Bill Evans 9780300185584

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Bill Evans: How My Heart Sings

PETER PETTINGER

Bill Evans: How

My Heart Signs

YALE UNIVERSITY PRESS NEW HAVEN & LONDON

Published with assistance from the foundation established in memory of Philip Hamilton McMillan of the Class of 1894, Yale College. Copyright© 1998 by Yale University. All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced, in whole or in part, including illustrations, in any form (beyond that copying permitted by Sections 107 and 108 of the U.S. Copyright Law and except by reviewers for the public press), without written permission from the publishers.

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Printed in the United States of America Library of Congress Control Number: 2002103569 ISBN 978-0-300-09727-6 (pbk.) A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

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Contents

Preface ix Prologue i Part I. Birth of the Sound, 1929-58 1. The Kid from Plainfield 2. Swing Pianist 20 3. New Jazz Conceptions 4. Sideman 39

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Part II. The First Trio, 1958-61 5. 6. 7. 8. 9.

A Call from Miles 51 Everybody Digs Bill Evans 65 Miles Calls Back 74 Portrait in Jazz 86 Explorations 97

10. Sunday at the Village Vanguard 107 Part III. On the Road, 1961-77 11. Moonbeams

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12. Conversations with Myself 131 13. An American in Europe 145 14. A Simple Matter of Conviction 15. Quiet Now 182

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16. Living Time 198 17. You've Been a Fine Audience 213 18. You Must Believe in Spring 227

Part IV. The Last Trio, 1977-80 19. Reflections in D 249 20. Twenty-One Cities in Twenty-Four Days 260 21. Letter to Evan 273 Notes 287 Discography 295 Index 337

Preface ... a rather simple person with a limited talent and perhaps a limited perspective. — Bill Evans on himself

In 1958 I was thirteen years old, pursuing classical studies in piano and violin. And, like many a British teenager of the time, I was listening to the latest rock 'n' roll hits dispensed from the heart of Europe by Radio Luxembourg. A schoolfriend had enterprising taste in jazz, though, and we started to swap 45rpm singles and EPs, which were all we could afford. Our appreciation progressed through the traditional bands to the truly "with it" Dave Brubeck. For that artist at least, a tiny audience in the east of England was running parallel with student appreciation on the wide American campus. Our ears matured quickly to the "cool" sophistication of the Gerry Mulligan Quartet—in particular, that magenta-sleeved Vogue EP with "Bernie's Tune" and "Walkin' Shoes"—and when Miles Davis came our way (excerpts from Miles Ahead and Milestones), our course was confirmed. Then my friend brought along the trumpeter's latest—something called Jazz Track. The pLno on this stunning record was being played by an unknown musician with an ordinary name: Bill Evans. But the way he was shading his tone was anything but ordinary; he sounded like a classical pianist, and yet he was playing jazz. I was captured there and then—the archetypal pivotal moment. The concept of the "Bill Evans sound" instantly enshrined and distilled what I had always hoped to hear. It was the plaintive harmony, the lyrical tone, and the fresh textures that captivated so; it was the very idea that one style of music could be played with the skills and finesse normally only brought to another; it was a timeless quality, a feeling that the music had always been there; and above all, it was a yearning behind the notes, a quiet passion that you could almost reach out and touch. I began to collect the records. So, I later learned, had hundreds of other people. But at the time I felt, strangely, that I was the only one who knew and responded to this music. Many Evans connoisseurs have had this experience, ix

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and jealously guard what they regard as their exclusive found treasure. It surely stems from this artist's ability to communicate at a very personal level, a quality emanating from his character, which was quiet, introverted, and modest. He was not a glamorous person, and he appeared to play not for the masses but for himself. A listener felt like an eavesdropper, communing on a privileged, one-to-one level. Through this quality—this "presence"—Bill Evans today gets through to listeners from all walks of life in a way that many other musicians do not. My desire to acquire more of this playing on disc soon became an obsession. I pursued every secondhand outlet that I could think of, on the outside chance of unearthing some undiscovered sideman recording—for I soon realized that Evans could be every bit as rewarding in small print as he was in large. It was all very hit and miss, the luxury of Peter H. Larsen's monumental discography, Turn on the Stars, being still almost twenty years away. As a fledgling classical pianist, I had the good fortune to begin traveling, and I discovered that issues appeared on the Continent before they did in England. Whenever I went to Paris, for example, I went straight to the Lido Musique on the Champs Elysées, and my Riverside copy of Portrait in Jazz still carries the stickers of "36 Francs" and "Déclaré à la S.D.R.M." on the back. Later the quest extended to New York basement emporiums. Evans's artistic development was long, slow, and, as he put it, "through the middle." It is fitting that his recognition today progresses in a similar way. Over the years since his death in 1980, his niche on the retail shelves has grown slowly but steadily, so that now the big stores offer a generous selection of his CDs. Gradually, the message of this giant is being valued for its true worth; one senses a slowly developing appreciation. He is especially "big" in France—but then, he always was—and it was there rather than in England or America that a portrait for television was made in 1996. He was a supremely natural pianist. Indeed, he even looked like part of his instrument—an extension of it, rather than someone sitting at it. Or rather, it was an extension oí him; he did not so much play upon it as coax it into life. His diffident and slightly awkward appearance when walking onto the bandstand was transformed when he began to play; then, somehow, he was complete. His influence is pervasive, extending generally throughout jazz and specifically to countless instrumentalists. The interactive, chamber-music concept of the Bill Evans Trios has even permeated an entire recording label (one for which he never recorded); the whole aesthetic of Manfred Eicher's ECM company has been defined by the Evans approach to economy and

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Maxine Evans, Bill's stepdaughter, receiving the pianist's Lifetime Achievement Award for 1994 from Michael Greene, President of N.A.R.A.S. Zavatsky, courtesy estate of Bill Evans, copyright © Nenette Evans 1996

silence. Many of Evans's trio members, as well as other musicians he influenced, went on to record for the label. The story of his life is the story of a working musician on one long round of clubs, concert halls, and studios. When not on the road, his musical home, the backbone of his working life, was the Village Vanguard club in New York, and his playing there over the years was captured by one particular fan, in anguish over vanishing sounds: Mike Harris's clandestine recordings, released by Fantasy in 1996 as The Secret Sessions, preserve the man on the job. I never knew Evans the man, but I did hear him countless times at Ronnie Scott's in London, the Village Vanguard, and elsewhere. I regularly flouted Manhattan's reputation as the mugging capital of the world, tramping home on foot between 3:00 and 4:00 A.M. from Greenwich Village to some midtown hotel. In London, too, I would stay out for every note, night after night. Reticent, and holding Evans in awe, I could never pluck up the confidence to speak to him (apart from a wild musical request one night, graciously

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fulfilled). Courage apart, though, part of me did not really want, or need, to meet him. It may sound sentimental to say so, but the music was enough, and I do not regret the anonymity.