Bill Evans

The title is a statement of ownership. After years of Verve sessions where producers shaped the context, Evans took complete control for Columbia: every composition on this record is his own, every arrangement his own, and the Fender Rhodes makes its first serious appearance in his discography alongside the acoustic piano. The result won two Grammys and remains the most direct expression of Evans the composer that exists on record.

The trio with Gomez and Morell had been working together for three years by this point, and the interplay has a confidence that borders on telepathy. Gomez's bass is mixed unusually high, and his runs during "Funkallero" are almost aggressive by Evans standards. Morell's brushwork on "Waltz for Debby" is the gentlest reimagining of a familiar piece Evans ever committed to tape.

The Columbia studio sound is warmer and more spacious than the Verve recordings, and the engineering by Frank Laico gives the acoustic piano a fullness that suits this material perfectly. This is the record where the mature Evans trio sound, the one that would carry through the entire Fantasy period, first clicks into focus.

Russell's eight-part suite asks Evans to function as a soloist inside a twenty-two piece ensemble, and the collision of sensibilities is fascinating even when it is not entirely comfortable. Evans's crystalline touch against the dense orchestral textures creates an effect that is more "concerto" than "combo," and the presence of Joe Henderson and Sam Rivers in the reed section gives the orchestra a weight that no string section could match.

The electric piano sections feel more natural here than on any other Evans recording. Inside Russell's chromatic vocabulary, the Rhodes timbre becomes an orchestral color rather than a pop concession. Tony Williams and Marty Morell share drum duties across the eight events, and the contrast between their approaches is one of the record's quieter pleasures.

This is not easy listening and it is not meant to be. The suite's harmonic language draws on Russell's Lydian Chromatic Concept, and the episodic structure demands patience. But for anyone who wants to hear Evans in a context that no other record provides, this is essential and unrepeatable.

Evans's first recording for Fantasy is a live date from the Yūbin Chokin Hall in Tokyo, and the Japanese audience's reverent silence gives the trio a concert-hall intimacy that most club recordings lack. The set opens with "Morning Glory," one of Evans's most beguiling original compositions, and the version here is definitive: six minutes of melody that unfolds like a slow sunrise, Gomez's bass singing underneath with a freedom that the studio records rarely capture.

The standard material is transformed in ways that only a working trio can manage. "Up with the Lark" moves at a tempo that seems impossible to sustain, but Evans and Gomez navigate the changes with an ease that makes the difficulty invisible. "Yesterday I Heard the Rain" is given a reading of such tenderness that the audience's applause sounds almost reluctant, as if they didn't want to break the spell.

This was the last great document of the Evans/Gomez/Morell trio before Morell's departure, and the Grammy nomination was well deserved. The Fantasy production, overseen by Helen Keane, gives the piano a clarity that the Verve live recordings sometimes lacked.

Back at the Village Vanguard, thirteen years after the LaFaro sessions, and the room still draws something particular out of Evans. The title track, dedicated to and named by Evans's wife Nanette, makes its first recorded appearance here, a gently swinging waltz whose melody has the simplicity of a folk song. This is one of the few Evans compositions that sounds like it could have been written by a sentimental person, which is exactly what makes it moving.

The trio's treatment of "Time Remembered" stretches the harmonic framework until it almost dissolves, Gomez taking the melody into the upper register of the bass while Evans comps with a lightness that borders on impressionist painting. Morell's brushwork throughout is a masterclass in the art of accompaniment: present but invisible, shaping the time without ever imposing on it.

The material from these two nights produced enough music for two albums, the second being the posthumously released Re: Person I Knew. Both records document a trio that had reached a mature equilibrium, and if the fire of the LaFaro years is absent, what replaced it is something rarer: a deep, unhurried musical conversation between three musicians who know each other's thoughts.

Seven years into their partnership, Evans and Gomez strip the music to its barest elements. No drums, no overdubs, just piano and bass in the Fantasy Studios in Berkeley, each musician simultaneously soloist and accompanist. The result is more demanding than any trio record: there is nowhere to hide when two musicians are this exposed.

Gomez's technique had always been remarkable, but in duo format it becomes genuinely startling. His arco playing on "Blue Serge" creates a cello-like countermelody that transforms the piece into a chamber music dialogue. Evans responds by simplifying, stripping his left hand to the minimum and letting Gomez fill the harmonic space that a drummer would normally define.

This is a studio recording that sounds like a private rehearsal, two musicians playing for each other rather than for an audience. The engineering captures every nuance of Gomez's bass, from the woody thud of his pizzicato to the singing sustain of his bowed passages. For fans of the Evans/Gomez partnership, this is essential documentation.

Ogerman's two-movement concerto is the most ambitious orchestral setting Evans ever received, and it works because Ogerman understood something that most arrangers miss: Evans does not need to be decorated, he needs to be framed. The orchestral writing opens spaces for the trio to fill rather than competing with it, and the result has the structural integrity of a classical work with the improvisational freedom of a jazz performance.

The first movement builds from a quiet string introduction to a full orchestral statement with Evans weaving through the ensemble, his touch so light against the brass that he seems to float above the orchestra rather than push against it. Phil Woods's alto saxophone adds an edge that keeps the writing from becoming too polished, and Hubert Laws's flute provides moments of translucent beauty that mirror Evans's own lyricism.

The second movement is darker and more rhythmically complex, with Gomez and Morell driving the trio sections with an intensity that the first movement only hints at. Ogerman's writing for French horns and low brass gives the climax a weight that few jazz orchestral recordings achieve. This is the summit of the Evans/Ogerman collaboration, and one of the most successful third-stream works ever recorded.

Voice and piano, nothing else. Bennett and Evans had admired each other for years, and when they finally entered Fantasy Studios in Berkeley together, the results were as intimate and unadorned as two great musicians can be. There are no arrangements to hide behind, no rhythm section to lean on: every phrase from Bennett is answered directly by Evans, and every harmonic choice Evans makes is immediately reflected in Bennett's phrasing.

The song selection is impeccable. "Young and Foolish" opens the record with a vulnerability that sets the tone for everything that follows. "The Touch of Your Lips" is given a reading of such delicacy that it barely seems to exist, the melody emerging and dissolving like breath on glass. Evans's accompaniment throughout is a lesson in restraint: he gives Bennett exactly the harmonic foundation the singer needs and not one note more.

This is one of those records that gets better with every listen, because the subtleties reveal themselves slowly. Bennett's pitch is flawless, his vibrato controlled to a degree that most opera singers would envy, and Evans matches him shade for shade. The four days in the studio were enough to produce material for two albums, the second being Together Again.

The title is an anagram of "Orrin Keepnews," Evans's longtime producer at Riverside, and the music comes from the same January 1974 Village Vanguard engagement that produced Since We Met. Released posthumously in 1981, this companion volume contains performances that are every bit as accomplished as the tracks selected for the earlier release.

"Sugar Plum" has a lightness that the more introspective tracks on Since We Met lack, and Gomez's solo is one of his most purely melodic. The ballad playing is exquisite throughout: "Emily" is given a reading that strips the melody to its harmonic skeleton and then rebuilds it note by note, Evans finding new implications in a song he had been playing for a decade.

Keepnews produced both albums, and his decision to hold this material back was not a judgment of quality but of sequencing: the tracks on Since We Met formed a more coherent set, and these performances work better as a follow-up than as a standalone. Together, the two records give us the complete picture of those two January nights at the Vanguard.

Evans's third appearance at the Montreux Jazz Festival is documented here as a duo with Gomez, and the live setting gives the music an energy that the studio Intuition sessions lack. The audience is present but unobtrusive, and Evans and Gomez play to each other rather than to the hall, creating the impression of a private concert that two thousand people happened to overhear.

The Fender Rhodes appears on several tracks, and in this context it sounds warmer and more personal than on any of the Verve-era experiments. Evans's touch on the electric instrument has softened since From Left to Right, and the interplay between the Rhodes voicings and Gomez's acoustic bass creates a timbral contrast that the all-acoustic duo lacks.

This is not the essential Evans duo record (that distinction belongs to Intuition or Undercurrent), but it captures a performance of real warmth and spontaneity. The audience response throughout suggests they understood they were hearing something special.

Released posthumously in 1982, this compilation gathers material from three different sources: studio rehearsals at Fantasy in Berkeley (1974 and 1975), a live recording from Shelly's Manne-Hole in Hollywood (1973), and a live set from the Montreux Jazz Festival (1975). The result is a patchwork that holds together better than it has any right to, because Evans's musical personality is so consistent that the seams between sessions barely show.

The four Evans/Gomez duets are the heart of the record. "Gone with the Wind" has a leisurely swing that suggests two musicians playing for their own pleasure during a studio break, which is apparently exactly what happened. "Saudade do Brasil" brings a bossa nova warmth that Evans had rarely explored since his Riverside days.

The solo pieces are equally compelling. "In a Sentimental Mood" from Montreux is one of Evans's most harmonically daring solo performances, the left hand moving through substitutions that would be challenging for most pianists to execute at any tempo, let alone at the reflective pace Evans chooses. This is a posthumous release that enriches the catalog rather than padding it.

Evans so rarely worked outside the trio format that any departure is an event, and this quintet session at Fantasy Studios in Berkeley is the most successful large-group date of his entire career. The musicians are all first-call players from different corners of jazz, and none of them had ever worked with Evans before. The result sounds like a band that has been playing together for years.

Harold Land's tenor is a revelation in this context. His warm, full-bodied tone provides exactly the kind of melodic counterweight that Evans's delicate touch needs, and on "Second Time Around" they trade phrases with an ease that suggests a deep mutual understanding of the song. Kenny Burrell's guitar fills the harmonic middle ground between piano and bass, and the voicings he chooses are unfailingly complementary.

Ray Brown and Philly Joe Jones are the anchor, and what an anchor. Brown's bass is deeper and more rhythmically assertive than anything Gomez ever played with Evans, and Philly Joe's drums swing with a force that pushes Evans into a more extroverted register than usual. The resulting sound is harder, bluesier, and more groove-oriented than almost anything in the Evans discography. This is what happens when the gentlest pianist in jazz meets the hardest-swinging rhythm section available.

The second Bennett/Evans collaboration, recorded fifteen months after the first at Columbia Studios in San Francisco, deepens the musical rapport without changing the formula. Voice and piano, no rhythm section, no safety net. Bennett's label Improv released the album in 1977 before going out of business later that year, making original pressings collectors' items.

The material here is, if anything, more adventurous than the first volume. "Lucky to Be Me" is given a reading of aching simplicity, Bennett's phrasing stretching behind the beat while Evans's piano provides a steady harmonic bed that never rushes the singer forward. "Make Someone Happy" ends the record on a note of unguarded optimism that feels earned rather than sentimental.

Evans's piano playing is subtly different here than on the first record. He takes more harmonic risks, introducing reharmonizations that push Bennett into unfamiliar territory, and Bennett responds with the flexibility of a great improviser. The late afternoon light of these sessions comes through in every track. This is not background music: it is two artists at the peak of their interpretive powers, finding new truths in old songs.

Evans's final album for Fantasy was recorded in May 1977 but not released until January 1980, by which time Evans had already moved to Warner Bros. The title track, Michel Legrand's waltz, gives the record an unintended valedictory quality: Evans's reading of the melody is so tender, so careful with each note, that it sounds like a conscious farewell even though it was almost certainly not intended as one.

Eliot Zigmund had replaced Marty Morell the previous year, and the new trio has a different energy. Zigmund's drumming is more angular, less cushioned than Morell's, and Evans responds by playing with a slightly harder attack. The ballad playing remains transcendent: "Seascape" is one of the loveliest Evans performances of the decade, the right hand spinning out long melodic lines while the left provides harmonic color that seems to shift with every measure.

Gomez's bass work throughout is superb, his rapport with Evans undiminished after a decade together. They would continue to perform live through 1977, but this is the last studio document of the Evans/Gomez partnership that had defined the pianist's sound since 1966. The engineering at Fantasy Studios captures the trio in exceptional detail, every brush stroke and string vibration audible.