The Truth and Beauty of Bill Evans: ‘Jazz Is Not a What, It Is a How’

Bill Evans in Copenhagen 1964. Photo © Jan Persson

‘Ultimately I came to the conclusion that all I must do is take care of the music – even if I do it in a closet. And if I really do that, somebody’s gonna come and open the door of the closet and say: ‘Hey, we’re looking for you.’’
Bill Evans

I recently watched a fine documentary about the life and work of jazz pianist and composer Bill Evans. (‘Time Remembered’, 2015, produced by Bruce Spiegel)

'Develop a comprehensive technique, and then forget that and just be expressive.’

With his unhurried, gentle, impressionistic playing, Evans created elegant, mournful works that meander with intent. Albums like ‘Everybody Digs’, ‘Portrait in Jazz’,’ Explorations’ and ‘Moon Beams’; legendary live recordings at the Village Vanguard, convey a sublime sadness. He teaches us to dig deeper and think harder in the quest for truth and beauty.

‘The jazz player, ultimately, if he’s going to be a serious jazz player, teaches himself.’

Born in 1929 in Plainfield, New Jersey, Evans began playing the piano at 4 or 5 and was classically trained. At 13 he fell in love with jazz, particularly admiring Nat King Cole and Bud Powell.

‘Jazz is the most central and important thing in my life.’

In 1955 Evans moved to New York, installing his piano in a small, cramped apartment on 83rd Street. He focused single-mindedly on making it as a musician.

‘At that time I made a pact with myself… I gave myself ‘til I was 30.’

Evans supplemented his natural talent with an incredible work ethic. He practised every available hour, took jobs performing in clubs in the evenings and carried a music notebook wherever he went.

'I like people who have worked long and hard, developing through introspection and dedication. I think that what they arrive at is, usually, deeper and more beautiful than the person who seems to have that ability and fluidity from the beginning.'

After producer Orrin Keepnews was played one of his demo tapes over the phone, Evans was signed to the Riverside label, the home of Thelonious Monk. His first album, released in 1956, sold only 800 copies. But he managed to catch the attention of Miles Davis, who took him on the road and enlisted him for the recording of the 1959 classic ‘Kind of Blue.’

‘I want to build my music from the bottom up, piece by piece. And I just have a reason, that I arrived at myself, for every note I play.’

Subsequently Evans formed a series of trios, the first of which, with bassist Scott LaFaro and drummer Paul Motian, was seminal. He embarked on a stunning period of music making. 

'Jazz music has always been a place where anything is possible.'            

Bill Evans. Seen here as he appears on the cover of the 2016 legacy release of the album ‘Some Other Time’

Tall and thin, sharp-suited; hair slicked back and wearing glasses, Evans played with his head hung over the piano, fingers lightly caressing the keyboard. There was a look of intense concentration on his face. With his own unique harmonic language; with melodies that floated, and rhythms that de-emphasised the beat, he created what Davis described as ‘crystal notes or sparkling water cascading down from some clear waterfall.’

Evans thought deeply about his craft. Though jazz was often regarded as somewhat cerebral, he sustained that it should always express emotions.

'It bugs me when people try to analyze jazz as an intellectual theorem. It's not, it's feeling.’

Ultimately Evans held that his music should have a spiritual dimension.

'Art should teach spirituality by showing a person a portion of himself that he would not discover otherwise.’

I was particularly taken with this statement:

'Jazz is not a what, it is a how. If it were a what, it would be static, never growing. The how is that the music comes from the moment, it is spontaneous, it exists at the time it is created.'

In the creative professions we tend to treat ideas as precious commodities, stable and fixed. We worry a great deal about people stealing our strategies, copying our concepts. What if another Agency gets hold of our pitch deck? What if a competitor mimics our campaign?

'To imitate someone is to insult them.'

I’ve always felt that creative ideas are fragile, mercurial properties, worth little in the hands of rivals. Viewed through other people’s eyes our proposals generally come across as cold, hollow, flat and lifeless. Great concepts need to be articulated by the people who originated them; animated by advocates that believe in them. And then set free.

Like Evans, the best communicators invest their ideas with spontaneity and emotion; with personality and performance. 

Persuasion is not a what, it is a how.

'Keep searching for that sound you hear in your head until it becomes a reality.’

Evans was quiet and introverted. He lacked confidence, was hurt by criticism and for much of his life he was haunted by tragedy. In 1961 Lafaro was killed in a car crash. He was just 25. In 1973 Evans’ long-term girlfriend Ellaine Schultz jumped in front of a subway train after he ended their relationship. Six years later his beloved brother Harry, who had been diagnosed with schizophrenia, shot himself. 

Evans consistently turned to narcotics to dull the pain. He died in 1980 from haemorrhaging and bronchial pneumonia, the result of decades of substance abuse. He was 51.

Not long before he passed, Evans called his collaborator and friend Tony Bennett and relayed some advice:

‘Just go with truth and beauty, and forget the rest.’

'The scene is set for dreaming,
Love's knocking at the door.
But oh my heart, I'm reluctant to start,
For we've been fooled before.

The night is like a lovely tune.
Beware, my foolish heart.
How white the ever constant moon.
Take care, my foolish heart.’

Bill Evans and Tony Bennett, ‘My Foolish Heart' (N Washington / V Young)

No. 432

Blue Note: Making Uncertainty Your Ally

‘The one thing that all the greats did was never let go of who they are, never turn away from who they are and their experiences – because your experiences, and what you’ve been through in your life, make you sound the way you sound.’
Robert Glasper

I recently watched Sophie Huber’s fine documentary ‘Blue Note Records: Beyond the Notes.’ It tells the tale of the seminal jazz label from its founding myths through to the present day.

Blue Note is crazy chords, taught rhythms and truthful testimony. It is bop and hard bop, soul jazz and fusion; unapologetic, fresh and vital. It is sharp suits, narrow neckties and button-down shirts; clouds of cigarette smoke in darkened rooms. It is the founding spirit of Alfred and Frank, the recording genius of Rudy Van Gelder, the graphic art of Reid Miles. It is Lee Morgan’s ‘Sidewinder’ and Hank Mobley’s ‘Soul Station;’ Wayne Shorter’s ‘Speak No Evil’ and Horace Silver’s ‘Song for My Father.’ It is Herbie Hancock on his ‘Maiden Voyage,’ Art Blakey ‘Moanin’’ and Sonny Clark ‘Cool Struttin’’. Blue Note is Thelonius Monk, Sonny Rollins and Grant Green. It is struggle, hope and, above all, it is freedom.

The documentary weaves together Blue Note’s history with insights from the titans of its golden age and observations from its current crop of talented artists. Jazz musicians seem such an intelligent, articulate bunch. There’s a great deal that anyone working in a creative profession can learn by reflecting on their words.

Learning from the Founders 

1. Follow Your Uncomprehending Affection

Alfred Lion and Francis Wolff first heard jazz when they were boyhood friends growing up in 1920s Berlin. 

‘My mother bought a record home. I was very impressed by what I heard. Not knowing that it was jazz or what it was all about, but I got very interested in the record.’
Alfred Lion

Fleeing Nazi oppression, Lion and Wolff both settled in New York in the late ‘30s. They followed their passion and set up Blue Note Records in 1939, initially recording in rented studios. 

 2. Pursue Quality, Not Success

Lion and Wolff had a slow start and for years made little money. Their releases focused on traditional and hot jazz, boogie woogie and swing - artists like pianist Meade Lux Lewis and saxophonist Sidney Bechet. They were happy to record musicians that other labels did not consider commercial. Thelonius Monk’s sound was thought incredibly challenging at the time. But Blue Note nurtured his talent. They were pursuing quality rather than sales success.

‘Any record we ever made we weren’t really figuring on a hit. If later on it became successful, it just happened to become successful.’
Alfred Lion

3. Trust the Creators to Create and the Managers to Manage

Lion and Wolff were fans, not musicians. They were sufficiently self-aware to engage saxophonist Ike Quebec to spot upcoming talent. Soon the label roster also boasted drummer Art Blakey, pianist Bud Powell and trumpeter Clifford Brown. 

When it came to recording, the founders trusted the creators to create. 

‘I never got a sense of pressure from them to create in any particular way, other than whatever might come out of me.’
Herbie Hancock

Blue Note’s faith in its recording artists set it apart in a cut-throat industry. 

‘All the record companies were white – cheap, cheap white too. They was a bunch of scoundrels. I should name them, but I won’t. But not Alfred. Alfred was not like that. He just let us do what we wanted to do.... And he didn’t bother musicians.’
Lou Donaldson 

Trust worked both ways. Once recording was complete, the artists were happy to let the producers take over.

‘At the end of the session everyone said that’s the good music, including the musicians. That was the end of the musicians’ involvement. They trusted Alfred, who trusted me. And that’s how it went.’
Rudy Van Gelder

4. Creation Needs Craft

Rudy Van Gelder was recording engineer on most Blue Note releases between 1953 and the late sixties. Up until 1959 his studio was the living room of his parents’ home in Hackensack, New Jersey.

Van Gelder knew that creation needs craft. He employed cutting edge equipment and recording methods. And great consideration was given to establishing the right environment. Musicians were paid for rehearsal time - unusual in those days - and recording sessions were scheduled for the early hours of the morning, after late-night club venues had closed. 

‘Prestige was alright. Savoy, they liked jazz. But they didn’t press it and put it out like Alfred. The sound was better. The musicians were better.’
Lou Donaldson

In 1959 Blue Note moved to a new state-of-the-art facility in Englewood Cliffs, New Jersey. Designed by a student of Frank Lloyd Wright, the studio had very high ceilings and was often mistaken for a church.

 5. Though Product Is Paramount, Presentation Has a Critical Role to Play

Joining the label in 1956, Reid Miles designed almost 500 Blue Note record sleeves in 15 years. 

Miles gave the label a coherent look that matched its sound. Blue Note sleeves had tightly cropped photography (employing candid shots taken by Wolff), with abstract colour blocks and bold typefaces set at rakish angles. They were audacious, modern and cool. 

Though product was paramount at Blue Note, presentation played a critical role in the label’s success.

Learning from the Musicians

1. ‘Never Let Go of Who You Are’

Blue Note sought first and foremost to articulate authenticity of individual experience.

‘What they were searching for was to get the heart of the individuals creating the music, to have a platform for expression. And the heart is effected by the times, because we were living in it.’
Herbie Hancock

The golden age of Blue Note coincided with the height of the Civil Rights struggle. The records were not politically explicit, but they were politically charged. The music consistently communicated strength and determination, hope and freedom.

 ‘A lot of this music has to do with how we feel about America. And how we came from seeming to progress, to going back to an era that we fought to get away from.’
Marcus Stickland

2. ‘Make Uncertainty Your Ally’

Improvisation is a central part of jazz culture and working practice. Blue Note artists recognised the creative value of doubt and vulnerability; of risk and uncertainty. Improvisation enables innovation.

‘It takes some kind of courage and fearlessness. And the challenge to be vulnerable is a challenge itself.’
Wayne Shorter

‘The more you challenge yourself to muster up the courage, the more the uncertainty becomes your ally.’
Herbie Hancock

A key to successful improvisation is abstracting yourself from extraneous concerns and ‘submitting to the now.’

‘The feeling that I get when I’m really improvising with other people who are really improvising is … something that always feels like it’s a step, or a half step, away from me… I know that you get closer to it by not living in the past or the future – just sort of submitting to the now.’
Ambrose Akinmusire

3. ‘Be a Leader Who Trains Leaders’

 ‘You can’t hide behind your instrument.’
Art Blakey

Art Blakey was a natural born leader. When in 1954 a Blue Note All-Star line-up was booked to play New York’s Birdland, he slipped the announcer Pee Wee Marquette a couple of notes, and Blakey was introduced as the head of the band.

And yet Blakey also encouraged others to lead. Throughout his career he urged band members, like Wayne Shorter and Horace Silver, to graduate to marshalling their own outfits. He was happy to manage fluid ensembles and to accommodate the occasional loss of knowledge and skills.

‘Art Blakey was a university to himself. And a lot of musicians that came through his band actually became leaders. He was a leader who trained leaders.’
Kendrick Scott

Jazz ensembles are often informally led. They accommodate, and even embrace, tension and discord, because these qualities contribute to the entity’s unique energy.

4. Creativity Is Incomplete without an Audience

Of course, music is nothing without an audience to hear it.

‘What’s contained on the record itself is incomplete. Because it doesn’t include the process of the person listening to it and how it effects them.’ 
Herbie Hancock

But audiences and industries can be fickle. In 1963 Blue Note recorded a significant hit with the title track of Lee Morgan’s ‘The Sidewinder’ album, and Horace Silver did the same the following year with ‘Song for My Father.’

Perversely, distributors then put pressure on the label to come up with similar successes. Lion and Wolff became exhausted with it all and in 1965 they sold Blue Note to Liberty Records. Lion, who disliked the corporate environment, retired in 1967. Wolff stayed on, but passed away in 1972.

5. ‘Work on Your Humanity as Well as Your Creativity’

Blue Note continued. And in the ‘80s and ‘90s it had something of a renaissance when hip hop artists recognised it as a kindred spirit and made extensive use of Blue Note samples. 

‘I found out looking at my royalties.’
Lou Donaldson

The documentary features interviews and performances from today’s Blue Note All-Stars. As this new generation collaborates with Herbie Hancock and Wayne Shorter, they observe the special dynamic that is at play.

‘I saw how each individual relinquished the leadership and, being in a band situation with Herbie Hancock and Wayne Shorter, I immediately want to relinquish it to them. But they’re waiting for me to do something. They want to see what you have to offer. And to frame that picture for you.’
Kendrick Scott

On the one hand, since jazz is all about finding authentic individual expression, it is a supremely egotistical art form. On the other hand, it involves the integration of the individual within the collective. It demands selflessness.

‘It’s something that’s very important in a jazz group is that everybody has a voice.’
Kendrick Scott

Aware of such paradoxes, the contemporary Blue Note artists come across as reflective and spiritual.

‘It all comes down to managing the ego in a way that allows the music to really come out. People like Wayne Shorter and Herbie Hancock, they allow the music to flow through…They work on their humanity as well as their music.’
Marcus Strickland

I left the documentary concluding that modern business could learn a great deal from jazz: about the integration of individuality within a coherent community; about improvisation as a force for innovation; about more fluid leadership styles; and developing a proper engagement with risk and uncertainty. 

We often think of jazz as rather intellectual and po-faced. These artists are certainly serious about their craft. They are obsessed with consistently delivering to the highest standard and constantly pioneering new frontiers. But they also display natural informality and disarming humour.

In a moment of downtime Herbie Hancock enters the studio with an awkward shuffle. He calls across to Wayne Shorter.

Herbie: Hey, Wayne, who’s this?

Herbie shuffles some more.

Wayne: That’s Frank.

Herbie: If you played and Frank was dancing that was the take. If he wasn’t dancing that was not the take. A little shuffle – it had nothing to do with the beat.

'Blow me a kiss from across the room,
Say I look nice when I'm not.
Touch my hair as you pass my chair,
Little things mean a lot.
Give me your arm as we cross the street,
Call me at six on the dot.
A line a day when you're far away,
Little things mean a lot.’

Dodo Greene, ‘Little Things Mean a Lot’ (E Lindeman / C Stutz)

No. 327

No Lips for the Trumpet: The Rhythm of Persuasion

I was always into music, but never very musical.

When I started senior school, the music department put me down to learn the trumpet. My brother Martin was already studying it and we could share the same instrument. Although the trumpet may not have been my first choice, I nonetheless conjured up images of myself as a lovelorn Chet Baker, charming a smoke-filled jazz club with my unique version of ‘But Not for Me.’

I arrived at my first lesson eager with anticipation.

My new tutor, a stern, bearded fellow who looked like he’d rather be somewhere else, began by instructing me on the correct embouchure. I had to practice buzzing my lips into the mouthpiece. As easy as blowing a raspberry, he said.

However, after several attempts, we established that this foundation skill was beyond me.

‘I’m sorry to tell you this, son. You’ve got no lips for the trumpet.’

And that was the end of that.

I had to come to terms with the fact: though I loved music, music did not love me.

'They're writing songs of love, but not for me.
A lucky star's above, but not for me.
Although I can't dismiss the memory of her kiss,
I guess she's not for me.'

Chet Baker, 'But Not for Me' (Ira and George Gershwin)

And yet I have always liked to listen to theorists talking about music’s hidden mysteries. I’m fascinated when experts deconstruct chord progressions, scales and arpeggios; major and minor keys; time signatures and tempos; verse, chorus, middle 8, chorus. I remain impressed that, beneath the sweet soulful melodies I adore, there is shape, structure and form; that there is architecture in music.

After spending a few years in the advertising profession, I realised that arguments too have their own hidden anatomy; that behind the seduction of salesmanship, there is order and design; that there is a rhythm to persuasion.

Take for example the pitch. For all the many and varied presentations that I attended over the course of my career, I’d suggest that most of the successful ones shared the same shape.

They’d begin with enthusiasm to put the Clients at their ease.

‘Yours is a great brand with an extraordinary heritage and unique ongoing characteristics.’

But confidence would turn to concern for the challenges that lie ahead.

‘You’re assaulted on all sides: by new market forces, new competitors, new consumer tastes and preferences. It’s difficult out there, and it could get a whole lot worse.’

The Clients would be a little unsettled, but the pitch would invite some hope: taking a broader view of the sector; observing the evolving cultural context in which the brand competes.

‘The market is on the move. There is change afoot. It may have begun with a few outliers, but it will soon be mainstream.’

Next would come the tricky bit. The best pitches would identify a means by which the Clients could take a leadership position, at the heart of sector reinvention; hitching the brand to culture; driving reappraisal, not falling victim to it.

‘With our idea we can position you at the forefront of social and industry transformation. And only our idea can take you there.’

The Clients would complete their rollercoaster journey with feelings of expectation and excitement.

I’m generalising somewhat. Of course every pitch is different. And I’m talking about an era when strategy was more concerned with positioning than precipitating specific behavioural change. But I’d still maintain that most of the good presentations shared this simple pattern: enthusiasm for the brand; empathy with its challenges; vision of cultural and sector revolution; and all culminating in an idea that positions the brand in the vanguard of change.

It’s a simple pattern, but it’s one that often eludes us in the midst of big meeting pressures and deadlines. We frequently fail to impose structure and shape on our arguments. We forget to start with the Client and consumer perspective. We ignore the emotive power of light and shade. We neglect the need to build positive momentum in the second half. We say all the right things, but in the wrong order.  

The lesson is simple. When you’re pitching, don’t just think about the right answer; think about the rhythm of persuasion.

I had one last attempt at becoming a proper musician. Inspired by Neil Young’s plaintive performance of ‘Heart of Gold,’ I bought myself a Hohner mouth organ. I imagined that the harmonica might be a less challenging route to rock’n’roll credentials, and I’d seen that Hohner was the singer-songwriter’s brand of choice on ‘The Old Grey Whistle Test.’ Sadly the instruction manual was rather rudimentary and my dedication to the task was merely modest. I only managed to master the tonguing of ‘When the Saints Go Marching In.’

‘I want to live.
I want to give.
I've been a miner for a heart of gold.
It's these expressions
I never give
That keep me searching for a heart of gold.
And I'm getting old.’
Neil Young, ‘Heart of Gold’

No. 176