Much of my memory of San Francisco circa 1980 centers around Keystone Korner, which was then -- and still remains, if only in absentia -- my favorite jazz club. So much astonishing music took place there, and it was so easy to take it all for granted. Who knew, when Bill Evans brought his trio to town for a full nine-day stay in September of that year, that he would leave this world only a week after his closing set? Certainly there was no hint of what was to come in his marvelous playing, which is captured on these historic discs.
It's funny how, when you really listen, Evans contradicts people's preconceptions. In jazz lore he's sort of a latter-day Bix, hooked over the keys, lost in weepy introspections. In fact, he ran the gamut of expression, and quite often played percussively, with a bright, hard tone that etched his harmonies more clearly. His articulation could be a little ragged; every now and then on these discs, he digs into a line, muddies it up a bit, and falls back on a stock figure or two to get back into the flow. It was the power of his ideas, more than his execution that distinguished Evans as an artist of vast importance. There's a lesson here for today's young pianists, most of whom can arpeggiate rings around Evans: Chops are easier to achieve, and therefore cheaper, than real originality.
From these recordings one might also learn to trust the moment. Evans would treat the same tune differently from one set to the next. His intro to "Nardis" from the first night is sprightly and concise, with a triplet feel that seems to draw from "Emily," which he had performed a few minutes earlier. On the second night, he approaches "Nardis" more experimentally, using sharp dissonances to carve a path through heavily-pedaled thunder in the bass and into wispy single lines at the peak of the keyboard. The night after that, he gets to the theme early and manipulates it through Ravel-like Spanish passages, then slides across juxtaposed rhythms into slippery bitonalities and harmonic stretches in which, frankly, he seems to lose direction a little.
By the same token, his lead-ins to "Turn Out the Stars" highlight the tune's contours from contrasting perspectives: On night one it's all shadows, with dark bass tones at the beginning and a rubato that illuminates the later changes. The next night, Evans concentrates on his right hand, with unexpected octave leaps, and practically no anchor in the left. For night three, he rushes into the changes, emphasizing his momentum by repeating staccato chords and moving the harmony around rather than sitting on the pedal tone. The main thing each version has in common is its restlessness; you can almost hear Evans thinking ahead, looking for some twist that he hasn't yet discovered.
The point is that process, for Evans, was more important than result, for in improvising it's better to explore than to get to where you want to go and settle down. Not many artists these days create the sense of adventure that permeates these performances. Maybe he wasn't the most swinging of pianists, but in his ability to spark bassist Marc Johnson and drummer Joe La Barbera into some extraordinary feats of playing -- and listening -- Evans was the ideal combo leader, and remains an inspiration to players of all genres.
