I discovered that Evans’ recommendations sometimes contradicted the recordings, and called him at his Fort Lee, New Jersey apartment, some three months before his untimely death. TRO’s indefatigable editor, Judy Bell, gave me corrected proofs in Evans’ hand, which I still own. Naturally, I jumped at the chance to work with my hero. Somehow Evans learned of the Tatum book project and invited me to do the same with his own solos for what would become Bill Evans 4 (TRO Publications). Years later, when the noted classical pianist Steven Mayer commissioned me to transcribe eleven Tatum recordings for concert use (he eventually recorded them for ASV, and later again for Naxos), he went a little further, specifically requesting that I interpolate certain “licks” from alternate readings into the versions we had agreed upon. When necessary, I pilfered a similar passage from another Tatum performance of the same song. When the audio quality of the original recordings made it difficult to hear certain passages clearly, I attempted to play them myself (easier said than done!), gradually grasping the style, always bearing in mind Tatum’s large hand span. Using my trusty reel-to-reel deck, I taped the selections at 7 1/2 inches per second and played them back half-speed, at 3 3/4, in order to articulate the pianist’s lightning-fast runs and arpeggios. “After all, the music is so wonderful, and what better way to expose classical audiences to the riches of jazz?” That changed in 1979, when the editor of the publishing giant Music Sales decided that an inexperienced, 23-year-old freelance piano player was just the guy to unlock this extraordinary virtuoso’s kitchen secrets for all the world to sightread.
While several Evans books were on the market at that time, few (if any) complete and accurate Tatum solos could be found in sheet music format. He graciously accepted it, gave me his contact information, and that was that. After the last amazing set, I gingerly handed Evans my transcription.
He was on fire, playing with passion and overt virtuosity, galvanized by Philly Joe Jones’ aggressive drumming.
Nearly a year, two broken tape decks, at least seven worn out cassettes and umpteen revisions later, I made my way down the steps to the Village Vanguard’s legendary basement to hear Evans. In any event, I was struggling to learn “Rainy Day” by ear, and realized that I’d gain better accuracy if I simply bit the bullet and laboriously wrote down what I heard, bar by bar, note by note. Perhaps it’s the fluid, organic fusion of classical and jazz elements that grabbed me. To my mind, Evans’ subtle voice leading, rhythmic displacements and skillful keyboard textures tilt more toward Schumann and Brahms. I particularly loved Evans’ unaccompanied solo recording of the Johnny Burke/Jimmy van Heusen standard “Here’s That Rainy Day.” Many critics see a link between Evans’ influential harmonic language and the French Impressionists. I only wish I had these toys some three decades ago during my own student years, when I practiced classical by day, played jazz gigs at night, and listened endlessly to records by Art Tatum and Bill Evans, two of the most influential and revered jazz pianists of their time and beyond.
0 kommentar(er)
