August 16, 1929—Bill Evans, my favorite jazz pianist, was born in Plainfield, N.J., to a Russian mother and a Welsh father. He inherited much good from both—notably, musical interest and talent—but unfortunately, from his father, a melancholic tendency that manifested itself in alcohol for his father and heroin for the son.
Herman Evans died three days before his son played New York’s Town Hall in 1966. That concert featured a somber, four-part requiem for his father. The only other time the pianist performed this suite came two years later, on TV, in tribute to the recently slain Robert F. Kennedy.
Critic Whitney Balliet wrote of the pianist-composer’s intellectualism, and it’s true that Evans could speak volubly about jazz theory. But there was so much more to his music. “Introspective,” “gentle,” and “sensitive” have all been applied to Evans’ personality, but they fit just as well with his work.
The death of his father was not the least of the tragedies in Evans’ life. His beloved brother Harry also passed away, inspiring another piano tribute from Evans. Most devastating, one of his wives committed suicide.
Adding to the tragedy of Evans’ life was his own lack of confidence in his gifts. It’s astonishing to discover this, particularly when one listens to the work. But he evidently retained this nagging sense throughout his career. It’s too bad he never sufficiently believed all the many people who expressed how much his work reminded them of all the beauty present in life.
If you want a fast way to recall the basic facts of the life and career of this lyrical pianist, just think of the number “51-50.” The first “50” stands for his age at the time of his death; the other stands for the number of exquisite albums he gave to the way before his too-soon passing. Put on “Waltz for Debbie” and his other songs, and marvel that we were lucky to have him around for as long as we did.
Herman Evans died three days before his son played New York’s Town Hall in 1966. That concert featured a somber, four-part requiem for his father. The only other time the pianist performed this suite came two years later, on TV, in tribute to the recently slain Robert F. Kennedy.
Critic Whitney Balliet wrote of the pianist-composer’s intellectualism, and it’s true that Evans could speak volubly about jazz theory. But there was so much more to his music. “Introspective,” “gentle,” and “sensitive” have all been applied to Evans’ personality, but they fit just as well with his work.
The death of his father was not the least of the tragedies in Evans’ life. His beloved brother Harry also passed away, inspiring another piano tribute from Evans. Most devastating, one of his wives committed suicide.
Adding to the tragedy of Evans’ life was his own lack of confidence in his gifts. It’s astonishing to discover this, particularly when one listens to the work. But he evidently retained this nagging sense throughout his career. It’s too bad he never sufficiently believed all the many people who expressed how much his work reminded them of all the beauty present in life.
If you want a fast way to recall the basic facts of the life and career of this lyrical pianist, just think of the number “51-50.” The first “50” stands for his age at the time of his death; the other stands for the number of exquisite albums he gave to the way before his too-soon passing. Put on “Waltz for Debbie” and his other songs, and marvel that we were lucky to have him around for as long as we did.
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