzie. Schubert, Schumann, Brahms, Wagner.
Everything else, rock, pop, jazz, metal, is just noise to me. It isn’t singing, it’s the collapse of singing. Ozzie slowly tilted his head to the side. Years ago, behind a counter in Birmingham, a man had told him, “You’re not a musician, you’re a street kid.” He had been 19 at the time.
He had never forgotten it. The same tone, the same arrogance, the same look at the shoes. Billy lifted his finger from the piano’s keys and turned around. Excuse me, sir. He said, “I heard you say you love Schubert. Which of his leader are your favorites?” Matthew’s face changed in that instant. For 30 years he had been waiting for a customer who would strike up a conversation about classical music in his shop.
“One of Schubert’s greatest works is the Schwanengesang cycle.” He said excitedly. “Especially Ständchen, the serenade. Fischer-Dieskau’s 1972 recording with Gerald Moore is for me the final summit of music.” Billy nodded with admiration. “Fischer-Dieskau’s 1972 recording, Deutsche Grammophon.” He confirmed.
“I keep that recording at home myself.” Matthew’s features softened a little. This man, it seemed, was different from what he had assumed. “Would I be wrong to say you’re a musician?” He asked. Billy smiled. “Just a little.” “A little.” Matthew repeated. The softness in his voice had pulled back. “Everyone who plays a little piano tries to play Ständchen, sir.
But singing that song is another matter entirely. The vocal line Schubert wrote moves across 92 tones with seven transitions. Even half of modern classical vocalists get stuck on those phrases. Las Vegas style singers can’t even come close.” The remark was polite, but unmistakably aimed at Aussie. Aussie had just turned away from the accordion and come over to stand beside Billy.
He had heard Matthew’s last sentence. He looked at Billy. Billy looked back at him. For a moment a wordless conversation passed between them. 40 years of friendship can produce a look like that. Then Aussie turned his head toward Matthew. “Sir.” He said. His voice was low, but it could be heard from every corner of the shop. “We actually came in here today just to pass an hour, but since we’re on the subject of Ständchen, with your permission, let me show you something.
” Matthew didn’t know what to say. Billy was already taking his place behind the Steinway, but he didn’t start playing yet. First, he looked at Ozzy and gave a small nod. Ozzy nodded back. The shop was completely silent. Behind the counter, Matthew had frozen, his mouth half open, as if it wanted to say something but couldn’t.
The other two customers, a middle-aged woman and a young man holding a double bass bow, turned their heads. The midday traffic on Canyon Drive hummed faintly in the distance. The air conditioning whispered, but inside the shop, all sound had been cut. Ozzy slid his hands into his pockets and pushed his cap back slightly on his head. Then he closed his eyes.
He was trying to remember a summer afternoon from 1981. Around that time, his guitarist Randy Rhoads was taking classical guitar lessons. No one knew about it. Even when he was tearing through Crazy Train under the stage lights, the moment he was back in the hotel room, he would spend hours with sheet music.
That afternoon, Randy had come into Ozzy’s room and said, “Listen to this.” and started playing the chords of Schubert’s Ständchen. Ozzy never forgot how stunned he was when the song ended. He had sung that song one night in a hotel room, alone, with only his own voice. Seven months later, he lost Randy in a plane crash.
Since that day, he had never sung that song to anyone. For 35 years, only in his head. Billy’s fingers touched the keys. The first chord, in B major, soft and long. The familiar opening arpeggio of Schubert’s Ständchen filled the air of the shop. Matthew rested his hand lightly on the counter. For 30 years, he had heard these chords thousands of times on records, but hearing them live from a Steinway was something else entirely.
Billy’s technique, this man was a professional pianist, and one who had practiced for years at that. The way he struck the keys, the way he used the pedal, the way he sustained the phrase. It had been only 2 seconds since Matthew noticed. Billy’s release of the pedal came at the exact same point as Gerald Moore’s in Fischer-Dieskau’s 1972 recording.
A nuance written into the memory of his 30-year record collection was now happening live 2 m in front of him. Then Aussie opened his mouth. There was no microphone. He needed to produce a voice that could be heard from 3 m away, but the shop was small and quiet. The first word was in German, “Leiser.
” His voice was rough, tired, and damaged from 40 years and thousands of concerts, but that roughness was the sound of something a Birmingham boy had carried in his heart for 35 years. “Leise flehen meine Lieder durch die Nacht zu dir.” Softly my songs plead through the night to you.
Matthew took a step back behind the counter. This man’s technique wasn’t flawless. He noticed that immediately. The breath control was amateur. The pitch sometimes got lost among the 92 tones Schubert had written, but there was something, something else, something Matthew had never heard in his 30-year conservatory record collection, the weight of a life.
The middle-aged woman stood still where she was, lifting her hand softly to her mouth. The older man with the double bass bow took a step and a half forward as if he wanted to hear the man more closely. At the back of the shop, a third customer who had been looking at recording equipment turned his head.
No one had a phone in their hand, not yet. Aussie still kept his eyes closed. He moved into the second phrase, “In den stillen Hain her nieder, Liebchen, komm zu mir.” Down into the silent grove, beloved, come to me. As he sang that line, his voice half broke, then recovered. Billy heard it. He slowed the piano’s tempo by an imperceptible margin, giving him time.
40 years of friendship could show itself even in the way a pianist released the pedal. Ozzy moved into the third phrase. This time his voice was stronger. The famous ascent towards Schubert’s highest notes was beginning. The young customer pulled out his phone. He took it in his hand, looked at the screen, then looked at Ozzy’s face.
That face beneath the round glasses. He pressed the mute button. A Wikipedia page opened on the screen with a photo. The man looked at it for a second, then raised his head and looked at Ozzy’s face again. Then he showed the screen of his phone to the woman customer. The woman looked at the screen, then at Ozzy, then at Billy.
Then she brought her hand to her mouth again, but this time from astonishment. “Oh my god.” The woman whispered. “That’s Ozzy Osbourne, and that That’s Billy Joel.” The whisper didn’t reach Matthew behind the counter because Matthew had already understood. Before the song was even halfway through, a familiar expression had appeared on his face.
The same expression he had worn years ago on the day he was rejected from Juilliard for the third time. The expression of a man realizing how little he knew. His 30-year-old rule was collapsing inside him silently. Ozzy reached Beb and Har ich dir entgegen, komm, beglücke mich. Trembling, I await you.
Come, bring me joy. His voice was now stretching towards the highest note Schubert had written. A trained opera tenor would have carried that note with breath technique honed over years, but Ozzy was not an opera tenor. His voice thinned, it strained, but it did not break. That tired, that rough, that parched voice reached the final note and stayed suspended there for a moment.
The entire shop held its breath. Then Billy played the final chord. Ozzie opened his eyes. The song was over. 3 seconds of silence. 5 seconds. 8 seconds. Then the first clap came from the woman customer. Then the young man. Then the third customer who had been looking at recording equipment. Ozzie bowed his head in a small nod of acknowledgement.
Then he turned, looked at Billy, his crooked smile spreading across his face. Bloody hell, mate. He said softly, “I nearly passed out on that last note.” Billy laughed and gently closed the lid of the piano. The two of them walked toward the counter. Matthew wanted to say something, but he couldn’t find anything to say.
Ozzie pushed his glasses up. “Sir,” he said in a calm tone, “what you said earlier about vocals, 92 tones, seven transitions, and so on. All of it was true. My technique isn’t great. I just shout in Las Vegas. After 30 years on stage, I still haven’t properly figured out how close or how far the microphone should be.
Those are facts.” Matthew nodded silently. He was trying to speak, but only a breathless sound came from his lips. “But for me, music isn’t only technique, mate.” Ozzie continued. “Music is something that passes from one person’s life into another’s. 35 years ago, young man named Randy taught me this song. 7 months later, we lost him in a plane crash.
Until today, I had never sung this song to anyone. But we walked in here, you mentioned Schubert, and I thought to myself, maybe that’s why I came here today.” Billy gently stepped in. “Sir,” he said, “I took years of classical piano lessons as a child. My teacher pointed me towards the conservatory. I got accepted, but I couldn’t afford it.
After that, my life took me into rock and pop, but every morning when I wake up, I listen to Schubert. I listen to Brahms, I listen to Wagner. There’s no division in music. There’s only good music and bad music. Matthew blinked. A tear dropped onto his cheek and he wiped it on the sleeve of his sweater.
“Sir,” he said finally, his voice trembling, “I didn’t know who you were. Forgive me.” Ozzie nodded. “You don’t have to know me, mate. What matters is that next time someone walks into your shop, before you look at their glasses or their cap, look at what they carry in their heart.” The three customers approached the counter. The woman customer had a small notebook in her hand.
She asked for an autograph for her little daughter. The young man pulled out his phone and asked for permission to take a photo. Ozzie and Billy smiled, signed in turn, and posed for the photos. The third customer simply shook both their hands and said, “Thank you.” As Ozzie walked towards the door, he looked at Matthew’s counter one more time.
“Sir,” he said, “I told you I’d have a look at that accordion. If I drop by sometime next year and it’s still there, maybe I’ll surprise Sharon. I play the harmonica, you know. Accordion’s pretty close to that, isn’t it?” Matthew let out a laugh, a real laugh, the kind that hadn’t been heard in this shop for 30 years. “Sir,” he said, “there’s a fair bit of difference between an accordion and a harmonica, but come back and I’ll teach you for free.
” Ozzie smiled and nodded. Then he and Billy walked out of the shop.
