The Harmony of Bill Evans [ペーパーバック]

Bill Evans, I'm convinced, was a genius, but that's no excuse for the rest of us to assume his music is out of reach. I'm reminded of a story about Artie Shaw who, whatever his shortcomings as a human being and artist, was arguably without equal as a clarinetist. At the conclusion of an evening dance set, an audience member decided to compliment his musical hero: regrettably, he made the mistake of divulging that he, like Artie, had once played the clarinet but unfortunately was not "blessed with the talent" of an Artie Shaw.

The remark was enough to set the temperamental, frequently enigmatic Swing Era icon, into a tantrum: "Talent?" Did you practice 6 hours a day? Did you increase it by an hour each day, eventually denying yourself even the luxury of going to the bathroom? Did you live, breathe, and eat the music? Did you study every single move of your music heroes and emulate them? Did you make the clarinet the be-all and end-all of your existence, making everything else in your life secondary to its mastery?

After fomenting along these lines for a few additional minutes, much to the discomfort of the flustered, well-intentioned fan (perhaps "former" fan by now), Shaw stopped long enough to collect himself for a parting statement: "When you can answer me in the affirmative to all of those questions, then come back and talk to me about 'talent'. Maybe by that time you'll have some foggy notion about what being a true musician entails!"

The point is that Bill Evans was not a "natural," an exceptional species born out of the right side of some divinity's brain and plopped down into the Village Vanguard on a Sunday in June of 1961. He worked hard to get there, as if his life depended on it. Ironically, it can be argued that Bill did, in fact, give his life to his music, whether causing more pain to himself than those who loved him remaining open to question. Jack Reilly, a knowledgeable and expert musician who is above an inspiring teacher, retains an emphasis on the requisite rigor but adds a sanguine tone and supportive spirit that will make the journey into Bill Evans' complex creative mind a deeply satisfying, enjoyable experience. Even as Evans played through practically superhuman pain during his final two years, he took this indigenous American art form into musical territory that few have understood and fewer yet have followed. Back in the 1960s "Playboy" Magazine ran a story on Frank Sinatra, calling him the "last Romantic." But speaking instrumentally, the description applies equally to Bill Evans.

Reilly acknowledges as much with his comparison of the dense textures of Evans' music to the lieder of Schumann and Brahms, archetypal Romantic geniuses who, in Reilly's estimate, come up short of the beauty of Evans' music--a sound that has yet to be equaled, beginning as a vital spark in a subterranean Greenwich Village club and continuing to glow into the the 21st century--one instant, a hard, gem-like flame; the next, hanging fire. But, as Reilly's scintillating yet accessible analysis demonstrates, not too hot to handle--at least not to those sufficiently curious to trace the source of the blaze.

This is a great study of Bill Evans by a fantastic musician. The CD is well worth the price.