Turn out the Stars
Is a troubled soul a prerequisite of artistic greatness? Romantics would argue yes; preaching that those blessed with talent must endure personal suffering for their art. History corroborates this view, describing a culture littered with prodigious martyrs: van Gogh, Charlie Parker, Slyvia Plath, Nick Drake. Bill Evans is, sadly, one of these cadavers - a gifted pianist whose life was curtailed by inner demons and drug addiction.
Nowadays, celebrities flaunt their indiscretions to millions on CNN and YouTube. Evans’ affair with the white lady unravelled quietly in dressing rooms and anonymous motels. Heroin, cocaine and alcohol – the holy trinity of addiction – were his downfall. It was a furtive and prolonged tragedy, which concluded in a New York hospital ward in 1980. He was only 51.
Evans’ physical transformation, over the years, is a parable of substance abuse. In the 50s, he was a svelte mandarin: brylcreamed hair, librarian glasses and a clean-shaven face. By the 70s he was hirsute and jaundice; sporting swollen fingers, aviator sunglasses and a shabby sport’s jacket (he resembled a professor teaching English Lit. at UCLA). In 1980, his face was a morose epitaph; bearing all the profligacy of Dorian Gray. By 1981 he was gone.
Although his appearance altered dramatically with age, his public demeanour was consistently forlorn. Melancholy, it seems, befriended him in the cradle. During the few interviews he granted, Evans spoke with a quiet authority on matters of jazz and music, but his tone was sombre and demure; he appeared slightly withdrawn and emotionally numb. Yet despite this latent sadness, he had a stoic work ethic, and unlike Monk, his emotional maladies never affected his ability to perform in the studio or at a gig.
When discussing Evans’ career with friends, the conversation inevitably gravitates towards two fundamental questions:
If Evans was drug-free, gleeful and attended coffee mornings every Sunday, would his playing be as emotive?
I doubt it. When Herbie plays a plaintive ballad, it’s beautiful, but in a tranquil Monet flowers kind of way. After all, Herbie’s a jolly Buddhist at peace with himself and Mother Nature. When Evans’ plays a tear-jerker, every note aches and mourns, it resonates with our soul.
Why did Evans need a pharmaceutical crutch to get through the day?
We can adopt the role of Dr Phil and speculate that an alcoholic father, fragile disposition and gloomy nature portended his demise. I personally believe his felicity was pilfered by the death of Scott La Faro (the virtuoso bass player in Evans’ first trio, who died in a car crash at the age of 25). Following that incident, Evans stumbled from one trio to another, desperately trying to recreate the magic of the Village Vanguard sessions with La Faro. He initially found musical perfection; then it was cruelly snatched from his grasp.
Whatever precipitated his decline, let’s be thankful for his musical legacy: “Waltz for Debby”, “Re: Person I knew” and “Very Early” are all beautiful standards. He played the piano with a minimalist sensibility that transcended jazz. Miles Davis remarked on his playing:
“Bill had this quiet fire that I loved on piano. The way he approached it, the sound he got, was like crystal notes or sparkling water cascading down from some clear waterfall.”
Remember, the dark prince didn’t bestow many compliments.
Ultimately, Evans’ melancholy was a malignant muse: it inspired haunting beauty in his music, and self-destruction in his private life. A precarious balancing act that eventually see-sawed out of control. The superstitious amongst us might call it a Faustian pact; I like to think of it as talent bestowed from above, and Evans as a troubled soul, who like many other jazz luminaries, succumbed to the dark charms of the white lady. Bill Evans, Rest In Peace.