To think about definitive versions of jazz standards is tricky, mostly because it's quite subjective. But the fact remains that there are certain artists who are considered touchstones, and their performances are the ones that are most frequently consulted by musicians and serious listeners who want to try to understand the essence of a song. Among instrumentalists, one name that is brought up in this regard more than any other is the pianist Bill Evans, for the simple reason that his musical approach is deeply grounded in fundamentals and therefore contains no wrong turns. As Cannonball Adderley said, on the cover of 1958's Everybody Digs Bill Evans (the quote-filled sleeve was the record company's idea; Evans, who was a modest person, didn't like it): "Bill Evans has rare originality and taste and the even rarer ability to make his conception of a number seem the definitive way to play it."

Here's a version of "What Is This Thing Called Love?" that exemplifies that statement: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yY82ZNEgNHY.

Jim Hall and Bill Evans made two albums together as a duo, both with thought-provoking titles, Intermodulation (1966) and Undercurrent (1963), and both are now considered classics - among the very best recordings in jazz history, regardless of the size of the ensemble. Undercurrent opens with an up-tempo version of "My Funny Valentine" that may be the single track that best exemplifies the diversity of Jim Hall's guitar artistry. It features first one of his dazzling and one-of-a-kind solos and then, during Evans' solo, the ultra-swinging yet sensitive comping that led the great bassist Red Mitchell to say: "The best band I ever played with was Jim Hall". Here's the link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ReOms_FY7EU.

A question: Would bebop, the chromatic and scientific approach to playing jazz that involves the memorization of specific, complex vocabulary patterns, have occurred to its early progenitors without the atonal (i.e. twelve-tone) music of Arnold Schoenberg? Conceptually, there is a very large amount of overlap between the two styles. Both involve the dictated use of notes in a specific order - through the use of tone rows in twelve-tone composition, and in bebop through the use of lines or licks committed to memory in every conceivable key. In both cases what is left for the artist to freely choose is placement, primarily. The twelve-tone composer can use the next tone as part of a melody (in other words horizontally) or harmonically, or as part of a chord (i.e. vertically). Of course, the rhythms are up to the writer as well. In jazz, the notes are also very largely (if not entirely) predetermined, and the same kinds of choices (placement and rhythm) are left to the performer.

Schoenberg's music has taken a lot of critical poundings over the years, and it continues to do so. It's not to everyone's taste, I think it's fair to say, but Glenn Gould was a great admirer (and interpreter) of Schoenberg's, and so my guess is that we'll eventually catch up with it. But I am convinced that Charlie Parker et al were greatly influenced by it as a concept, and I'm not sure that their discoveries would have happened without Schoenberg's. Here's one of his early twelve-tone works, with the score included: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xrjg3jzP2uI. And here's Bill Evans' "Twelve Tone Tune", a tip of the cap from a jazz musician of unsurpassed learning: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dB78xeZ8quk.

Rhyme can be important to lyrics in all kinds of ways - everything from humour to ease of memorization to providing formal restrictions that paradoxically lead to creativity. But today I'd like to write about a song lyric that deliberately doesn't rhyme. "Moonlight in Vermont", by Karl Suessdorf and John Blackburn, had always puzzled me because of how its words flow perfectly without the use of any of the various types of rhyme (Wikipedia lists about fifteen, by the way). And so I took another look at the lyrics, and then I realized that there was indeed a form to them which I hadn't noticed before - the three verses are all haikus. Have a look:

Pennies in a stream

Falling leaves, a sycamore

Moonlight in Vermont

Icy finger-waves

Ski trails on a mountainside

Snowlight in Vermont

Telegraph cables, they sing down the highway

And travel each bend in the road

People who meet in this romantic setting

Are so hypnotized by the lovely...

Ev'ning summer breeze

Warbling of a meadowlark

Moonlight in Vermont

Telegraph cables, how they sing down the highway

And they travel each bend in the road

People who meet in this romantic setting

Are so hypnotized by the lovely...

Ev'ning summer breeze

The warbling of a meadowlark

Moonlight in Vermont

Why the haiku form is so powerful is another interesting question, but that'll be for another day. For now, here is Frank Sinatra's version from Come Fly with Me (1958), with a glistening arrangement by Billy May: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kbrPen0tqxM.

And here is an instrumental version by the great Nat King Cole trio, from which Bill Evans fans will be able to clearly hear the influence that Cole had on Evans' playing: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uKB_RpYvDNM&feature=related

In mentioning Bill Evans in yesterday's post, I didn't give the names of the other musicians in his longest-lasting trio. Eddie Gomez, on bass, was with Evans from 1966 to 1978, and Marty Morell was his drummer from 1968 to 1975. In looking for a recording to link, I came across one I hadn't heard for a long time: a version of the Evans original entitled "Very Early" from the album, Montreux II (1970). It's in 3/4 time (also known as waltz time) and it features a very adventurous solo from Gomez, as well as the usual glistening brilliance of Evans. Also of note are Morell's numerous ideas in support. It's a great example of three musicians who can process internal and external information at high speeds in the moment: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UnZWcc5CUik

And here is the opening cut from the first album recorded in Switzerland, Bill Evans at the Montreux Jazz Festival from 1968. "One for Helen" was written for Evans' manager, Helen Keane, who was both a pioneer in her field and a loyal friend to Evans in his difficult final years. The drummer on this album was the great Jack DeJohnette; it was, unfortunately, the only Evans recording on which he appeared - he wasn't in the trio for long, but you'd never know it from this: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8LNUQXE3SlA

Yesterday, I mentioned that serious jazz musicians rehearse very little, which is true. But I want to be clear what I mean by that. By "rehearse", I mean playing with other musicians, which is not the same thing as "practice", which is done individually. Jazz musicians practice constantly. (The term they use for it is "woodshedding", as in, "I'm going back to the shed". It comes from the structure in Charlie Parker's Kansas City backyard that became legendary for the heavy practice hours that it hosted.) But everything that is practiced, from ear training to memorizing vocabulary to the detailed study of the history of both style and instrument - is done so that they don't have to rehearse. Bill Evans, the piano giant and one of the hardest-working musicians ever, once said that in the ten or so years that he played with one of his trios, they'd had about four rehearsals. But when the gig started, they "got it together very quickly on the bandstand". For evidence of the results, listen to any of his records.

On June 18, I mentioned that listening to a track several times is very important in terms of appreciating jazz. To go even further, it is a most informative and enjoyable plan to listen to the same artist playing the same piece several times. At the very end of Bill Evans' life, he performed at the Keystone Korner in San Francisco for nine nights (from August 31 to September 8, 1980 - he died on September 15). The performances that he gave are among the greatest in jazz history, and most of them were released in 2000 as The Last Waltz: The Final Recordings. (The only thing to dislike about the release is the title - it's not original. I'll be writing about The Band on another occasion, by the way.) It is an eight-CD set, and every piece is worth hearing, but what I'd like to recommend today is to listen to the performances of the piece entitled, "Nardis". It was one of Evans' favourites and is on the album six (!) times. It is a Miles Davis composition and a fascinating piece of music, with unusual interchanges between E major and minor. (Come to think of it, it is probably time to stop defining keys as major or minor - today there is such free mixture of the two that it can actually be misleading. Incidentally, one of the big characteristics of jazz is that there is nearly always more than one thing going on at a time - melodically, rhythmically, and as in this case, harmonically.) The musicians, Evans with bassist Marc Johnson and drummer Joe LaBarbera, knowing the song so well, play with unbelievable freedom, creativity, sophistication, intelligence, knowledge. You'll be adding your own descriptions once you hear it.

The role of the guitar in popular music is often misunderstood. There is a tendency to confuse virtuosity with the number of notes played. (This happens with other instruments as well - see the earlier discussion of Ringo and The Beatles.) Therefore, lead guitar gets all the attention, and the instrument's importance as a rhythmic contributor is not properly appreciated. More than any other instrument, the history of twentieth-century popular music has been shaped by the guitar. Its portability and the fact that bent strings can emulate vocalists are two large factors in its centrality to blues music. The fact that it is polyphonic and can be played with infinite rhythmic variety makes it a sort of halfway point between the piano and drums, and therefore perfect for jazz. Try to imagine country music without the guitar. Now try it with rock and roll.
Over the next little bit, I'll be writing about some guitarists and recordings that deserve more appreciation. Today, the topic is Jim Hall's playing on "I've Got You Under My Skin", from the album Intermodulation, recorded with Bill Evans. The performance begins with Hall soloing over the song's long form. (Cole Porter had the ability to write pieces with long forms that somehow retained their unity. Listen to "Begin the Beguine", for another example.) In jazz, this is unusual, as the head (i.e. the melody) is nearly always played before the improvising starts. Hall understood this and made certain that the listener could clearly hear the tune throughout his solo, and yet what he plays is entirely original. When Bill Evans takes over after one pass through the form (a "chorus", in Musician), Hall's accompaniment is astonishing. Someone once said of the Hall of Fame catcher Johnny Bench: "When he throws the ball, everyone in baseball drools." Well, this is such a moment for guitarists. The swing, the touch, the voicings (the different locations and inversions in which a chord can be played on a guitar or a keyboard), the time-feel. It's simply exquisite. According to legend, when Evans died at the age of fifty-one in 1980, many musical tributes were paid at his funeral. But the one that sent everyone to tears was Jim Hall playing the chords to "I've Got You Under My Skin", as they listened to the beauty of what was there and realized the beauty of what had been lost.