A Spout today linked me to an amazing essay by Steve Silberman: "Broken Time “NARDIS” AND THE CURIOUS HISTORY OF A JAZZ OBSESSION" on Bill Evans and Miles Davis' Nardis in The Believer.
I'm a casual jazz fan. Sort of like I'm a casual birder. I go out of my way to observe birds, but I don't obsess. I don't keep a life list. And I'm more an unquestioning appreciator of jazz, but not someone who could tell you why I like it or the technical things the musicians are doing that captures my attention. Nancy Wilson probably is the person to blame.
Of course, I've heard the name Bill Evans. Usually a when a KJAZZ announcer says something like, "and Bill Evans on the piano." That usually happens after the piece was played.
Anyhoo, this essay kept me in bed reading this morning. (Yes, I know. It's not a good idea to look at my phone in bed, but so what?)
So just listen to the Bill Evans Trio as you read the article. This is the first recording in 1961 with Scott LaFaro and Paul Motian.
Or if you don't think you have time for a long article, here are some excerpts while you listen:
"But things started going wrong even before Mitchell arrived at Reeves Sound Studios on East Forty-Fourth Street. First, his luggage went astray en route from Florida. Then there was a surprise waiting for him in the control room: Miles Davis, one of his musical heroes, who had taken the extraordinary step of composing a new melody as a gift to Cannonball. Mitchell was supposed to play Miles’s part.
That wasn’t going to be easy, because the tune, called “Nardis,” was anything but a standard workout on blues-based changes. The melody had a haunting, angular, exotic quality, like the “Gypsy jazz” that guitarist Django Reinhardt played with the Hot Club de France in the 1930s. And it didn’t exactly swing, but unfurled at its own pace, like liturgical music for some arcane ritual. For three takes, the band diligently tried to make it work, but Mitchell couldn’t wrap his head around it, particularly under Miles’s intimidating gaze. The producer of the session, legendary Riverside Records founder Orrin Keepnews, ended up scrapping the night’s performances entirely.
The next night was more productive. After capturing tight renditions of “Blue Funk” and “Minority,” the quintet took two more passes through “Nardis,” yielding a master take for release, plus a credible alternate. But the arrangement still sounded stiff, and the horns had a pinched, sour tone.
Only one man on the session, Miles would say later, played the tune “the way it was meant to be played.” It was the shy, unassuming piano player, who was just shy of twenty-eight years old. His name was Bill Evans."
. . .
"By now I’ve heard so many different interpretations, in such a far-flung variety of settings, that a Platonic ideal of the melody resides in my mind untethered to any actual performance. It’s as if “Nardis” were always going on somewhere, with players dropping in and out of a musical conversation beyond space and time."
, , ,
"When Russell first mentioned Evans’s name, Miles asked, “Is he white?”
“Yeah,” Russell replied.
“Does he wear glasses?”
“Yeah.”
“I know that motherfucker,” Miles said. “I heard him at Birdland—he can play his ass off.” Indeed, the first time Evans played a beginner’s intermission set at the Village Vanguard—Max Gordon’s basement club, the Parnassus of jazz—the pianist was astonished to look up and see the legendary trumpeter standing there, listening intently."
. . .
"By the time he recorded the tracks on Kind of Blue, however, Evans had already decided to leave Miles’s band. After his baptism of fire on the road, he was physically, mentally, and spiritually exhausted, but he also felt more confident about pursuing his own vision. He had a specific goal in mind: achieving a level of communication in a piano trio that would enable all three players to make creative statements and respond to one another conversationally, without any of them being obliged to explicitly state the beat. This approach came to be known as “broken time,” because no player was locked into a traditional time-keeping role; instead the one was left to float, in an implied pulse shared by all the players. Evans compared broken time to the kind of typography in which the raised letters are visible only in the shadows they cast.
That kind of collective sympathy, akin to three-way telepathy, demanded major commitment from the trio, and required high levels of personal chemistry. Evans met the perfect fellow travelers in two young musicians named Scott LaFaro and Paul Motian."
. . .
"Evans was a polite junkie. For decades, he kept tabs on how much money he owed various friends, and he always endeavored to pay them back, even if his benefactor had long forgotten the debt. But among the people disturbed by his accelerating decline was the fearlessly outspoken LaFaro, who had no problem confronting the pianist in the bluntest terms. “You’re fucking up the music,” he would say. “Look in the mirror!”
It was in this combative atmosphere that Evans made his second attempt to commit “Nardis” to vinyl, at Bell Sound Studios, on February 2, 1961, under Keepnews’s watchful eye. Though Keepnews gamely tried to keep everyone’s spirits up, the whole session seemed jinxed, with Evans and LaFaro openly arguing about the pianist’s drug use and Evans suffering a splitting headache. By the time the ordeal was over, both the players and the producer assumed that the tapes would be quietly filed away and never released. “We had a very, very bad feeling,” Evans recalled. “We felt there was nothing happening.”
Listening back, however, everyone was shocked to discover how well the trio had played. Upon the album’s release, Explorations was hailed by critics for its bold, unsentimental reinvention of well-worn standards like “Sweet and Lovely” and “How Deep Is the Ocean,” the dynamism of the group’s interactions, and the sublime sensitivity of Evans’s phrasing and voicings. Humbled by the inadequacy of his own ability to judge how well the session had gone, Evans began to think of “the mind that thinks jazz” as something larger than the consciousness of any individual musician, as if the music organized itself at a higher order of awareness that wasn’t always discernible to the players. The rendition of “Nardis” that appears on the album, a refinement of the arrangement that the trio had been playing on the road, became the default canonical version in the absence of a Miles original—the basis for twenty years of Evans’s performances, and for hundreds of interpretations by others."
And here's Bill Evans live in Paris in 1979 playing a very different Nardis with his second trio members.
"In 1979, the pianist formed a new trio with bassist Marc Johnson and drummer Joe LaBarbera. The presence of Johnson in particular—who was, in the words of former trio drummer Eliot Zigmund, “very young and open, and very, very respectful of Bill”—seemed to revitalize the pianist, and for the first time in years, he sounded like he was searching again. After buying a cassette recorder, he began taping and listening to his own performances, going all the way back to unreleased music he’d made with LaFaro and Motian. He was also paying close attention to the work of the young pianists he had generously mentored over the years. After listening to a solo recording by Warren Bernhardt called Floating, he told his girlfriend, Laurie Verchomin, that he had entered a state of bliss, hearing 'the music between the notes.'”
Note: Someone in the household heard me listing to whole the 1979 album, responded, "It sounds like 'hold' music." While parts are soft, slow, and soothing, this is definitely not hold music, but it would be nice if it were used that way.
