The Truth and Beauty of Bill Evans: ‘Jazz Is Not a What, It Is a How’

Bill Evans in Copenhagen 1964. Photo © Jan Persson

‘Ultimately I came to the conclusion that all I must do is take care of the music – even if I do it in a closet. And if I really do that, somebody’s gonna come and open the door of the closet and say: ‘Hey, we’re looking for you.’’
Bill Evans

I recently watched a fine documentary about the life and work of jazz pianist and composer Bill Evans. (‘Time Remembered’, 2015, produced by Bruce Spiegel)

'Develop a comprehensive technique, and then forget that and just be expressive.’

With his unhurried, gentle, impressionistic playing, Evans created elegant, mournful works that meander with intent. Albums like ‘Everybody Digs’, ‘Portrait in Jazz’,’ Explorations’ and ‘Moon Beams’; legendary live recordings at the Village Vanguard, convey a sublime sadness. He teaches us to dig deeper and think harder in the quest for truth and beauty.

‘The jazz player, ultimately, if he’s going to be a serious jazz player, teaches himself.’

Born in 1929 in Plainfield, New Jersey, Evans began playing the piano at 4 or 5 and was classically trained. At 13 he fell in love with jazz, particularly admiring Nat King Cole and Bud Powell.

‘Jazz is the most central and important thing in my life.’

In 1955 Evans moved to New York, installing his piano in a small, cramped apartment on 83rd Street. He focused single-mindedly on making it as a musician.

‘At that time I made a pact with myself… I gave myself ‘til I was 30.’

Evans supplemented his natural talent with an incredible work ethic. He practised every available hour, took jobs performing in clubs in the evenings and carried a music notebook wherever he went.

'I like people who have worked long and hard, developing through introspection and dedication. I think that what they arrive at is, usually, deeper and more beautiful than the person who seems to have that ability and fluidity from the beginning.'

After producer Orrin Keepnews was played one of his demo tapes over the phone, Evans was signed to the Riverside label, the home of Thelonious Monk. His first album, released in 1956, sold only 800 copies. But he managed to catch the attention of Miles Davis, who took him on the road and enlisted him for the recording of the 1959 classic ‘Kind of Blue.’

‘I want to build my music from the bottom up, piece by piece. And I just have a reason, that I arrived at myself, for every note I play.’

Subsequently Evans formed a series of trios, the first of which, with bassist Scott LaFaro and drummer Paul Motian, was seminal. He embarked on a stunning period of music making. 

'Jazz music has always been a place where anything is possible.'            

Bill Evans. Seen here as he appears on the cover of the 2016 legacy release of the album ‘Some Other Time’

Tall and thin, sharp-suited; hair slicked back and wearing glasses, Evans played with his head hung over the piano, fingers lightly caressing the keyboard. There was a look of intense concentration on his face. With his own unique harmonic language; with melodies that floated, and rhythms that de-emphasised the beat, he created what Davis described as ‘crystal notes or sparkling water cascading down from some clear waterfall.’

Evans thought deeply about his craft. Though jazz was often regarded as somewhat cerebral, he sustained that it should always express emotions.

'It bugs me when people try to analyze jazz as an intellectual theorem. It's not, it's feeling.’

Ultimately Evans held that his music should have a spiritual dimension.

'Art should teach spirituality by showing a person a portion of himself that he would not discover otherwise.’

I was particularly taken with this statement:

'Jazz is not a what, it is a how. If it were a what, it would be static, never growing. The how is that the music comes from the moment, it is spontaneous, it exists at the time it is created.'

In the creative professions we tend to treat ideas as precious commodities, stable and fixed. We worry a great deal about people stealing our strategies, copying our concepts. What if another Agency gets hold of our pitch deck? What if a competitor mimics our campaign?

'To imitate someone is to insult them.'

I’ve always felt that creative ideas are fragile, mercurial properties, worth little in the hands of rivals. Viewed through other people’s eyes our proposals generally come across as cold, hollow, flat and lifeless. Great concepts need to be articulated by the people who originated them; animated by advocates that believe in them. And then set free.

Like Evans, the best communicators invest their ideas with spontaneity and emotion; with personality and performance. 

Persuasion is not a what, it is a how.

'Keep searching for that sound you hear in your head until it becomes a reality.’

Evans was quiet and introverted. He lacked confidence, was hurt by criticism and for much of his life he was haunted by tragedy. In 1961 Lafaro was killed in a car crash. He was just 25. In 1973 Evans’ long-term girlfriend Ellaine Schultz jumped in front of a subway train after he ended their relationship. Six years later his beloved brother Harry, who had been diagnosed with schizophrenia, shot himself. 

Evans consistently turned to narcotics to dull the pain. He died in 1980 from haemorrhaging and bronchial pneumonia, the result of decades of substance abuse. He was 51.

Not long before he passed, Evans called his collaborator and friend Tony Bennett and relayed some advice:

‘Just go with truth and beauty, and forget the rest.’

'The scene is set for dreaming,
Love's knocking at the door.
But oh my heart, I'm reluctant to start,
For we've been fooled before.

The night is like a lovely tune.
Beware, my foolish heart.
How white the ever constant moon.
Take care, my foolish heart.’

Bill Evans and Tony Bennett, ‘My Foolish Heart' (N Washington / V Young)

No. 432

My Brief Fascination with Yo-Yos: Setting Aside Time for Atelic Planning

'The time you enjoy wasting is not wasted time.’
Laurence J Peter

When I was young I had a brief fascination with yo-yos.

Loafing around the house or garden, I would focus intently on the repetitive, mesmerising motion - spooling and unspooling, winding and rewinding, over and over again. The world around me disappeared. Time stood still. Not understanding the physics, it all seemed rather magical.

Though mine was not a fancy yo-yo, I kept it as a constant companion. I learned how to make it ‘sleep’ – spinning at the end of its uncoiled string – and even endeavoured, unsuccessfully, to ‘walk the dog.’ 

Bored one summer, I decided to invent an evolution of the yo-yo: a device that had a more erratic, random movement. I imagined this would have a beguiling charm. For my prototype I tied a piece of string to a wooden cotton reel and bounced it up and down, revelling in its haphazard trajectory. 

After a while I determined that my wayward yo-yo didn’t really work, and in fact made me look rather foolish. I’d been wasting my time…

'In his youth Albert Einstein spent a year loafing aimlessly. You don’t get anywhere by not ‘wasting’ time - something, unfortunately, that the parents of teenagers tend frequently to forget.'
Carlo Rovelli

I read recently in the FT (Tim Harford, ‘Why You Shouldn’t Strive,’ 15 December, 2022) about the distinction between telic and atelic projects established by philosopher Kieran Setiya ('Midlife: A Philosophical Guide').

Telos is the ancient Greek word for end or goal. Telic activities are those that have an objective in mind: distance run, mountain climbed, contract signed, promotion attained. Atelic activities have no specific objective. They tend to be pastimes we enjoy for themselves. Reading the paper, visiting a gallery, snoozing in the afternoon, or having a beer with My-Mate-Andy come to mind. We used to call these things hobbies.

It’s possible to engage with the same enterprise in a telic or atelic way. High achievers see most activities as a competition or challenge. They create aims and ambitions, lists and leagues whatever they’re up to. On the other hand, while sport is for the most part telic in character, my football team, the South Indies, generally played in an atelic fashion.

Setiya observes that telic projects can result in disappointment and dissatisfaction: the stress of striving; the frustration of failing; the hunger for another goal once a first has been achieved. There is a risk that an obsession with objectives can rid an activity of its inherent charms. One becomes more concerned with scores and measurement; with ticking a box or crossing off a list. 

And so Setiya concludes that if we want to avoid a midlife crisis, then we should invest more heavily in atelic projects. 

‘We can escape the self-destructive cycle of pursuit, resolution and renewal, of attainments archived or unachieved. The way out is to find sufficient value in atelic activities, activities that have no point of conclusion or limit, ones whose fulfilment lies in the moment of action itself.'
Kieran Setiya, 'Midlife: A Philosophical Guide'

Of course, you can argue this both ways. If you spend your youth only engaging in atelic projects, you’ll probably not achieve very much at all. Another route to a mid-life crisis. 

Inevitably I suspect the answer resides somewhere in the middle: the path to contentment lies in striking a balance between telic and atelic undertakings: sometimes striving for attainment, pushing ourselves to perform; and sometimes merely passing the time, enjoying the distractions that the day affords us.

'Time isn't the main thing. It's the only thing.’
Miles Davis

I found myself wondering about telic and atelic projects in the world of work. 

Work is necessarily a field of timesheets and targets, ambitions and accountability. Shouldn’t all professional activities be telic?

Actually I think it’s important that a Planner occasionally steps back from specific Client responsibilities and tasks - to take a look at social and industry change; to review competitive output; to learn of the latest technological innovations; to consider different ways of working. Such activities may not be particularly telic. But they serve to recharge our strategic batteries; to broaden our professional outlook; to refresh our enthusiasm and revive our appetite.

We all need to set aside time for Atelic Planning.

'If I had six hours to chop down a tree, I would spend the first four hours sharpening the axe.'
Abraham Lincoln

On reflection, I’m not sure there’s much risk of my suffering Setiya’s midlife crisis. If anything I need to embrace more telic activity in order to generate a little more momentum in my week. Perhaps I should put away that yo-yo and invest in a Strava…

'Take it easy, take it easy.
Don't let the sound of your own wheels drive you crazy.
Lighten up while you still can.
Don't even try to understand.
Just find a place to make your stand and take it easy.’
Jackson Browne, ‘Take It Easy’ (J Browne, G Frey)

No. 407

Miles Davis: Head Chemist in the Creative Laboratory

Photo: Herman Leonard Photography, LLC, courtesy of the Miles Davis Estate

‘Music has always been like a curse with me. I’ve always felt driven to play it. It’s the first thing in my life – go to bed thinking about it and wake up thinking about it. It’s always there. It comes before everything.’
Miles Davis

I recently watched a fine documentary about Miles Davis (‘Birth of the Cool’ by Stanley Nelson Jr).

Davis was a revered jazz trumpeter, a titanic bandleader, a revolutionary composer. He was cool jazz, orchestral jazz, hard bop, post-bop and fusion. He gave us ‘Birth of the Cool’,’’Round About Midnight’ and ‘Kind of Blue;’ ‘Milestones,’ ‘Miles Ahead’ and ‘Miles Smiles.’ He was a restless pioneer, a sensitive soul, a troubled genius.

Let us consider what Davis teaches us about living a wholehearted creative life.

1. ‘Go Where the Action Is’

Miles Davis was born in Alton, Illinois in 1926 and raised in East St. Louis. His family were relatively affluent landowners, his mother a music teacher and his father a dentist. 

Davis received his first trumpet as a gift on his 13th birthday. To escape his feuding parents, he would go out into the woods, listen to the wildlife and play what he was hearing. He began to perform in the school marching band, in talent shows and local ensembles. 

In 1944, Billy Eckstine visited St. Louis with a band that included Dizzy Gillespie and Charlie Parker. When a trumpeter fell sick Davis was invited to fill in. 

‘The greatest feeling I ever had in my life – with my clothes on – was when I first met Dizz and Bird. I was 18 years old. I decided right then and there I had to be in New York, on 52nd Street where the action was.’

2. Learn Your Craft

Davis moved to New York and hung out in the jazz joints on 52nd Street. He followed his idol Charlie Parker from club to club, immersing himself in the intense bebop scene. 

At the same time Davis enrolled at the Juilliard School to study classical music theory. Though he was mocked by fellow jazz artists, he was keen to learn his craft.

‘A lot of the old guys thought that if you went to school it would make you play like you were white - if you learned something from theory, you would lose the feeling in your playing. I would go to the library and borrow scores by all these great composers. I wanted to see what was going on in all of music.’

3. ‘If You Want to Keep Creating, You Have to Be About Change.’

Soon Davis was performing and recording with Parker in cities across America. In 1948 he met pianist and arranger Gil Evans with whom he struck up an immediate rapport.

‘We heard sound in the same way.’

They assembled a nine-piece band, the Miles Davis Nonet, which included the French horn and tuba and embraced a textured orchestral sound. Davis was bringing into play both his experiences on 52nd Street and lessons learned at the Juilliard. It was a radical combination.

‘Living is an adventure and a challenge. It wasn’t about standing still and becoming safe…If anybody wants to keep creating, they have to be about change.’

After signing a contract with Capitol Records, Davis’ Nonet released a series of tracks that were subsequently compiled on the 1957 album ‘Birth of the Cool.’

4. Find Your ‘Illusion of Possibility’

In 1949 Davis was invited to perform at the Paris International Jazz Festival. 

‘This was my first trip out of the country. I loved being in Paris and loved the way I was treated.’

Davis enjoyed the freedom and respect he found in post-war Paris. Moving in creative circles, he socialised with the likes of Sartre and Picasso. He began to appreciate the scale of his own potential as an artist.

‘Paris was where I understood that all white people weren’t the same – that some weren’t prejudiced and others were. It had only been a couple of weeks, but I was living in an illusion of possibility. Maybe a miracle had happened.’

5. Dig Your Way Out of the Holes

Davis’ return to the States was marked by disappointment and depression. He developed a heroin habit, lost his sense of discipline and his career spiralled out of control. He also gained a reputation for being detached and irascible. 

‘I was just cold to mostly everyone. That was the way I protected myself – by not letting anyone inside of my feelings and emotions.’

Davis’ somewhat forbidding presence was enhanced when an operation to remove polyps from his larynx went wrong and left him with a raspy voice for the rest of his life. 

He retreated to his father’s farm for several months to clean up. 

‘I figured there wasn’t nowhere for me to go but up. I was already on the bottom.’

Davis was partially successful, but in the early ‘50s he was in and out of work. He managed to sign a recording contract with Prestige and gradually evolved his style. He took to using a mute, placed close to the microphone, and his phrasing became more spacious and relaxed.

‘Miles had a way of playing that sounded like a stone skipping across a pond. He just touched on the waves.’
Herbie Hancock

In 1955, Davis' fortunes turned when he was invited to perform at the Newport Jazz Festival. 

‘Miles put the bell of his horn right into the microphone and changed the whole of jazz right there - and changed his career right there. Because the beauty of that song, and the beauty of Miles’ trumpet, made bebop a music that could be accepted by everybody.’
George Wein, Promoter

6. Speed Can Be a Creative Ally

After Davis’ performance at Newport, he was snapped up by Columbia Records. But his incumbent contract with Prestige required him to release four more albums.

Davis assembled his band in the studio: Red Garland on piano, Paul Chambers on double bass, Philly Joe Jones on drums and John Coltrane on saxophone. This line-up has been labelled the First Great Quintet. Together they recorded four albums in two one-day sessions. ‘Cookin'’, ‘Relaxin'’, ‘Workin'’ and ‘Steamin'’ are regarded as some of Davis’ best work. Speed can be a creative ally.

7. Allow Space for Spontaneity

In 1957 Davis embarked on a five-album collaboration with Gil Evans. He greatly enjoyed the experimentation: playing a flugelhorn, interpreting classical pieces, employing orchestral arrangements. 

In 1959, he recorded ‘Kind of Blue.’ Rather than turn up to the sessions with a finished score, he built in the opportunity for improvisation.

‘I didn’t write out the music for ’Kind of Blue,’ but brought in sketches - because I wanted a lot of spontaneity in the playing…I knew that if you’ve got some great musicians, they would deal with the situation and play beyond what is there and above what they think they can.’

Cicely Tyson and Miles Davis. Photo Credit Ron Galella

‘Kind of Blue’ was an instant success and is still the best selling jazz album of all time. 

8. Don’t Be Embarrassed by Success

Davis enjoyed his success. He invested in sharp suits and fast cars. He wore silk scarves, directional sunglasses and an intense look.

‘Being cool and hip and angry and sophisticated and ultra clean, I was all of those things and more. But I was playing the f**k out of my horn and had a great group. So I didn’t get recognition based only on a rebel image.’

When asked how he tallied owning a sports car with parenthood, Davis replied:

‘I tell them to get a taxi.’

9. Know When It’s Time to Break Up the Party

Success didn’t protect Davis from the racism endemic in America at that time. 

Taking a break from a recording session at Birdland in New York, he stepped outside to escort a woman to a taxi. A policeman told him to ‘move on.’ When Davis explained he was working at the club, he was arrested and beaten up. His head wound needed five stitches.

‘That incident changed me forever. Made me much more bitter and cynical than I might have been.’

Despite the success of ‘Kind of Blue’, Coltrane left the band to start his own ensemble, and soon the others followed. Davis recognised that it was time to break up the party and rebuild from scratch.

'In the last years that Trane was with my group, he started playing for himself. When that happens the magic is gone out of a band and people who used to love to play together start not caring anymore. And that’s when a band falls apart…. I had always been looking for new things to play, new challenges for my musical ideas. Now it was time for something different.’

Miles Davies In New York City 1955. Photo: Tom Palumbo

10. If You’re Good Enough, You’re Old Enough

Between 1963 and 1964 Davis put together what became his Second Great Quintet: Herbie Hancock on piano, Ron Carter on bass, Tony Williams on drums and Wayne Shorter on saxophone.

Hancock was 23 and Williams was just 17. Davis regarded their youth as an asset. 

‘Creativity and genius in any kind of artistic expression don’t know nothing about age. Either you got it or you don’t. And being old is not going to help you get it.’

11. Set Up a Creative Laboratory

The Second Quintet could play at great speed and embraced elements of free jazz, all five contributing simultaneously as equals. The band was a creative laboratory for ideas.

‘We were looking at every night going into a laboratory. Miles was the head chemist. Our job was to mix these components, these changes, this tempo, to something that explodes safely every night with a bit of danger. And it happened every night.’
Ron Carter

Davis encouraged his musicians to work outside their comfort zone.

'Miles wanted us to live on the stage in front of the people, creating in front of the people. In other words, don’t lean on what you know. What he was looking for is the stuff that you don’t know. Miles even told us, ‘I pay you to practice on the bandstand in front of the people.’’
Herbie Hancock

12. ‘Play As If You Don’t Know How to Play’

'Do not fear mistakes. There are none.' 

One of the fascinating aspects of Davis’ working practice was his special relationship with miscues and missteps. He found merit in mistakes.

‘The note next to the one that you think is bad corrects the one in front.’

Herbie Hancock relates how Davis was completely non-judgemental: he regarded errors as creative opportunities.

‘I played this chord that was so wrong. I had destroyed everything. Miles took a breath and then he made some notes that actually made my chord right. How do you do that? I had judged what I had done. Miles didn’t judge what I did. He heard it and heard it as part of the music - something new that came into the music.’

Davis was a true pioneer who wanted to take his music right to the edge. And beyond.

‘Do you ever get tired of playing music that sounds like music? Do you ever feel like you wanna play as if you don’t know how to play?’

Wayne Shorter, Ron Carter, Miles Davis & Tony Williams | Miles Davis Quintet

13. Stay Competitive, Stay Ambitious

At the end of the ‘60s Davis was increasingly conscious that the younger generation were into rock, soul, and funk. He became an enthusiast for the work of James Brown, Sly Stone and Jimi Hendrix.

‘1969 was the year rock and funk were really selling like hot cakes. People were packing stadiums to hear and see stars in person, and jazz music seemed to be withering on the vine. We played a lot of half-empty clubs in 1969. That told me something.’

In particular Davis was aware of how lucrative the rock business model had become.

‘I started realising that most rock musicians didn’t know anything about music. I figured that if they could do it – reach all those people and sell all those records – without really knowing what they were doing, then I could do it too. Only better.’

Davis threw away his sharp suits and restyled himself for the hippie era. Having expanded his band to include multiple percussion players, sitar and electric bass, he started recording long, dense improvisational fusion pieces. 

‘I told the musicians that they could do anything they wanted, play anything they heard. So that’s what they did.’

For the 1970 double album ‘Bitches Brew’ Davis adopted studio techniques like splicing, distortion, multi-track recording and tape loops. The album went on to sell a million copies.

 ‘I wanted to change course - had to change course - for me to continue to believe in and love what I was playing.’

14. Never Look Back

By the mid ‘70s Davis was suffering repeated health problems. He turned to alcohol and cocaine for support, and became violent and abusive. Artistically drained, he gave up playing and became a recluse.

But by the early ‘80s Davis was back with his horn. He continued to record and perform, collaborating with artists like Prince, appearing on talk shows and in movies, learning to paint. 

As his son Erin observed, he never looked back.

‘Miles never talked about his old records. He didn’t keep them in the house. He didn’t have any of them - not one of them. He didn’t want them in there. He only wanted the stuff he was working on.’

Davis carried on creating until he passed away in 1991. He’d had a five-decade career, lived an extraordinary life and left a phenomenal musical legacy. On his deathbed he observed:

‘When god punishes you, it’s not that you don’t get what you want. It’s that you get everything you want and there’s no time left.’

No. 318