Bill Evans: How My Heart Sings

The late Bill Evans, a cerebral, classically-trained pianist, was the first of many brilliant keyboardists whose careers were launched by Miles Davis. Sometimes described as the Chopin of jazz, Evans, who died in 1980, was ethereal in his approach and esoteric in his appeal. "Bill Evans has no casual fans," wrote Adam Gopnik in a 2001 New Yorker article. Evans' name, added Gopnik, has become "synonymous with a heartbreak quality that is not like anything else in music."

A shy and self-effacing man, Evans once admitted: "It is a peculiarity of mine that despite the fact that I am a professional performer ... I have always preferred playing without an audience." His audience, it has been noted, also seems to prefer a sense of self-imposed exile. The average Bill Evans fan tends to consider him a private treasure, one little regarded by a woefully ill-educated musical public.

The self-anointed true believer gazes with disdain on those who, their tastes shaped by the musical pabulum dished out on smooth jazz radio stations, think of Yanni and Kenny G as the pinnacle of jazz artistry. Evans' music is often dismissed by careless listeners as nothing more than elegant cocktail piano, leaving his devotees cherishing the sense—melancholy yet prideful—that few (besides themselves, of course) can appreciate the exquisite subtlety and nuance of Evans' rarified talents.

These devotees are always surprised to discover that over the past three decades there have been innumerable other fans around the world equally devoted to his memory. Addressing this enhanced self-recognition, perhaps as much as anything, might be biographer Peter Pettinger's overriding contribution to Evans' legacy, providing a center of gravity—what T. S. Eliot called an objective correlative—for Evans' diaphanous fan base. Twenty years may well be an appropriate posthumous interval to wait before beginning to judge any single individual's contribution to the rich tradition of American jazz. If so, Pettinger's biography, published eighteen years after Evans' death, was almost right on time.

Some critics have complained that Pettinger, a British concert pianist for over thirty years, seems to care more about the Bill Evans the pianist than Bill Evans the man. Nonetheless, Pettinger was assiduous in his research, and his book, whatever its perceived flaws, does an excellent job of gathering together the facts of his life. Perhaps the best example of the objective correlative provided by the book are the names of numerous individuals alluded to by several of Evans' best known compositions.

An instrumental tune with no lyrics is a blank canvas for the listener, who is free to make his or her own (non-biographical) associations. It certainly isn't necessary to know that "Fran-Dance," for instance, is named after one of Miles Davis' wives in order to appreciate the tune. However, while the same might be said Wayne Shorter's "Ana Maria," also named after a former spouse, it's not altogether superfluous to know that she died (along with their niece Dalila) in a 1996 plane crash.

One reviewer has objected that Pettinger does not tell the reader much about Evans' associates beyond discussing their musical impact, after which they are quickly pushed offstage. Personality sketches and even physical descriptions are generally absent. Nonetheless, long-time aficionados previously unacquainted with Evans' personal life may be piqued to identify all the people commemorated in his song titles only now. "Peri's Scope," "B Minor Waltz (For Ellaine)" and "Nenette" are named after paramours. "Maxine" refers to his stepdaughter (Nenette's daughter), "Waltz For Debby" to a favorite niece, "Letter to Evan" to his son (by Nenette), and "We Will Meet Again (For Harry)" to his beloved older brother (Debbie's father).

"Gary's Theme" is a tribute to Gary McFarland (who wrote the tune), a vibraphonist, composer, arranger and producer who collaborated with Evans. Now largely forgotten, McFarland was one of the more significant contributors to orchestral jazz during the 1960s. McFarland, while with a friend in a New York City bar in late 1971, ingested a drink into which liquid methadone had been poured. He suffered a fatal heart attack and died instantly. Exact details are murky to this day. "Lullaby For Helene" was inspired by the daughter of Earl Zindars, a percussionist and composer at whose wedding Evans had been best man."One For Helen" is a paean to Helen Keane, Evans' manager and producer. Incidentally, Keane, a keen judge of talent, is credited with discovering Harry Belafonte—as well as keeping Evans alive during the late 1970s.

As with Shorter's "Ana Maria," this titular background is clouded heavily by personal tragedy. Of Russian ethnicity, Evans' life contains episodes that seem lifted from a Tolstoy novel. His long-time common-law wife Ellaine was unable to bear him the son he so desperately wanted. Evans took up with Nenette Zazarra, whom he eventually married—but not before a despondent Ellaine threw herself in front of a train. Evans was on the West Coast at the time, and the unenviable task of identifying the body fell to Keane.

Having read How My Heart Sings, serious listeners can scarcely remain unclouded themselves. How is one to go back and listen to a man who destroyed his marriage playing a whimsical rendition of "I Love My Wife"? And surely the "heartbreak quality" referred to by Gopnik will become overwhelming as one listens to the exquisite "Spartacus Love Theme"—with its cascades of melting icicles and breathtaking hummingbird flights—knowing that Evans died a slave to his own habit.

Evans was born in Plainfield, New Jersey in 1929 and began his music studies aged six. Classically trained on piano, he also studied flute and violin as a child. After graduating with a degree in piano performance and teaching from Southeastern Louisiana College (now University) in 1950, he studied composition at Mannes College of Music in New York. After a stint in the Army, he worked in local dance bands and came to the attention of producer Orrin Keepnews at Riverside Records.

Evans' first album was New Jazz Conceptions, recorded in 1956, which featured the first recording of "Waltz For Debby," his single most popular composition. The follow-up release, Everybody Digs Bill Evans, was not recorded for another two years; the always shy and self-deprecating pianist claiming he "had nothing new to say." Evans also began to attract attention in the NYC jazz scene for his original piano sound and fluidity. The book recounts his first real break playing opposite the Modern Jazz Quartet at the Village Vanguard, which became his most frequent live venue.

Evans recalled a seminal moment that was to have a far-reaching effect on his career: "Nobody knew me, of course ... and despite the fact that Milt Jackson gave me a really fine intro ... it was a thunderous din. But I just kept on playing. ... Now one gratifying thing: one night I looked up, opened my eyes while I was playing, and Miles' [Davis] head was at the end of the piano listening."

It is impossible to write about Evans' career without discussing Davis. In 1958 Davis asked Evans to join his group, which featured saxophonists John Coltrane and Cannonball Adderley. After touring with the band for less than a year, Evans played on the classic album Kind Of Blue, for which he composed "Blue In Green," now a jazz standard.

But the passage quoted above points to several other of Evans' defining elements. His modesty notwithstanding, the fact is that many people did already know very well who he was. And like any saloon pianist, he consistently demonstrated what Pettinger terms a professional's ability to disregard a less than congenial environment and take care of business. Finally, Pettinger's book, like countless other magazine articles and web sites, includes photos of Evans deeply hunched over the keyboard, eyes shut, lost in his own private world—a visual image seen so frequently as to be almost stereotypical.

Unsurprisingly, being a pianist himself, Pettinger highlights the unique difference between (non-electric) pianists and their wind, string, and percussion playing band mates. While the latter bring their own instruments to a gig, pianists are figurative prisoners of the club (or dance hall, auditorium, school, etc.) at which they perform. Broken keys, pedals, dampers and strings are commonplace, and ordinarily the performers are precluded from even tuning their instrument.

No exception to this rule, Evans often endured out of tune pianos. But in his case, the ramifications went beyond what (for most) is a relatively minor annoyance. In large measure due to his studies of Debussy and Ravel, Evans routinely wowed his fellow musicians with his technical mastery of the foot pedals, which far outstripped anything his non-classically schooled peers had ever encountered. Of course, if the pedals were non-functional—as they all too often were—this key element of sound and style was simply taken away from him. Perhaps the best comparison would be to think of summarily yanking away a guitarist's pick and forcing him/her to pluck with fingernails and strum with fingertips instead.

Several examples of bad pianos are cited throughout the book, and professional and semi-professional musicians alike will find sour mirth in an Evans quote used by Pettinger as a chapter epigram. "Many clubs," Evans pointed out, "pay more attention to their trash cans than the house piano." If Pettinger succeeds in making some non-musicians (and maybe even a couple of club owners) more aware of this, he will have performed a great service to his fellow ivory-ticklers everywhere.

After his time with Davis, Evans went on to lead a series of groundbreaking trios with a string of now legendary bassists (Scott LaFaro, Chuck Israels, Eddie Gomez and Marc Johnson) and drummers (Paul Motian, Marty Morrell, Philly Joe Jones, Jack DeJohnette, and Joe La Barbera). His concept of the trio—often described as conversational—was much more egalitarian than was usual at the time. Evans gave the bassist and drummer more active roles, encouraging greater interplay among the musicians.

In 1961, shortly after a famed live recording session at the Village Vanguard, LaFaro died in a car crash, an emotionally crushing event that sent Evans into seclusion for several months. This was but one of several devastating deaths of loved ones that he was to experience. As both his former lover Ellaine and his brother Harold committed suicide, there was a special poignancy to his definitive rendition of the "Theme From M*A*S*H" (aka "Suicide Is Painless"), which eventually became one of his signature performance pieces.

Evans was in constant demand as a sideman and recorded with Charles Mingus, Art Farmer, Stan Getz, Oliver Nelson, Jim Hall, George Russell, Shelley Manne, Toots Thielemans, Kai Winding and J. J. Johnson, along with two memorable dates backing singer Tony Bennett.

Evans also broke ground in ways now considered commonplace. On two solo albums he overdubbed his piano. Although it offended many purists, this recording technique was subsequently employed by other jazz musicians like saxophonists Paul Desmond and guitarist John McLaughlin and now scarcely raises an eyebrow. The foray earned Evans the first of five Grammy awards and elevated him to international stardom as he drew adoring audiences from Paris to Tokyo.

Like Davis, who was recently inducted into the Rock'n'Roll Hall of Fame, and who stirred up the wrath of the jazz establishment during his lifetime by using an electrified trumpet and wah-wah pedal, Evans committed the ultimate offense against orthodoxy when he began dabbling with the Fender Rhodes electric piano.

At the time, the electric revolution was sweeping both rock and jazz. Under the sway of the revolutionary zeitgeist of the 1970s, tenor saxophone players like Coltrane and Shorter were reaching for soprano saxophones, and keyboardists like Josef Zawinul were testing their musical creativity against the first analog synthesizers. Bass clarinets and bass flutes, long obscure and under-employed instruments, were dusted off to striking effect by Bennie Maupin and Hubert Laws, two ranking wind players of the era.

Evans was open to new musical approaches that would not compromise his musical and artistic vision, such as his brief associations with avant-garde composer George Russell and his occasional use of electric piano. The ringing quality Evans brought to his right-hand melodies, which at times evoked the celeste, made for a good fit with the bell-like timbre of the Fender Rhodes. As Pettinger describes it, the electric instrument, with its soft attack, slow fade and plucked quality, actually permits pianists to mold smoother lines and control touch shading more easily than the acoustic piano.

Evans brought his exquisite sense of touch, tone and melodic line to the instrument, garnering him what might be considered the supreme accolade: a gushing testimonial from its inventor, Harold Rhodes. "The ultimate vindication for a lifetime of effort spent in the development of a new musical instrument is the thrill of hearing it respond to the deft and sensitive touch of such an artist as Bill Evans," wrote Rhodes. "I have experienced that thrill.... Evans is the musician's musician, the pianist's pianist."

Since the synthesizer explosion of the 1980s, fans of all contemporary music—jazz, rock, new age, even country & western—have become accustomed to seeing keyboardists play two instruments simultaneously. Before Evans, it was rare—one thinks of Ray Manzarak, organist for the Doors, who played a stripped-down Farfisa while pumping out bass lines on a separate, smaller keyboard, but few others.

But when Evans first set a Fender Rhodes at a 90

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