When I’m deep in the Bill Evans zone (let’s say late at night, earbuds in, lying next to my toddler who’s just fallen asleep in his bottom bunk, his orange night light creating a distinct vibe), I’m hypnotized by the way one chord melts into the next, as though I’m being led through some magical forest of harmony. Even when I don’t know what the next chord is going to be, I know how it’s going to feel. Every tree, every clearing, every creek, every deer is perfectly placed.
I read somewhere that Bill Evans’s magic is the way his playing looks ahead. Now, I don’t know if I’m making this up or if this was the writer’s intent, but here’s what I hear: many of his chords and lines seem to anticipate the next chord or line. It’s as if he’s deliberately tipping his hand or giving the listener clues as to where he’s about to go. There is a unique fluidity and “vision” to how he hears harmony; he’s stitching things together in ways others don’t. It creates a feeling of seamlessness.
One of my favorite examples is “Gloria’s Step” from Sunday at the Village Vanguard. As I was getting to know the song, I felt like I was in a beautiful old house full of mysterious and inviting rooms. Each chord is one of those rooms. I was wandering and finding an even more beguiling room around every corner. I couldn’t always find my way back; in the way of Borges, passages from room to room would sometimes disappear as soon as I’d passed through. That should be scary, but instead it felt warm and enveloping. It wasn’t long before I knew the song well enough to know exactly what chord was coming at me, but even then the magic wasn’t lost. It still has the feeling of a puzzle no one else could ever build. (It’s worth pointing out here that Evans himself didn’t write the song; his then-bass player, Scott LaFaro, did. Which is to say, this attribute is present in Evans’s playing regardless of whether he dreamed up the chord progression.)
(Metaphor count currently at three. 1) A magical forest of harmony. 2) A beautiful old house full of mysterious and inviting rooms. 3) A puzzle.)
Another key song for me, and one whose darkness almost got to be too much during the most depressing days of autumn, is the obliquely titled “Re: Person I Knew.” (Note: the title is apparently an anagram of Orin Keepnews, Riverside record label owner/producer and Evans associate). Like Chopin on heroin, Evans sardonically stretches this melody and its underlying harmonic infrastructure past its breaking point. When I first heard the song, I would have sworn the chord sequence was as long as the recording; turns out, it’s a simple eight bar repeating structure. (Depending on where you hear the 2 and 4, you might count it as 16, but you get my point.)
Yet another example (and maybe the best known Evans song) is “Blue In Green” (featured on Kind Of Blue). I’ve been listening to KOB for at least 30 years, and this structure—another presumably simple chord progression on paper—still eludes me. Where does is start? Where does it end? I’ve read that it’s a six bar progression. I’ve also read that it’s 10 bars. I’ve also read that it’s 16 bars. (Thank you, Internet.) You’d think there’d be conclusive evidence in where soloists come in on the KOB version, but even that doesn’t solve it for me. Lest I need to say it, all of this is coming not from a place of confusion or frustration, but one of admiration and respect and (let’s be honest) worship. The genius here is subtle and impressionistic and introspective. It’s not the type of genius that blows your hair back or knocks your socks off. This song is barely a song. It’s a haze, a memory, an in-between state, an impression, a dream turned inside out. An enigma. A koan. Oh, also, an undisputed standard.
This structural stuff is, I think, a key part of what makes Bill Evans unlike anyone else. Some of it is down to re-harmonizing. Which…I tend to think the idea of re-harmonizing old classics is overrated; making “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star” sound unrecognizable doesn’t necessarily make you an artist. But Evans is different. There’s an urgency to his deconstructions and, probably more importantly, a signature. The way he does it speaks to something about his heart and soul, his outlook on the world, his restlessness, his “voice.”
I fell under the spell of this voice in late August and have listened to little else since. When I do listen to other music, it’s usually music in which Evans played a role (the aforementioned Kind Of Blue, for instance).
I just picked up a copy of Explorations, the second of two studio albums with his most famous trio (LaFaro on bass and Paul Motian on drums). It occurs to me that explorations is the word that best describes Evans’s entire modus operandi. A song for him seems to be (let’s go back to those metaphors) a place that merits repeated visits, a place with more depth than the casual observer would glean, a place with layers and unseen dimensions and secrets. It’s easy enough for the listener to visit that place; the artist is leading the tour and will keep the listener safe. But it’s got to be hard on the artist. It takes vision and imagination and determination to keep going back and keep trusting yourself to find something new, to create something surprising, on the spot, in front of and presented to an audience. He’d been in all these houses hundreds of times. Why go back? Why keep exploring? What if, one of these times, you don’t find your way out?
Let’s consider this Part 1 of my writing about Mr. Evans. I have a lot to say. I’ll be back.
THE OWL HEAD SHOE HORN 