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Today is the second day of our week-long series of jazz programs and documentaries that were made in Europe for TV. They come to us via YouTube, courtesy of JazzWax reader Billy O'Hanluain in Dublin, Ireland. Today, we take a look at an interview wth Duke Ellington from February 1963 by Sven Lindahl for the Swedish TV channel SVT.
I don't know what it is about European TV documentaries on jazz, but I'm addicted to them. They always seem to bring so much intelligence and insight to the subject as well as a poetic tenderness that perfectly suits the featured music and musicians. All week long, I will be presenting jazz documentaries—five in a row—from Europe (mostly Britain). Each is an hour long, and each will grab you immediately, hold you fast and provide you with details about the music you probably never knew.
This week's series comes to us courtesy of Billy O'Hanluain of Dublin, Ireland. Billy is a jazz and JazzWax fan who is fully aware of my shameless penchant for jazz documentaries from over there.
First up is History of the Boogie Woogie, which aired on England's South Bank Show in 1986.
Marjorie Hyams (1920-2012), a 1940s big-band and bebop vibraphonist who transformed the instrument's role in small groups and was the last surviving member of the original George Shearing Quintet, died on June 14 in Monrovia, Calif., after a long illness. She was 91.
Born in Queens, N.Y., Marjorie was inspired by her older brother Mark, who played with bands in the mid-1930s led by Will Hudson and Spud Murphy. Marjorie began playing piano at age 6 after falling in love with recordings by jazz pianists and classical composer Igor Stravinsky.
In the early 1940s, Marjorie was featured regularly in a quintet on NBC—when radio was required by the musicians' union to use live musicians rather than records to entertain listeners. But instead of playing the piano, Marjorie was asked to play the vibes, an instrument that was completely new to her. The group already had a pianist.
In 1944, with World War II being fought on two fronts, many big bands faced a shortage of seasoned male musicians, a large number of whom had been drafted. Some bands turned to female talent to fill empty chairs. One of those band leaders was Woody Herman, who discovered Marjorie playing in Atlantic City and hired her immediately. Though she admired Herman, Marjorie said she found the juvenile pranks and sexist needling by male bandmates tiresome.
While touring and recording with Herman, Marjorie also recorded with pianist Mary Lou Williams [pictured] in 1946 in an all-female quintet setting—in some ways a structural model for the George Shearing Quintet. During the mid-1940s, Marjorie also played and recorded in a small group led by Charlie Ventura, an ensemble she said was rather gruff-sounding.
In 1948, Marjorie found herself on her own. The musicians' union prohibited members from recording in an effort to pressure record companies to pay royalties. The job action forced changes in the size and work schedules of bands.
Bands that had been financially dependent on recording were forced to shrink for touring at a time when musician-veterans were seeking their old jobs. Marjorie left Herman and became a solo act in 1948—singing and playing show tunes on the piano in New York's Greenwich Village. A fortuitous encounter two years earlier with Leonard Feather at a club would come in handy in '48. [Pictured: Leonard Feather administering his first "Blindfold Test" to Mary Lou Williams in the Sept. 1946 issue of Metronome; photo by Zinn Arthur]
During one of Marjorie's breaks between sets, Feather asked her if she wanted to play vibes in a quintet being formed by Shearing. Marjorie jumped at the chance.
Shearing's decision to add a vibraphone in late 1948 came in the wake of a personnel change. His working quartet had just lost clarinetist Buddy DeFranco [pictured], who decided to sign a record deal with Capitol. Shearing was signed to MGM. Fortunately for Marjorie, she had Buddy's book of arrangements, which she transcribed for a quintet. Which means Marjorie was the original orchestrator of the sound of the George Shearing Quintet, based on Shearing's direction, of course.
The George Shearing Quintet began recording in January 1949 and had a swinging, elegant sound—akin to a fist-full of ice cubes being dropped into a crystal tumbler at a private club. Voiced carefully, so all members appeared to moving in the same direction in swinging unison, the quintet was the first working jazz combo to be integrated by race and sex. Shearing, guitarist Chuck Wayne and Marjorie were white, while bassist John Levy and drummer Denzil Best were black.
Though the group's mix by race and sex mattered little in New York, the composition presented a range of volatile risks on the road, particularly in the Midwest and South. On such tours, Marjorie told me, the racial tension was often high. Glares often landed on her, she said, given the sexual overtones of her inclusion in a mixed-race band.
But Marjorie ignored all hostility, courageously soldiering on and winning support for the group through her pleasant manner, conservative dress and hip playing style. At which point, the overwhelming beauty and swing of the music forced patrons to decide whether they were going to make a fuss and end what they were hearing or let their hearts enjoy the show.
In most cases, Marjorie said, ruffled audience members chose to nurse drinks and listen rather than give in to the stupidity of what they were thinking. But there were plenty of close calls, she said.
After roughly 32 recordings with the George Shearing Quintet—many of them hits—Marjorie decided to leave the group in 1951 to start a family in Chicago. In the decades that followed, Marjorie taught locally, played and arranged. In later years, Feather was often quoted in print saying that she had "retired," which was always a sore point with Marjorie. Despite leaving Shearing in 1951 to stop touring and have a more stable family life, she remained a musician—her life-long passion.
What also isn't widely known about Marjorie is that in addition to being a multi-talented musician, an early bebop vibist and an unintentional champion for female and civil rights, she had a peachy, savvy personality that won you over instantly. And upon a careful listen, you recognize that Marjorie, in addition to having all of the qualities mentioned above, was a darn good vibist with lovely taste. You didn't travel in those musical circles in the 1940s just by applying lipstick correctly.
During our conversations, Marjorie was always relaxed, playful, sharp and modest. I will truly miss her. She was as cool as the instrument she played and proved time and time again that the best way to deal with ignorance is to be exceptional.
JazzWax notes: To read my 2011 interview with Marjorie Hyams, go here. To read my 2011 conversation with Buddy DeFranco on the George Shearing "sound," go here. A special thanks to Lisa Ericksson, Marjorie's daughter, who shares all of her mother's qualities.
JazzWax tracks: You'll find Marjorie Hyams' earliest recordings on Flip Phillips' A Melody From the Sky (here}, on Woody Herman's recordings between 1944 and '45, on Mary Lou Williams on The Women: Classic Female Jazz Artists 1939-1952 (here) and Charlie Ventura 1946-47 (here).
The most complete collection of Marjorie's work with Shearing is George Shearing: From Battersea to Broadway.
JazzWax clip: Here's the George Shearing Quintet's I'll Remember April from December 1949—one of Marjorie's favorites...
New to Bill Evans? If you read my Marty Morell interview last week and now find you're a Bill Evans fan, let me tell you about two tribute sites that are always on top of Bill Evans' news. One is The Bill Evans Web Pages, hosted by Jan Stevens, and the other is Bill Evans, out of the Netherlands (fear not, it's in English), hosted by Rob Rijneke. (For more on Marty Morell, here's Jan's interview with the drummer.)
Harry and Buddy. Back in the 1950s, Buddy Rich played drums in Harry James' hi-fi bands. In 1964, Buddy Rich made one of his orbital returns to the James band. Here he is with James playing Thad Jones' arrangement of Cherokee...
Art Pepper, free. Laurie Pepper, Art Pepper's widow, is graciously offering a free download of Art playing Body and Soul. The recording was made in Tottori, Japan, during Pepper's tour there in November of 1981. The track is incomplete, so she probably won't be releasing it on an album. The band is Art Pepper, George Cables (piano), David Williams (bass) and Carl Burnett (drums). If you like it, make a donation. Go here.
Italian horns. JazzWax reader Don Emanuel sent along a link to a video clip of the Fabrizio Bosso and Flavio Boltro Quintet blowing hot on Lotus Blossom, recorded in Rome in 2005...
Bob Mintzer. Bret Primack sent along a link to his new video clip in support of Bob Mintzer's new Brazilian big-band album, For the Moment...
Boots Mussulli. If you dig the alto saxophonist, you'll dig the tribute site. Go here.
Glenn Miller Army Air Force Band. For those still in awe of the Miller band's touching efforts during World War II in the U.S. and the U.K., I encourage you to listen (for free) to the one-hour podcast of David Johnson's Night Lights radio show. Go here.
CD discoveries of the week. Stacey Kent has a pure, alluring voice, and the effect of her sound is akin to putting a hand in a cool running brook. What makes Kent sparkle on Dreamer in Concert (Blue Note) is her sublime tone and romantic intonation. Think Blossom Dearie's vibrato-less minimalism, Chet Baker's vulnerability and Audrey Hepburn's pixie-like curiosity. Postcard Lovers was a brilliant choice as was Corcovado, The Best Is Yet to Come, Breakfast on the Morning Tram and Waters of March. And any singer who takes on Samba Saravah from A Man and A Woman needs to be applauded.
Joe Walsh's Analog Man (Fantasy) is a knockout. It's heel-banging, snarky Southern California rock the way it used to be played in the '70s—lots of guys on guitars with long hair and cowboy hats looking down at their hands, a thumping beat, high-end production and twangy harmony. Ex-Eagle (and Ohio native), Walsh knows a thing or two about this sound. Case in point: Wrecking Ball, Spanish Dancer and One Day at a Time. Shades of Steely Dan fed through a mesquite smoker.
Pianist Orrin Evans digs-in on Flip the Script (Posi-Tone). For those unfamiliar with Evans, he has a commanding, McCoy Tyner-ish percussive attack that badgers you into an emotional corner. But Evans can be highly introspective, too. It's truly impossible not to be moved by his piano's snorting, charging and cajoling. Evans is joined here by bassist Ben Wolfe and drummer Donald Edwards. Sample Clean House and TC's Blues. And dig what he does with Luther Vandross' A Brand New Day and Gamble and Huff's TSOP. Huge heat, sizzling technique and solid choices from the Great American Soulbook.
Vocalese singer Marion Cowings isn't a household name yet but he may well be after this album. On Marion Cowings & Kenny Barron, the singer is joined only by pianist Barron and shows he can handle himself out in the open just fine. Exposed on every track, Marion is all-in emotionally and doesn't hesitate to take risks and let his baritone soar. And then there are Barron's tasteful and impeccable solos. This pairing is a bold match that works: Two artists in symbiosis, having a friendly jazz catch. Sample Lee Morgan's For Ceora (with words by Marion), a ballad approach on Hey There, Gone with the Wind and Benny Golson's Whisper Not. Think Tony Bennett and Bill Evans.
Yes, guitarist David Reinhardt is related to that Reinhardt. He's Django's grandson. On Colombe (Cristal), Reinhardt is backed by organist Florent Gac and drummer Yoann Serra. This funk-fusion release is delicate, never over-doing the power trip. In addition, the trio plays gently, allowing the natural sounds of the instruments to come up and become part of the mix. Give a listen to XY, Love Theme from Spartacus and the Wes Montgomery-inspired Here's That Rainy Day.
If you're a Northerner who digs your country music cut with a strong dose of pop, you'll dig Eddie Rabbitt: 13 Original #1 Hits (Real Gone Music). Before you start knocking Rabbitt (1941-1998), consider he wrote Kentucky Rain for Elvis Presley. Though born in Brooklyn, N.Y., Rabbitt was a big Nashville-crossover force in the '80s, writing songs for country stars and recording hits himself. Driving My Life Away, I Love a Rainy Night and Gone Too Far Are Here. Goes down easy.
Drummer Mick Fleetwood of Fleetwood Mac formed Zoo in 1983, and the band recorded I'm Not Me (Real Gone Music). The band explored a range of styles—from synth-pop to country-rock. Remarkably, the album holds up, largely a result of the ensemble, which included singer-songwriters Billy Burnette, Steve Ross (guitars) and bassist George Hawkins. Also in the band were Mac vets Lindsey Buckingham and Christine McVie. In retrospect, Zoo defied the Brit-pop Invasion sound of the time, going its own way. This album is best heard from start to finish.
Oddball album cover of the week. Before coffee was used to amp up one's energy to text, "friend" and "like" while perched in front of a laptop, java was for mulling over the state of the world, the meaning of one's existence and the purpose of art. But in an artist's studio, the excitement of such a bleak exercise could fizzle-out fast. Here, our "swinging" Bohemian quartet seems to be at loggerheads over the most existential question of all—where to go eat.
In 1960, Fred Astaire hosted Astaire Time, a TV special, during which he danced in several segments to Count Basie's band. Bret Primack sent along a YouTube link to the entire show. If you're solely in the market for Basie-Astaire, however, move the space bar up to 9:49 (the band) and again to 32:08 (the band plus Joe Williams). But don't quit after Williams is done. The show is just getting started. In the next segment, Astaire dances to a medley of Basie-Williams' blues...
If you think listening to Bill Evans' albums is an emotional ride, imagine what it was like to play drums in his trio. Marty Morell [pictured] had that honor as a member of the pianist's trio for seven years—longer than any other drummer. From 1968 to 1975, Marty toured, recorded albums and grew close to the artist who today has become something of a cult figure among jazz fans.
Admittedly, I'm one of those fans. Having spent my teens playing Bill Evans transcriptions of Who Can I Turn To and Turn Out the Stars (as best I could, that is), collecting his albums and seeing him live in New York and Boston while in college, Evans for me is a personal matter. So it was especially gratifying to talk with Marty on Monday.
In Part 3 of my three-part interview, Marty talks about Bill's personality, his sense of humor, his competitiveness and that day in Holland when Stan Getz nearly wound up playing alone:
JazzWax: When you were playing with Bill Evans, did you ever sense he was under the influence of drugs?
Marty Morell: No. You’d never know he was using. Bill had such a wig on him. Whatever he was on, it brought him down to ground zero so he could function like the rest of us. It sometimes seemed that he needed whatever he was taking just to be normal—the way we would take aspirin to lower our blood pressure.
JW: What was he like personally?
MM: Like a quiet businessman. He was always in a sports jacket or suit, and always friendly. He wasn’t outgoing, but he was a wonderful conversationalist. If you struck up a conversation with him, he was open to talk to anyone, provided you weren’t fawning all over him. He was opinionated and funny—but not in a boisterous way. He was subtle and witty. He did a thing when we were flying to Omaha, Neb., to play a concert. He doctored an ad, and the result was so funny—but understated and clever. [Pictured above: An ad with type shaded in by Bill Evans during a flight to Omaha and given to Marty Morell]
JW: You mentioned that Evans’ life was filled with tragedy. What else besides Scott LaFaro’s sudden death in 1961?
MM: Ellaine, Bill’s partner at the time, was possessive. There was no life without Bill. She was so much about him and everything he did. That kind of attention made him a little crazy. He was feeling penned-in, and it was all too much. [Photo of Ellaine above by Brian Hennessey]
JW: What happened to Ellaine?
MM: After we came back from Japan in 1973, Bill met Nenette. So Bill broke it off with Ellaine. She was devastated. She killed herself soon after by throwing herself in front of a subway train. Then Bill’s mother died. In 1979, his brother Harry committed suicide. It was one traumatic personal event after the next. Through it all, think about what he did musically and the contribution he made.
JW: What do you think of your first studio album with Evans—What’s New—with flutist Jeremy Steig?
MM: What do you think of it?
JW: It sounds fractured and a bit of a rough fit for Evans and the trio.
MM: I agree. That was another one of [producer-manager] Helen Keane’s brainstorms. Jeremy was kind of out of it on that date. We were up to take 26 on some of those tracks.
JW: What happened?
MM: Jeremy couldn’t get himself together. He seemed out of it.
JW: It’s hard to imagine Evans sitting through 26 takes of anything.
MM: Bill was definitely pissed. But he was always good about whatever Helen wanted him to do. He didn’t want to bother with that end of things. [Photo above of Helen Keane and Bill Evans by Phil Bray]
JW: What about From Left to Right?
MM: What do you think of it?
JW: I like it. It’s an unusual date for Evans, with the moody orchestration, but it has a heavy, pensive mood.
MM: That’s true. I know that fans strongly feel one way or the other about that album. That also was a Helen brainstorm, and Bill was open to it—shifting from piano to Fender Rhodes with strings. I think Bill was happy with it. If he had personal reservations about the setting, he put them on the back burner.
JW: What I don’t understand is how Evans was able to maintain his habit in Europe.
MM: Air travel wasn’t the way it is now. You could take whatever you wanted right onto the plane. Bill was on methadone at the time to come off of his heroin addiction and had a doctor’s prescription with him.
JW: To me, Montreux II in 1970 is one of the trio’s finest albums. What do you think?
MM: I also like it very much. The audience was so excited that Bill was there. We were the closing act after a week-long jazz festival. We had the audience on our side, Bill’s playing was wonderful and everything was set up just right.
JW: Were there any problems?
MM: Only that when we started to play, there were photographers all over the place. And they started to infiltrate the stage like ants going through the trash. And they kept coming, snapping away. The audience was yelling at them in French to get down. You can hear that on the first track, Very Early.
JW: What happened finally?
MM: The announcer came on and ordered them off. At the end of the tune, Bill was looking at me, like, “What the hell was that?”
JW: The three of you sound so together and lyrical.
MM: It was early in the life of the trio. Bill was excited and the energy was just right. We flew in a week early, and we had beautiful rooms in the hotel.
JW: Were you nervous?
MM: A little. It was my first European tour, and the Europeans dug Bill on a deep level. But once I closed my eyes, the music just took over.
JW: Most people don’t think of jazz musicians as nervous.
MM: [Laughs] We are. Whenever I was on-edge back then, I would think about the feeling and desire to play, and those emotions swept me away. Those were positive things that prevented me from freaking out. Everyone had something like that going on. You just couldn’t see it on our faces.
JW: What about The Tokyo Concert in January 1973?
MM: Do you like it?
JW: It always felt a little rushed to me and not completely in sync.
MM: It’s very special to me. It was my first time in Japan. Bill’s, too. I had always loved the Japanese culture, so being there was a revelation. That was a wonderful tour and a great concert.
JW: How did Evans feel being there?
MM: He was very comfortable. Everyone on the management side took care of business—the promoter and the people backstage. When we arrived, there was a red carpet and a press conference at the airport. We felt like stars. And on that tour, each piano was better than the last. It was a terrific tour, and Bill was very pleased with the way everything was set up and run. Give the album another listen and you’ll see what I mean.
JW: Did you take your drums with you?
MM: I did, the whole set. It wasn’t a big deal to check them then. Eddie bought a ticket for his bass and took it on the plane [laughs].
JW: What is your favorite trio album?
MM: Probably Re: Person I Knew, which we recorded at the Village Vanguard in January 1974. The tracks were the outtakes from Since We Met, from the same gig. At the Vanguard, we recorded many new tunes, with familiar tunes in between.
JW: You left the trio in 1975, yes?
MM: I told Bill when we were up in Canada in August 1974 that I had intended to leave.
JW: What did you tell him?
MM: I told him I thought it was time to move on.
JW: How did Evans take the news?
MM: He was a little upset. He said, “Oh, man, Marty, I don’t want to have to think about that now.” In the trio, Bill never had to worry. Eddie and I were always on time for gigs and we took care of business. We had all grown together musically, and Bill was really happy.
JW: What was the reason you gave Evans for your decision?
MM: That I wanted to explore other things. I had other abilities, and I had been in the trio for seven years. From a financial perspective, I was only going to earn so much staying. I wanted to do studio work and get off the road.
JW: Between Canada and after Europe in early 1975, did Evans try to get you to change your mind?
MM: He did. He called me a few times and asked me to stay. He offered me more money. But even the raise wasn’t enough. I had just gotten married, and we wanted to start a family. Bill wasn’t able to come up with enough.
JW: What were you paid when you started out?
MM: I was paid $175 a week, which today doesn’t sound like much. But my rent was $135 a month, so I was actually comfortable [laughs].
JW: Were you ever in a situation where Evans was very unhappy?
MM: Yes, when we were playing with Stan Getz in Holland in August 1974. The album from that concert series was called But Beautiful. Bill and Stan were big-time clashing egos.
JW: What happened?
MM: Stan and Bill were feuding. Bill was highly organized and well-prepared and rehearsed. For the Laren Jazz Festival, he prepared a song list, and the concert was billed as “Bill Evans with Special Guest Stan Getz.” We did the trio portion first. Then Stan came out.
JW: What did he do?
MM: He said, “Let’s play the blues.” That wasn’t on the program that Bill had put together. The blues? Bill didn’t like to play the blues. And he definitely didn’t want to be the “house pianist” for Stan. He was very conscious about what he wanted to do. Stan didn’t give Bill a chance to react. He just started counting off. But when it came time for the piano to solo, Bill just sat there. He didn’t play. We just closed it out.
JW: How did the group feel after?
MM: I was pissed, Bill was pissed and Eddie was pissed. But once Stan settled down on the tour, we fell into a groove. On August 16th, in Belgium, Stan played Happy Birthday on Bill’s birthday. He tried to make amends for what he had done. But there was always some tension going on between the two of them. Bill was being a bit of a stick in the mud. I mean, so what—go on and play the blues. But Bill was a little uptight like that.
JW: Looking back, are you sorry you left the trio when you did?
MM: No, not at all. The timing was good for me, and I was cool with that.
JW: How did you feel immediately after leaving?
MM: I was a little depressed for a few months. I had been Bill Evans’ drummer. That was my identity in the world of music. When I moved to Toronto soon after, I was just another local drummer. So I had an identity crisis until I realized I could do this and that. After a year I was playing on a lot of sessions and started to feel good about who I was.
JW: Did you play with Evans again after you left the trio?
MM: A couple of times, and it was awesome. I’d say to myself, “Now I remember—this is what a jazz trio sounds like.” Bill was great. We had him over for dinner, and he’d always leave me notes when I was playing somewhere and he was in town. Bill was like my father in many ways and my mentor. He had this kind of father instinct with me. He always wanted to make sure I was cool, which was sweet.
JW: Do you miss him?
MM: Hell yeah. I think about Bill every day. Listening to those albums brings tears to my eyes. I listen to him all the time—the CDs are my car right now. Some of my favorite music is on those albums. It just so happens I’m on them. [Pictured above: Marty Morell]
JazzWax tracks: Marty Morell's most recent CD, Enamorada, was recorded with his wife, vocalist Michiko Ohta. It's a Latin album, and Michiko sings in Spanish.
And a few words about Marty's pre-Bill Evans albums. My favorites include his first three: October Suite (1966) with Steve Kuhn and Gary McFarland, The College Concert with Pee Wee Russell and Henry "Red" Allen (1966) and The Sorcerer with Gabor Szabo (1967). As for his post-Bill Evans recordings, I recommend Sammy Nestico's Night Flight (1985) and Don Sebesky's I Remember Bill (1997).
As for The Tokyo Concert, Marty was right. Upon a relisten, I realize now how stuck I was at the time on the 1960s Evans I enjoyed so much. Dig Gene Lees' Yesterday I Heard the Rain. Wow.
JazzWax clip: Here's the Bill Evans Trio with Marty Morell and Eddie Gomez in 1971 on PBS-TV's Jazz Set, hosted by Chris Albertson, playing My Romance. Listen a few times to how Evans builds that intro. Genius! And catch how Marty frames Bill's surges perfectly with his brushes, not to mention Marty's gorgeous solo...
The first Bill Evans Trio with bassist Scott LaFaro and drummer Paul Motian liberated the rhythm section. Up until the first Bill Evans Trio's formation in 1959, a rhythm section was largely a supportive unit that played behind horn players. Or in cases where a trio stood alone, the bass and drums were there to keep time while the piano entertained. But with the first Bill Evans Trio, the rhythm section became something much more—a group of independent conversationalists who exchanged ideas advanced by the pianist. [Pictured at top: Marty Morell in 1972]
When LaFaro died in an auto accident in the summer of 1961, he was replaced by Chuck Israels. Then drummer Larry Bunker replaced Motian in 1963. There were some temporary personnel changes, but Evans, Israels and Bunker were together until late 1965, when Evans toured Europe without them. Upon his return, Evans worked with Bunker and a series of bassists until he hired Eddie Gomez late in 1966. In 1968, Marty Morell was hired, and this trio remained intact until 1975, producing enormously exciting and heartfelt music. [Pictured above: Marty Morell in 1970]
In Part 2 of my three-part conversation with Marty, the drummer addresses many fans' misconceptions about changes in Evans' playing style, and the pianist's musical and personal maturation over this period:
JazzWax: The Bill Evans Trio’s sound changed dramatically between 1968 and 1975 yes?
Marty Morell: Oh sure, we evolved. We became a lot tighter. I think we got to the point where we began thinking together, as though there was some kind of ESP going on.
JW: Evans' playing also became more agitated and edgier, if you will, yes?
MM: Let's say his playing became more energetic. Bill was always searching. He didn’t want to be complacent. He was always trying to find new ways to play the same tune. He wanted to introduce new harmonic concepts. Bill was about harmonic movement.
JW: Didn’t playing some of those songs repeatedly get on your nerves?
MM: How so?
JW: Evans seemed to play the same cycle of songs over and over again during this period.
MM: The beauty of Bill was that he was always trying to find new places in the same song structures. They were all such beautiful songs, and yet there's always something a little different about the results. He also was really coming out of himself during our time together.
JW: To the listener, Evans could at times feel a little heavy in the '70s and in a hurry.
MM: Bill did have a tendency to rush. Most pianists do. But on nights when Eddie and I could harness that energy, and we were tight and could pull on the reigns and keep his energy from rushing forward, we would burn.
JW: When you say rush, what do you mean?
MM: Bill, like all piano players, could wind up far on top of the beat, and he always wanted the energy of his sound to be there. But when Eddie and I were tired, or we weren’t on our game, Bill's tempo could get away from us.
JW: But what about playing so many of the same songs repeatedly?
MM: You have to understand that we played live often, and a lot of our fans wanted to hear certain songs. I just recently finished five years with the Duke Ellington Orchestra. Our opening tune was Take the A Train, followed by Rockin’ in Rhythm, Don’t Get Around Much Anymore, In a Sentimental Mood and so on. The audience wants to hear those.
JW: For example, did you enjoy playing extended versions of Nardis so often?
MM: [Laughs] Yeah, I did. It’s a great tune. There’s a lot of texture and drama in there as well as varied rhythms.
JW: Did you have a least-favorite song?
MM: There really wasn’t anything I didn’t enjoy. I loved playing My Foolish Heart and Gloria’s Step. I loved the waltzes, and Elsa, Haunted Heart and Some Other Time. These tunes enraptured me.
JW: This is a sensitive question: Some fans divide Evans into two periods—the years in the '60s when he was addicted to heroin and the '70s when he was using cocaine to kick his heroin habit. Is this description of his two artistic periods fair?
MM: That’s a crock. What do they mean by it?
JW: These people say that during the ‘60s, when he was using heroin, there’s a more patient and introverted quality to his playing, and in the '70s, under the influence of cocaine, his playing was more agitated and restless.
MM: People who say these things don’t know anything about Bill. At that point in time, in the ‘70s, Bill was on the methadone program. He was trying to clean up. The change in his sound had nothing to do with drugs. In his early trio—with Scott [LaFaro] and Paul [Motian]—Bill was young and introspective. He didn’t mature as a person until later, in the '70s.
JW: How do you mean?
MM: Bill was very shy and introverted in the ‘60s. But as time progressed, he became more of an adult. When I read
articles or books on Bill, I'm often shocked that what I'm reading is such a bunch of garbage. These people do not know what they’re talking about. It didn’t matter if Bill was on drugs or not. Too much is made of that. You have to take the music at face value, out of respect for the art, and leave his personal life and demons out of it. I can tell you that whatever he was on, it never affected the music. I was there for seven years. Bill was the most consistent musician I’ve ever played with. Everyone has mood swings, and that's what you're hearing.
JW: But those mood swings were caused by something, yes?
MM: Look, here’s my take on the whole thing: Bill's life was filled with a lot of tragedy and that's built-in. The first blow was the car crash that killed Scott in 1961. Bill told me that after that happened, he lost it.
JW: But his troubles with drugs began earlier.
MM: They did. He had been playing with the Miles [Davis] Sextet in 1958. Those cats were heavy, and there was peer pressure. He was a skinny white kid from New Jersey, and he was hanging out with Miles and those guys. Bill wanted to be one of the cats, and he went along for the ride. He was a little curious, too. But it was mostly peer pressure. [Pictured above: Miles Davis and Bill Evans]
JW: Why was LaFaro's death such a big blow?
MM: Bill told me he fell apart emotionally. When he listened to recordings the trio made in 1959 and 1960, he said he had had a revelation. He told me he had said to himself, “Wow, that’s unique and different.” Bill was so proud of what they had done. It was a heavy breakthrough.
JW: What exactly did they do?
MM: They brought something to the jazz world that was different and completely new. Six months later it was over—and the result of Scott's [pictured] loss was devastating for him. Bill didn’t play for a year after that.
JW: What specifically did LaFaro contribute to that trio?
MM: Scott brought interplay, beauty, lines and rhythmic configurations. He also wrote some great tunes. Before that, Bill had played with [bassist] Paul Chambers, who was four to the floor. Scott introduced interplay between the bass and piano, and Bill understood how rare that was in jazz. Scott's playing changed Bill's approach and what he wanted to do with a trio. And then Scott was gone.
JW: So LaFaro transformed the bass into conversational participant rather than just the piano's metronome?
MM: That’s a good way to put it. Those guys invented the whole concept of the rhythm section engaging in interplay. Before that first Bill Evans Trio, the rhythm section was a whole different concept. Scott [pictured above] was a big part of that invention—the fluidity of the soloing lines, the notes he used, the notes behind the piano in broken time but that still made sense.
JW: He had a voice in the trio, as did Motian on drums.
MM: Yes, that's right. They were the inventors of that. So it’s understandable that Bill would be devastated by Scott's death. How do you replace Scott? He told me he blotted the whole thing out. He was so distraught. It boils down to originality. Scott was the beginning. With Scott’s death, it was like losing a key part of an invention just as it begins to work. That kind of loss can shatter you, especially if you're highly introspective and experience life deeply the way Bill did.
JazzWax tracks: Marty Morell's most recent CD, Enamorada, was recorded with his wife, vocalist Michiko Ohta. It's a Latin album, and Michiko sings in Spanish.
JazzWax clip: This film of the Bill Evans Trio in Helsinki, Finland, in 1970 remains the finest example of what made this group so tight and special. At the start of the film, Evans offers one of the most cogent definitions of jazz as well as explanations of his own vision. And dig what Marty does on the brushes to frame Evans as they play Alfie...
For seven years—between 1968 and 1975—Marty Morell played drums in the Bill Evans Trio alongside bassist Eddie Gomez. This was a crucial period of growth for Evans. The pianist matured rapidly musically and emotionally, and you can see the physical change on his album covers—transitioning from business-suited Mad Man to bearded Mountain Man. [Pictured above, from left: Bill Evans, Eddie Gomez and Marty Morell in Helsinki, Finland, in 1970]
This period remains among the most fascinating and enigmatic for Evans fans. During these years, Evans' playing style shifted dramatically from poetic and lyrical to pained and energetic. Did Evans' drug use play a role in this change? Was he happy with all of the albums the trio recorded? And why were some albums more together than others? And what about that live recording with Stan Getz in Holland in 1974?
In Part 1 of my three-part conversation with Marty, 68, the drummer talks about taking up the drums, landing the job with the Bill Evans Trio and how he felt early on playing with the dynamic pianist...
JazzWax: Where did you grow up?
Marty Morell: I was born in Manhattan, but I grew up in the Astoria section of Queens. When I was 15 years old, my family moved to Queens Village, which is farther away from the city toward Long Island. [Pictured above: Astoria, Queens, 1955]
JW: What is your background?
MM: I’m Puerto Rican and Cuban.
JW: How did you wind up a drummer?
MM: I just fell into it. I started out playing the piano and then moved to clarinet. In 7th grade I played clarinet in Junior High School 126’s orchestra. But when I wanted to join the school dance band, all the other instruments were taken. So I chose the drums.
JW: Did you actually want to play the drums?
MM: Oh, yes. In January 1958, when I was 14 years old, I went to a big rock and roll concert at the Paramount Theater on 43rd St. in Manhattan. It was one of those Alan Freed shows. I was mesmerized by one of the drummers. Little by little, though, my friends got me into jazz. That summer I landed a gig in the Catskill Mountains a few hours north of New York. That’s where I learned to read music and drum charts. I also had been taking drum lessons and reading every drum book I could find.
JW: How did you wind up playing jazz professionally?
MM: I could play virtually anything, but the guys I played with were always telling me that I had nice time and feel. I’d just use my ears for jazz. After graduating from high school, I studied at the Manhattan School of Music. In 1964, when I was 20, I landed a gig with singer Robert Goulet and toured with him. A few months later I found myself in a Los Angeles studio with arranger Don Costa conducting. It was a Robert Goulet session for Columbia. [Photo above of Robert Goulet by Don Hunstein]
JW: How did you come to the attention of Bill Evans?
MM: In the early 1960s I was living in Manhattan and was on the scene. I had recorded with Steve Kuhn, Gary McFarland, Gabor Szabo, Charlie Haden, Pee Wee Russell and Henry "Red" Allen. I already had some notoriety. The first time Bill heard my name was through Chuck Israels.
JW: How so?
MM: Chuck told him about me the first time I was up for the trio gig in 1965. But that didn’t work out.
JW: Why not?
MM: Drummer Arnie Wise was playing with Bill then and decided to stay. Then in 1968, Bill’s new bassist Eddie Gomez called me for the gig. He said it was between Jack DeJohnette [pictured] and me. At that time, Jack had much more notoriety than I did, so Bill went with Jack. But Jack stayed only six months. He had different ideas about what he wanted to do.
JW: What happened next?
MM: After Jack left, I called Bill and told him I wanted to play in his trio. He was living on Riverside Drive at the time. Later, Bill told me that he didn’t dig people calling him that way but said he had heard something in my voice that made him want to check me out.
JW: What did you tell him on the phone?
MM: I told him I had been listening to his trio for years on records and that I thought I had something to offer. At the time I called, he hadn’t 100% decided who he would use to replace Jack. He was very nice about it and invited me to come down to the Village Vanguard.
JW: When was your first gig with Evans?
MM: Toward the end of September, at the Vanguard. When I sat down behind the drums, I felt like I was home. I had lived with Bill’s music for so many years. When I heard Bill touch the piano that night, it was electrifying. I was listening to Bill and I was part of it. What an amazing feeling. We exchanged a lot of fours and solos during those first sets.
JW: What did Evans like most about your playing?
MM: After the gig he said he liked that I played with brushes. He also said it sounded as though I had been playing with him and Eddie forever. He said, “You’re perfect. My manager will call you in a couple of days to work out the details.” But there was a small problem.
JW: What was that?
MM: Bill said, “I have four weeks coming up at the Top of the Gate. I promised two weeks to John Dentz.” So I did the first two weeks at the Gate, and Dentz did the second two. Bill said to me, “Don’t worry, you’ve got the gig.” That’s how Bill was. He had promised Dentz two weeks, and he made good on it. [Photo above by Roberto Polillo/CTSIMAGES]
JW: Did Evans have any critical feedback after your first gig?
MM: No. He said everything was perfect. Bill let you find your own way. He did tell me months later, “You may want to add a third cymbal to offset behind the bass.” So I did. I added a bigger one, what’s called a China splash cymbal. It has a sizzling sound.
JW: When you were playing behind Evans, what are you hearing?
MM: I was just trying to get with the groove. I was trying to free-up and follow my instincts. That’s when jazz is at its best. It’s control without control.
JW: What was the experience like, playing with Evans?
MM: The way we’re talking now. Two people listening hard to each other and communicating. That’s different from people at a dinner party spending the time thinking about what they want to say next instead of listening to what the person who is talking is saying.
JW: What’s going on in your head when a set begins?
MM: Our eyes would be closed, and I’m trying to put everything out and be in the moment and trust my instincts and trust my ability to hear in relation to what’s coming at me from Bill. At that point, your unconscious reacts to the stimulus.
JW: What else are you hearing?
MM: I’m listening for enjoyment. It’s a thrill to hear that kind of music coming at you, and you’re in the middle of it. That’s high on the list—sheer joy and pleasure. We were at our best when we were in touch with each other and enjoying the discourse.
JW: Were there nights when the trio wasn’t in touch?
MM: Oh sure. Everyone has different kinds of days going on, and those moods would come across. Remember, we were playing this music a lot. We were on the road, performing two sets a night, week after week. It’s difficult to maintain the same level of performance every night. But even on nights when we weren’t in complete sync, it was still a good night for us and excellent for the audience. [Photo above by Roberto Polillo/CTSIMAGES]
JW: Why was the Top of the Gate recording so lively and special?
MM: That gig was the birth of a new era for the Bill Evans Trio. Eddie had been with Bill but I was new, so the trio was new. What you hear on the recording is our excitement about this new period and that we were working quite well together.
JW: When people ask, "What was Bill Evans like?," what do you say?
MM: Bill was his music. All you need to know about Bill you can hear in his playing. By listening, you knew everything about him. If you’re hip to Bill and love his music, then you already know him. That’s who he was. Whatever you hear—sadness, intelligence, beauty, humor and inventiveness. All kinds of things. That’s Bill. [Photo above by Jan Persson/CTSIMAGES]
JW: Would you find out insights about Bill after a set?
MM: After a set, we’d make small talk, but our heaviest and most revealing conversations were with our instruments on stage. Music was our primary language.
JW: Did Evans plan out sets?
MM: Yes, very carefully. Bill never went up on stage and winged it. He would never sit down and play something we weren’t already aware he was going to play. We’d work out who was going to solo first and so on. He would let us know the format.
JazzWax tracks: Bill Evans: Live at Art D'Lugoff's Top of the Gate—with Evans, Marty and Eddie Gomez—is available starting today. The two-CD set features 90 minutes of the trio at its lyrical best, captured in sonic splendor.
Interestingly, the first two tracks have Marty and Gomez playing a little louder than on the rest of the album. That's because George Klabin, who recorded the trio in 1968, wasn't able to get a mike test. "They just came out and began to play, and I had to start recording. At first, Marty and Eddie were too bright in my headphones, but I couldn't drop the level too fast. So I did it slowly and found the right spot over the first two tracks."
JazzWax clip: If you don't own Bill Evans: Montreux II (1970), toss it into the cart. The recording is probably the second-best live album this trio recorded after Top of the Gate. Here's Peri's Scope (Dig Evans and Marty trading fours toward the end)...
Trumpeter Whitey Thomas, 92, is one of the last surviving member of Glenn Miller's Army Air Force Band. Last week, following my post on the band, I heard from his son, Scott, who encouraged me to give his dad a call. Whitey now lives in Bakersfield,Calif. When I called yesterday afternoon, his wife Mary Lou, who sang with Gus Arnheim's band, was with him.
Whitey is fond of playing the valve trombone, and he played a little for me. "Don't be too critical," he said before launching into a few songs. Whitey was with Miller while the band was stationed in New Haven and then Bedford, England, and he remained with the band after the war into the 1950s under Tex Beneke and Jerry Gray. Here's what he remembers about Miller:
"I was born June 29, 1920, in Rocky Mount, North Carolina, near Raleigh. My father was an undertaker. In 1938, when I was 18 years old, I was playing trumpet in the Tommy Reynolds Orchestra when we wound up in Boston. Glenn Miller’s civilian band was there at the same time playing at one of the big ballrooms. One night, one of Glenn’s trumpeters got sick and I was asked to sub for him. There was no audition. I just sight-read the book, and Glenn was pretty impressed with that. The following night I returned to the Reynolds band.
"After World War II started, I went into the Army in 1942. I was stationed at Fort Bragg in North Carolina for a year and played in the base's band. While I was there, Glenn came down and played at the post. I ran into him again at an event in Pinehurst, N.C. Glenn recognized me and said, 'Hell, I know that boy. I sure would like to have him in my Air Force band.'
"The next thing I knew I got a call and was sent up to Atlantic City, where Glenn was assembling a big orchestra. Once he sorted out who he wanted, I was sent to the Army base in New Haven, Conn., with the rest of the guys he had selected.
"It was clean work. We did mostly concerts and played while marching in parades and things. Then we started doing half-hour radio broadcasts from New Haven for CBS. My family listened to the broadcasts. Were they proud of me? They were a little bit proud, I suppose [laughs]. My older brother Charlie was a good tenor saxophone player. He played with Red Norvo and other good bands. I had a chance to have him sub in Glenn’s band for a couple of days. He loved it.
"On the weekends [in the summer of 1943], we went down to New York to broadcast [I Sustain the Wings] from the Vanderbilt Theater [at 148 West 48th St.]. We’d stay overnight Saturdays in a hotel and then take the train back to New Haven on Sundays.
"Glenn was a nice man. He was a gentleman. There wasn’t a nasty side to him that I could tell. And it was a pleasure playing those arrangements. I really loved listening to the Air Force Band while we played. All the guys did. There was something so uplifting about the music, and everyone was a joy to play with. I never missed a radio show or broadcast.
"When we shipped off to England [in the summer of 1944], Glenn was already there because I remember he took a motorboat out to meet us just before we docked. After we arrived, the band went by train to Bedford, a small town [an hour and a half north of London] where we were billeted.
"We played for troops, and they really loved the sound. They didn’t applaud; they shouted and screamed. We were always polite, and the music reminded them of home. The boys appreciated it, and that was a good feeling.
"Mel Powell [the band’s piano player and arranger, pictured above] was a regular guy and one of the best musicians on the band. He didn’t overdo his arrangements. They were just right. Johnny Desmond also was a good guy. My closest friend in the band was trombonist Larry Hall. He was from New York, but we had similar personalities. I suppose we were close because he didn't do anything to upset me [laughs].
"I remember we played a lot of hospitals in the States and over there where wounded troops were bed-ridden and recuperating. Sometimes we played in small groups or the band would play in large auditoriums. Those concerts made you feel like you were doing something important. You weren’t playing for dancers. It was to help wounded boys connect with home, to give them a feeling, and I could see from the stage their spirits pick up. That was gratifying, and you could see you were making a contribution and a difference. [Pictured above: Glenn Miller, right, visits England's Stratton Hall House in 1944, a vast hutted hospital for U.S. Normandy casualties)
"I was one of the last guys to see Glenn alive. I had often flown on Glenn’s plane when he traveled around England. The night before he flew out and was reported missing, Glenn was hanging around in the rec area where the band was billeted. He lived next door to where we were staying. It was a British Army post turned over to the Americans. [Photo above: Glenn Miller in December 1944 at Thorpe Abbotts Air Field in Norfolk, England, his last concert before his fateful flight to Paris]
"Late that evening, he walked to the door to go back to where he was staying and said to us, “See you tomorrow.” He never told us where he was going. You kept that stuff kind of quiet then. Don Haynes, the band's manager, saw him off the next mornng at the airfield.
"We were crushed when we heard Glenn was missing. That kind of thing happened all around us every day over there. You hated to hear that news about anyone. I think we all just assumed Glenn would turn up eventually. But he never did. It was terrible. [Photo above of Glenn Miller at Thorpe Abbotts]
"The Air Force Band was solid. We had some pretty good blowers and some great arrangers. But it wasn’t simple music, as some people think [laughs]. Those arrangements were tough to play with just the right feel. That's why no one ever played them the same way.
"The caliber of guys on the band could handle anything, really. You enjoyed playing the songs because of how much the music was appreciated and needed. It wasn’t about us. It was about the soldiers listening who were wounded or might not come back. We put a lot into what we were doing because we knew we were giving them hope and encouragement. And a feeling of home." [Pictured above: Glenn Miller and band performing at Thorpe Abbotts]
JazzWax clip: Here's Johnny Desmond singing Long Ago and Far Away with Glenn Miller's Army Air Force Band. Whitey Thomas is in the trumpet section. The arrangement is by Norman Leyden. Dig how the chart shifts smartly between peppy brass and sentimental strings...
Here's Whitey Thomas blowing up a storm recently with son Scott on drums...
JazzWax note: I have suspended the "Comments" functionality for now for maintenance. Apologies. If you have a comment, please send it along directly to me by email.
We already know that jazz is increasingly considered passe by young American audiences. But did you know that the very word "jazz" is becoming a scarlet letter? I recently received an email from a smart acquaintance who is promoting a lounge-chill web-based radio show. When I clicked on the link to listen to the show's SoundCloud demo, the on-air announcer said he would be playing a wide range of chill recordings, including tracks by Miles Davis and Stan Getz. [Pictured above: Untitled (Coit Tower), by Arthur Tress, 1964]
Shut the door! When I emailed my pal to say that calling Davis and Getz "chill" was probably a first, his answer was rather startling: "Funny, but we have been told not to use the word jazz. It's a shame the current point of view sees 'jazz' as a dirty word. That said, we are playing jazz and are calling it lounge."
So the word "jazz" has finally become the kiss of death—code for "you're going to hate this music." Wow, what a mind-blower. Then again, I suppose it's not too surprising. Jazz in the U.S. has been promoting itself as "not jazz" for some time—from festival lineups to "after midnight" album compilations. And when the word jazz is used in the media—as it was last week in a New York Times headline—the story once again was about an artist who "overcame heroin and prison." I guess jazz musicians who raised four kids, paid their taxes and were kind to others just don't fit the stereotype. [Pictured above: Masked Children 110th Street, New York, Arthur Tress, 1969]
I'm not sure what the solution is for our beloved music, but jazz certainly needs an image change. The tired drugs-and-jail storyline, though dramatic, isn't helping, nor is the arrogant position held by many fans that jazz and jazz musicians are superior to everything and everyone else in the room. (You wouldn't believe the vitriolic emails I receive when I write about rock, R&B, soul, pop or disco.) [Cover photo above by Herb Snitzer]
For jazz to survive—both the word and the music—someone had better teach young people how to listen to it, and fast. We also need to do more to educate people on why jazz history is American history, and why it's an enormously exciting story. I attempt to do this in my forthcoming book, Why Jazz Happened (University of California Press).
Once kids are introduced to the dramatic and courageous story of jazz, the music should be able to sell itself. Otherwise, it won't be long before Louis Armstrong, Charlie Parker, Dave Brubeck and Duke Ellington become known as Legends of Lounge.
Shirley Scott radio. On Sunday (June 10), my boy "Symphony Sid" Gribetz will host a five-hour radio broadcast celebrating the career of jazz organist Shirley Scott as part of WKCR's Jazz Profiles series. Sid's winning, spinning show will air from 2 to 7 p.m. Again, that's five hours of Shirley Scott at the organ. You can access the show from anywhere in the world on your computer by going here.
Marty Napoleon, live on Sunday. The 91-year-old piano legend Marty Napoleon [pictured] will be sitting in at New York's Feinstein's on Sunday (June 10) at 7 p.m. Harry Allen's quartet consisting of Rossano Sportiello, Joel Forbes and Chuck Riggs will be there along with guest Joe Temperley. For more information, go here.
Bill Kirchner, live. Saxophonist Bill Kirchner will be appearing at Saint Peter's Church on 54th St. and Lexington Ave. in New York on June 27 at 1 p.m. He'll be playing soprano and will be joined by singer Holli Ross and accordionist Eddie Monteiro. Donation admission is $10. The event will be hosted by Ronny Whyte. For more information, go here.
Toni Arden (1924-2012), a pure pop singer with solid intonation whose solo career began in 1946 and lasted until the late 1950s, died on June 3. She was 88. Born Antoinette Ardizzone, Arden had a string of hits for Columbia in the pre-rock era, including I Can Dream, Can't I?; Too Young; Kiss of Fire and I'm Yours. Her biggest hit, Padre, was recorded for Decca in 1958. She also sang frequently at New York's Copacabana (for more information on the famed club, go here).
Here's Arden with Frankie Laine in the early '50s (move the time bar to 4:55) singing I Think You're Wonderful...
Glenn Miller. Trumpeter Ron LoPinto sent along the photo above of Miller and Army Air Force Band trumpeter Bernie Privin, whom Ron knew.
As for World War II reality v. the movies, Uwe Zänisch sent along links to footage of servicemen dancing to a big band in Paris near the end of the war in Europe. Interesting to note how much older these soldiers look compared to those we often see in film. A time of shared sacrifice. Go here and here.
Now that you've seen Paris, how about London—Julie London, and the Hi-Lo's. I found this one while scouring YouTube last week. Priceless! What a shame they didn't record a full album together...
Handful of stars. Dig this video from 1977 that Dick LaPalm sent along illustrating the history of jazz. Joe Williams and Dionne Warwick, Count Basie, Dizzy Gillespie, Stan Getz, Gerry Mulligan Max Roach and on and on...
Ellington in the house. Fuze The Mc sent along his hip-hop video that samples Duke Ellington's In a Sentimental Mood...
Oddball album cover of the week. Hey, I love a good movie-song album as much as the next guy or gal. And while I'm not a huge Enoch Light fan, I suppose the Light Brigade should do as good a job as any on such fare. But why use Mr. and Mrs. Naked on the cover? And what's with the naked kid? He must still be in analysis. More important, however, what film could our bare family possibly be watching—and illustrating?
Serious discussions about pianist Bill Evans' recordings start with his live sets at New York's Village Vanguard in June 1961. These dramatic recordings were produced by Riverside's Orrin Keepnews and capture the pianist in perfect poetic form with bassist Scott LaFaro and drummer Paul Motian. Now, a new two-CD set being released on Tuesday by Resonance Records matches Sunday at the Village Vanguard and Waltz for Debby. The new album captures Evans in New York with his new trio—bassist Eddie Gomez and drummer Marty Morell—at Art D'Lugoff's Top of the Gate in October 1968. As I write in today's Wall Street Journal (go here), this CD set is the most important live Evans document to emerge in decades and the most rewarding on multiple levels. [Photo of Bill Evans above by Raymond Ross/CTSImages]
Recordings of Bill Evans at the Top of the Gate were always rumored to exist. When I interviewed Art D'Lugoff in 2008, a year before his death, he told me there were recordings and he assumed that Orrin Keepnews had them. When I asked Orrin about them last year, Orrin said he knew nothing about them. Now it turns out that Evans tapes do indeed exist—but they belong to engineer and Resonance founder and owner George Klabin.
Back in October 1968, George [pictured] was a student at Columbia University. He was head of the jazz department at the college's radio station and a voracious jazz fan. George had interviewed Evans on the radio in 1966, so when he heard that Evans would be playing at the Top of the Gate, he asked Evans' manager Helen Keane if he could record the new trio.
Keane [pictured] said he could. "Helen lived near my mother on 96th St. just off Madison Ave., so I knew her from the neighborhood," George told me last week. "Helen also knew I had high recording standards, since I had taped a concert a couple of years earlier. The rules on the Bill recording were simple: I could record the trio provided Helen received a copy of the tape and that I played the tape only once on the air. Which I did. Then I put the reels away. I suspect Helen let me record because she wanted a demo of the newly formed trio for potential recording and concert opportunities. But we'll never know."
According to The New Yorker's archives, Evans, Gomez and Morell went into the Top of the Gate on October 15. Eight days later, George showed up with a 50-pound, two-track Crown recorder, four expensive mikes and a mixer. "Whenever I had extra money I bought mikes," he said. "I put one on a boom and aimed it into the open grand piano. I had one on Eddie, one on Marty and an area mike. I used a Neumann U67, a Beyer dynamic, a Sennheiser condenser and an Electro-Voice dynamic mike, which I had wrapped in foam and placed directly in the bridge area of Eddie's bass."
For the next few hours, George sat at a table in front of the stage watching his Crown's level needles as the 7-inch reels turned. Morell told me last week he recalled George sitting at a table in front of Evans, who was on the left side of the stage from the audience's perspective. George taped the two sets in full—nearly 90 minutes of music. [Pictured above: Two images from the Top of the Gate]
That's what you hear on this CD set. Klabin wisely edited out applause between songs, clinking glasses and chatter. It's just prime Bill Evans, and the results are nothing short of astonishing for three reasons.
First, the sound is breathtaking. As I mention in my Wall Street Journal piece today, the sound quality will make you think you have been seated at a table placed on the stage in the middle of the musicians. I kid you not—the fidelity is that vivid and intimate. [Photo of Bill Evans above by Jan Perrson/CTSImages]
Second, the song choices are a dream. This is a Nardis-free CD set, which will come as a relief for those who don't care much for the joyless song that Evans played relentlessly. There are 17 tracks in all—nine in the first set and eight in the second. For fans of Evans in the '60s, you will be more than satisfied with spirited and exciting versions of Emily, Witchcraft, Yesterdays, 'Round Midnight, My Funny Valentine, California Here I Come, Gone with the Wind, Alfie, Turn Out the Stars (an uptempo version), In a Sentimental Mood, Autumn Leaves, Someday My Prince Will Come, Mother of Earl and the first trio version of Here's That Rainy Day. [Photo above of Bill Evans and Eddie Gomez by Fred Seligo/CTSImages]
Third, and perhaps most important, Evans' playing is electrifying and loaded with confident and lyrical risk-taking. Gomez and Morell [pictured] work to gel around the pianist, and the collective thrill is clear. This was Morell's first club date as the trio's new drummer. "Bill was particularly energetic that night, and there was a lot of exploration and excitement by the trio," Marty told me. "I had just joined, so what you hear is us getting to know each other musically."
If you listen to tracks from Bill Evans: The Secret Sessions that were recorded surreptiously with a single mike at the Village Vanguard around this time (in August and December), Evans to me tends to sound lackluster and was just going through the motions. The exuberance and frolic found in the new Top of the Gate set are a distinct cut above. I suspect this is because Evans knew he was being recorded by George Klabin, who he knew cared deeply about the music. Evans didn't want to let him down—nor did he want a flat demo.
As for other live recordings Evans made in the '60s, the Top of the Gate towers over them all. The list includes the 1960 Birdland Sessions (the fidelity off the radio is poor), At Shelly's Manne Hole in 1963 (the song choices aren't great) the Bill Evans Trio Live at the Trident in 1964 (superb, but the song choices aren't perfect), Live in Paris, 1965 (again, the fidelity is lacking), Live in London (brilliant, but a sandy recording) and Bill Evans at Town Hall in 1966 (a concert setting and a bit formal).
Bill Evans Live at Art D'Lugoff's Top of the Gate is a masterpiece, and George Klabin should be thanked repeatedly for releasing it. For those who have spent years yearning for a highly intimate Evans recording that brings the artist as close as possible to the ear and provides marvelous material and execution, your ship has finally come in.
JazzWax tracks: You'll find the two-CD set of Bill Evans Live at Art D'Lugoff's Top of the Gate at iTunes and Amazon here.
For the Evans fan with a fetish for vinyl, there's a limited edition set here featuring three 12-inch, 180-gram LPs mastered by engineer Bernie Grundman at 45-rpm for superior sound. The LPs were pressed by Record Technology Inc., and the set comes with a four-panel LP insert with all of the liner notes and images found in the the CD.
In-depth liner notes are by Nat Hentoff, Gary Burton, Eddie Gomez, Marty Morell, George Klabin, Raphael D'Lugoff (Art's son) and producer Zev Feldman.
JazzWax clip: Here's a promo video for the new Bill Evans Top of the Gate set narrated by album producer Zev Feldman.
