Bill Evans

Evans's first recording for Creed Taylor at Verve, and a one-session date with Shelly Manne on drums and Monty Budwig on bass. It is a West Coast rhythm section with an East Coast pianist, and the combination works because Manne was one of those rare drummers who could adapt to any context without losing his own identity. His brushwork here is so responsive to Evans's dynamics that the title feels earned.

The repertoire mixes standards with originals. "Washington Twist" has more rhythmic energy than you expect from an Evans date, pushed by Manne's insistent swing. "Danny Boy" is the quiet center of the album, Evans treating the melody with the reverence he usually reserved for ballad standards like "My Foolish Heart."

It is a pleasant, well-played record rather than a revelatory one. Budwig is a competent bassist but does not bring the conversational counterpoint of LaFaro or Israels. Still, it marks the beginning of the Verve period, and the production by Taylor and engineering by Rudy Van Gelder gives everything a warmth and clarity that the Riverside records sometimes lacked.

The concept sounds like a gimmick: Evans overdubbing three separate piano tracks on top of each other, playing on Glenn Gould's Steinway CD 318. But the result won a Grammy and remains one of the most fascinating solo piano experiments in jazz. Evans was not layering for density. He was having a conversation with himself, each track responding to what had come before, creating a three-way interplay that mirrors what he sought in his trio work.

"NYC's No Lark" (an anagram of Sonny Clark, who had recently died) is the emotional center: a tribute to a fellow pianist rendered in three voices that orbit each other with an intimacy no band could achieve. "Round Midnight" builds from a sparse first track to a full, orchestral density by the third layer.

The technology was primitive by modern standards: Evans listened through headphones to the first track while recording the second, then listened to both while recording the third. There was no editing, no fixing. Each layer is a complete performance. The discipline required is staggering, and the musical result justifies every bit of it.

A one-off trio with Gary Peacock on bass and Paul Motian returning on drums: the only recording of this particular group, and one of the most striking albums in the Evans catalog. Peacock was a different kind of bassist than either LaFaro or Israels. His tone was darker, his time feel less grounded, and his melodic instincts more angular. The result is a trio that sounds both familiar and unsettled.

"Little Lulu" opens with an energy that catches you off guard, Evans playing with a rhythmic assertiveness that Peacock and Motian match beat for beat. "Santa Claus Is Coming to Town" is unexpectedly moving: a Christmas novelty transformed into something wistful and searching, Evans finding the melancholy buried inside the cheerful melody.

This was Motian's last recording with Evans, and you can hear a maturity in their interaction that goes beyond the Riverside years. They are older now, and the music carries that weight. It is a five-star record for the simple reason that every track reveals something new on every listen.

Recorded over two nights at the Trident in Sausalito, California, but not released until 1971, against Evans's wishes. He felt the material was not strong enough for release. He was wrong. The trio with Chuck Israels and Larry Bunker plays with an easy confidence that the studio recordings of this period do not always capture, and the live setting brings out a looseness in Evans's phrasing that is deeply appealing.

Bunker, a studio drummer and vibraphonist recommended by Clare Fischer, was a different kind of timekeeper than Motian: more precise, less atmospheric, but no less musical. His interaction with Israels provides Evans a stable platform from which to take chances, and on "Nardis" and "How Deep Is the Ocean" he does exactly that.

The sound quality is good for a live recording of this era, and Wally Heider's engineering captures the room ambience without obscuring the trio's delicate balance. Not a revelation, but a solid document of the working band at ease in front of an audience.

The Israels-Bunker trio at its best in the studio. Evans had just won the DownBeat readers' poll, outpolling Oscar Peterson for the first time, and the confidence of that recognition comes through in the playing. "Who Can I Turn To" is a masterclass in ballad interpretation: Evans strips the melody to its harmonic core and rebuilds it with voicings so rich they sound like a small orchestra.

Israels and Bunker have found their groove together by this point. The interaction is not the telepathic conversation of the LaFaro trio, but something more structured and equally satisfying: a pianist who knows exactly what his rhythm section will do, and a rhythm section that knows how to anticipate every shift in direction.

The studio sound is immaculate, Creed Taylor's Verve productions consistently gave Evans a sonic clarity that suited his music. This is the high-water mark of the second trio, the point at which their ensemble playing reached its peak before Israels's departure.

Creed Taylor's idea: surround the Evans trio with a symphony orchestra arranged and conducted by Claus Ogerman. The concept could have produced something saccharine, but Ogerman's writing is restrained and Evans's playing is uncompromised. The strings do not smother the piano; they extend its harmonic palette into a richer timbral space.

The Granados piece, "Orientale," is the standout: Evans plays the Spanish melody with a delicacy that makes the orchestral accompaniment feel like a natural extension of his own voicings. "My Bells" is the most adventurous arrangement, Ogerman building a modernist orchestral texture around Evans's spare improvisation.

Not every track works equally well, and the orchestral format inevitably limits the trio's interactive freedom. But as a document of Evans's sound translated into a larger canvas, it succeeds more often than it fails, and the best moments rival anything in the third-stream literature.

The sequel to Undercurrent, recorded four years later at Van Gelder Studios. If the first duo record was about discovering what two chordal instruments could do together, this one takes that discovery for granted and simply makes music. The interaction is more confident, the repertoire more varied, and the emotional range wider.

"Angel Face" has a warmth that borders on tenderness, Hall's guitar singing the melody while Evans lays down a harmonic bed so perfectly voiced it could stand alone as a solo piano piece. "Turn Out the Stars" would become one of Evans's most performed compositions, and this early reading with Hall is among the most intimate.

The engineering by Rudy Van Gelder gives both instruments a presence that is almost three-dimensional. You can hear the resonance of Hall's guitar body and the sustain of Evans's piano in a way that makes the duo format feel larger than two instruments. A quiet masterpiece.

A concert divided into two halves: the first with the trio (Israels and Arnold Wise on drums), the second with an orchestra arranged and conducted by Al Cohn. The trio half is the more memorable. Wise is the only drummer to appear on a single Evans commercial recording, and his interaction with Evans and Israels is tentative but musical. This was also Israels's last recorded appearance as a regular member of the trio.

The orchestral half features a big band with Clark Terry, Bob Brookmeyer, and Eddie Daniels among the personnel, and Grady Tate replacing Wise on drums. Al Cohn's arrangements are skillful but conventional, and Evans sounds slightly constrained within the ensemble format. The best moments come when the orchestra drops out and Evans is left alone at the piano.

A transitional document: the end of the Israels era, the last time Evans would record with this particular bassist, and a glimpse of the orchestral ambitions that would find fuller expression in the Ogerman collaborations.

The debut of Eddie Gomez in the Evans trio, and you can hear immediately that something has changed. Gomez was twenty-two years old, a Juilliard graduate with extraordinary technique, and his bass playing brings a virtuosic energy that none of Evans's previous bassists had offered. Where LaFaro conversed and Israels supported, Gomez challenges: his lines are faster, more ornate, more forward in the mix.

Shelly Manne returns on drums, providing a bridge between the old sound and the new. His West Coast precision balances Gomez's East Coast intensity, and Evans sits comfortably between them, exploring the new possibilities this combination opens up. "Unless It's You" and "These Things Called Changes" are the highlights: Evans at his most lyrical, Gomez already showing the harmonic sophistication that would define his eleven-year partnership with Evans.

This is a beginning, and it sounds like one: full of potential, occasionally tentative, but unmistakably the start of something important. The Evans-Gomez partnership would become the longest and most productive of Evans's career.

The sequel to Conversations with Myself, this time using two overdubbed tracks instead of three, and occasionally introducing the Fender Rhodes electric piano as the second voice. The reduction from three layers to two makes the music more transparent but also less rich, and the electric piano, while an interesting timbral experiment, lacks the depth of interaction that two acoustic pianos provide.

"Emily" is the best track: Evans playing the Johnny Mandel ballad with such tenderness that the overdub technology becomes invisible. You forget that one man is playing both parts. "Funny Man" uses the electric piano more successfully than most of the other attempts, the contrasting timbres creating a genuine dialogue.

A diminished return on the original concept, though not without its pleasures. The problem is not the execution but the inevitability of comparison: the first Conversations set a standard that no sequel could match.

Recorded at the Village Vanguard in August 1967 but shelved for fifteen years because Evans did not think the music was strong enough. The trio features Eddie Gomez on bass and Philly Joe Jones on drums, a combination that reunites Evans with the drummer from Everybody Digs Bill Evans nearly a decade later. Philly Joe brings more fire than any of Evans's regular drummers, and the results are more extroverted than usual.

Evans was right that some of the material is uneven, but the best tracks have a vitality that the more polished studio recordings of this period lack. Gomez is still finding his way in the trio, and his interaction with Philly Joe has a raw energy that later, more refined partnerships would smooth away.

A curiosity more than an essential, but it fills in a gap in the discography: the early months of the Evans-Gomez partnership, with a drummer who pushed Evans harder than anyone since the LaFaro days.

The Grammy winner, and one of the finest live recordings Evans ever made. Jack DeJohnette had just joined the trio, and his presence transforms the group's energy. DeJohnette was not a subtle drummer in the Motian mold; he was a force, and his propulsive swing on "Nardis" and "Embraceable You" pushes Evans into some of his most rhythmically assertive playing on record.

Gomez rises to the occasion, playing with more confidence and fire than on any previous recording. The audience response is audible and enthusiastic: the European festival crowd understood immediately that something special was happening. "One for Helen" has a tenderness that balances the more extroverted tracks, and the solo introduction to "Someday My Prince Will Come" is one of Evans's most beautiful unaccompanied passages.

This is the only recording of Evans with DeJohnette, who would go on to become one of the most important drummers in jazz history. It remains a tantalizing glimpse of what a longer partnership might have produced.

Evans at the piano without overdubs, without a trio, without anything between the listener and his thought process. Unlike the Conversations records, there is no technology to mediate the experience: this is simply one man playing six sessions' worth of music over two months, and the best of it selected for release.

"A Time for Love" won a Grammy for Best Jazz Instrumental Performance, and it deserved to: Evans plays the Johnny Mandel ballad with such sustained beauty that the seven-minute performance feels like five. "Never Let Me Go" and "Here's That Rainy Day" are equally fine, Evans's left hand providing a harmonic richness that makes you forget no bass or drums are present.

This is the definitive Evans solo piano album: more focused than the Conversations records, more emotionally direct, and more representative of what he sounded like sitting alone at a keyboard. If you want to understand what made Evans's harmonic approach revolutionary, start here.

The debut of drummer Marty Morell in the Evans trio, and a guest appearance by flutist Jeremy Steig that divides Evans fans sharply. Steig plays with an aggressive, sometimes overblown energy that sits uneasily next to Evans's delicacy. On the best tracks, the contrast is productive; on the worst, Steig simply overwhelms the piano.

The trio tracks without Steig are the more successful. Morell's drumming is clean, precise, and unobtrusive: exactly what Evans needed after the intensity of DeJohnette. He would stay for six years. Gomez is settling into the role, his technique now fully integrated into the trio's sound.

Not the strongest entry in the catalog, but historically important as the beginning of the Evans-Gomez-Morell trio, the group that would produce some of Evans's finest work over the next half-decade.

Shelved studio material from 1969, not released until nearly two decades later. The Evans-Gomez-Morell trio is still new here, and the music has a tentative quality that explains why Evans may not have felt it was ready for release. But there are pleasures to be found: Evans's ballad playing is as refined as ever, and Gomez's bass tone has a richness that the live recordings of this period do not always capture.

The title track and "Alfie" are the highlights, Evans treating both with the careful attention to voicing and dynamics that characterized his best studio work. Morell is workmanlike and reliable, which is exactly what Evans needed.

For completists rather than newcomers, but it fills in the sonic picture of the trio's early months together. The playing is consistently good even when it fails to reach the heights of the trio's best work.

The sequel to Alone, recorded seven years later and released on Fantasy. Evans's touch is heavier here than on the Verve record, his left hand more assertive, his rhythmic approach more grounded. The repertoire is broader too: "People" from Funny Girl is not a song most jazz pianists would attempt, but Evans transforms it into something unexpectedly moving.

The playing is consistently beautiful but lacks the revelation of the first Alone album. Evans was a more experienced solo performer by 1975, and that experience shows in the confidence of his phrasing, but the spontaneity of discovery that made the earlier record so compelling has been replaced by mastery.

A strong solo piano record by any measure, and one that stands well on its own. It is only in comparison to its predecessor that it falls slightly short.

Evans on Fender Rhodes electric piano with orchestral accompaniment, and it is as awkward as that description suggests. The electric piano robs Evans of his most distinctive quality: his touch. The Fender Rhodes has a uniform attack that erases the dynamic subtlety that makes acoustic Evans so compelling, and Mickey Leonard's string arrangements are pleasant but generic.

"What Are You Doing the Rest of Your Life" is the best track, Evans's melodic sense strong enough to survive the limitations of the instrument and the arrangement. But most of the album sounds like a jazz musician trying to make a crossover record, which is exactly what it was.

Evans himself was not proud of this record, and most Evans fans treat it as a curiosity at best. The electric piano experiments would continue sporadically, but Evans always sounded most like himself on an acoustic instrument.

A live recording from Amsterdam, captured in November 1969 but not released until 1981 on the Affinity label. The Evans-Gomez-Morell trio is now a year old, and the group has settled into a working rapport that the earlier studio recordings only hinted at. The live setting brings out a warmth and relaxation that suits the material.

The title track is Denny Zeitlin's composition, and Evans plays it with an intimacy that justifies making it the album's centerpiece. Gomez's bass is prominent in the mix, his arco playing adding a textural dimension that the studio recordings sometimes suppress. Morell keeps time with quiet authority.

A solid live document rather than an essential one. The trio would go on to produce better recordings, but this catches them at a moment when the chemistry was still fresh and the possibilities still felt open.

Another European live recording from the same November 1969 tour as Quiet Now, this one from the Jazzhouse Montmartre in Copenhagen. The sound quality is adequate rather than excellent, and the repertoire overlaps heavily with the Amsterdam set. Evans plays "Turn Out the Stars" and "Nardis" with characteristic beauty, and Gomez takes several extended bass solos that showcase his extraordinary technique.

Not released until 1987, and the delay is understandable: this is not a bad recording, but it does not add much to what the authorized releases already documented. For the completist, it offers another angle on the trio during this productive European tour.

A three-star record that would have been a four if the sound quality matched the playing.

Evans in a quintet with Lee Konitz and Warne Marsh, two Tristano-school saxophonists whose cool, linear approach was a natural match for Evans's harmonic sensibility. This is one of the most conceptually coherent collaborations in Evans's catalog: all three soloists share a devotion to melodic invention over rhythmic display, and the result is a session of almost classical poise.

Konitz and Marsh had not recorded together in years, and their interaction has a competitive edge that energizes the music. Evans comps behind them with a subtlety that only close listening reveals: his chord voicings shift with every phrase, supporting and reharmonizing the soloists in real time. Zigmund and Gomez provide a rhythm section that never pushes the temperature above room level.

Not a flashy record, but a deeply satisfying one for listeners who value melodic invention and harmonic sophistication over volume and energy. It is Evans at his most collegial, delighting in the company of musicians who share his values.