Returning home from a gig last Sunday I felt like Roy Batty in Blade Runner as I tried to explain it to my family. “I’ve seen things I’ve seen things you people wouldn’t believe. Evan Parker on fire off the shoulder of Binker Golding. I’ve watched women dancing to abstract jazz near the Rio Dalston.”

God those G&Ts were strong.

I had just been to see Binker + Moses, a freeform sax and drum duo who were launching their album Journey to the Mountain of Forever (I blame Alice Coltrane) with a blistering show. What struck me, apart from the sonic assault in the second half of circular-breathing maestro Evan Parker and sparky trumpeter Byron Wallen, was the demographic of the audience. Under 30, tattooed, bearded, pierced and with a very healthy smattering of women. Who danced.


Now I have spent the past two months going to gigs, researching an article for a new magazine due to launch in the autumn, and I should be used to this, but the youthful make-up of current jazz audiences still takes me aback. I have been to a lot of jazz concerts over the past three or four decades, and I have watched the audiences (mostly) grow old with me. I am also very used to the “Oh, I don’t like jazz” jibe from fellow music lovers. But the Binker + Moses crowd were young and hip and clearly didn’t have a problem with the J word, even in this sometimes aurally challenging manifestation. There is an excellent right-on-the-money review of the event from the Evening Standard’s critic Jane Cornwell here: https://tinyurl.com/y99vyvc2 or here: http://janecornwell.com.

I saw a similar thing earlier this year at the re-invigorated Jazz Café (www.jazzcafelondon.com) when I witnessed the wonderfully fluid saxophonist Nubya Garcia launch her own album (see playlist, below). She is steeped in the music of Coltrane, Henderson, Shorter and Sanders but with her own distinctive touch, especially on the Caribbean- and African- flavoured numbers (she loves Fela Kuti and Dudu Pukwana) which led to a further outbreak of dancing at the Jazz Cafe. But then again, that’s where it started. It’s easy to forget that before it headed out to the far flung reaches of the musical universe, jazz was for dancing. So maybe it’s simply going back to its roots.


A few weeks after the show I discussed the phenomenon of the new jazz audience at length with Nubya, an interview which will form part of the longer piece I am writing, but it all comes down to a generation where the barriers between club/dance music and jazz have been thoroughly dismantled. Of which more anon. As for the “I don’t like jazz” sneer, Nubya had a word of advice: “Go and see it live.” And I’d add go and see this new wave in small clubs while you still can.

Is this a passing fad? Will fickle youth move on? Maybe, but there are a couple things about jazz: one is that it a very broad church, one that can take in both Radio 2 fave Gregory Porter and Gilles Peterson playing Albert Ayler on 6 Music. And secondly, once it has its claws into you, it doesn’t let go.

Many of the proponents of this new jazz, including Nubya, Moses Boyd, Ashley Henry, Daniel Casimir, Henry Wu and Theon Cross,were in one band or another at the Love Supreme Festival just gone (www.lovesupremefestival.com). No doubt they’ll be back next year.  Or sign up for the (free) Jazz Re:freshed Festival at the Southbank on Sunday August 6 (https://tinyurl.com/ycql4pfo) which features many of the key players. Nubya Garcia meanwhile storms the jazz citadel of Soho by co-headlining at Ronnie Scott’s (www.ronniescotts.co.uk) on August 15, sharing the bill with grime DJ turned jazzer Alfa Mist. Or check out the Jazz Re:freshed website for what is happening on Thursday Nights at the Mau Mau Bar in Portobello Road (www.jazzrefreshed.com).


Recently I was back at the Jazz Café to see Miles Mosley, the bassist for Kamasi Washington and Kendrick Lamar, who had again brought out a young, mixed crowd to the venue. I had heard his album Uprising, which was recorded at the same mammoth (170 tunes?) session that produced Washington’s chart-busting The Epic. There is a typically cogent review here by John L. Walters: http://www.londonjazznews.com/2017/06/cd-review-miles-mosley-uprising.html.

Now, I enjoyed the album but to me it was just a little too polite compared to the raucous sprawl of The Epic. Live, however was a different matter. The sound was rawer, with a keen dose of JBs-style funk from the brass duo, wah-wah arco bass solos, soulful (and sometime, to my ears, Lenny Kravitz-ish) vocals and a whole tackle box full of hooks. Miles Mosley is an engaging and charismatic performer, who can get an audience waving their hands in the air like, indeed, they just don’t care and indulging in a hearty call-and-response. On stage, it is obvious where the “As if Hendrix played bass with Prince” line came from. He even did Hendrix’s If 6 Was 9, which was recorded fifty years ago this year (Sgt Pepper wasn’t the only game in London town in ’67). To top it all, his mucker Kamasi eased himself on stage (wasn’t he hot in all that clobber and woolly hat?) and gave us a typically scorching solo.


One thing. What’s with the gladiator arm-armour, Miles?

Miles Mosley and the West Coast Get Down will be back at as part of the London Jazz Festival in the autumn (http://efglondonjazzfestival.org.uk) when they play the Islington Assembly Room on Sunday November 1.

Meanwhile, here is a quick primer or recent new jazz albums for your listening pleasure:


Nubya Garcia – Nubya’s 5ive (Jazz:Refreshed)

Yussuf Kamaal – Black Focus (Brownswood)

Sons of Kemet – Lest We forget What We Came Here To Do (Naim Jazz Records)

The Comet is Coming – Channel the Spirits (Leaf)

Ashley Henry Trio- 5ive (Jazz Re:freshed)

Poppy Ajudha – Love Falls Down/Piece of Mind (Soundcloud)

Puma Blue – Swum Baby (Soundcloud)

Tenderlonius- On Flute (22a)

Binker & Moses – Journey to the Mountain of Forever (Gearbox Records)

Richard Spaven ft. Jordan Rakei – The Self (Fine Line Records)

Maisha – Welcome to a New Welcome (Jazz Re:freshed/Bandcamp; free download)

United Vibrations – The Myth of the Golden Ratio (Ubiquity)


Five years ago I interviewed Michael Bond, who died today aged 91, at his lovely house in Little Venice where he lived  with his wife Sue. It was one of my favourite interviews, like stepping into Paddington’s world, as he talked, over tea and biscuits, about travel and holidays. This is it.


A lot of my father went into Paddington. Much more than me. He was unfailingly correct and polite. I will give you an example. Every year when I was growing up we went to the Isle of Wight for our holidays. The same place, Sandown, and the same boarding house, run by Mr and Mrs Gates. Very nice people but, well, let’s say they ran a tight ship. Out of the house by 9.30, no exceptions, not back before 5.30. We would go down to the beach and I’d build sandcastles with my metal bucket and spade and my father would paddle. Always paddle, never go in, because he needed to keep his hat on. Why? In case he met anyone he knew, so he could raise it. If he saw someone and didn’t have a hat on.. well, that was unthinkable – he would be mortified. So, no swimming.


I suppose the love of my life when it comes to travel has been France. I first saw it when traveling down to Egypt with the army, just after the war. We went through France by train to catch the troop ship. Captured German carriages with no windows, and bridges held together with rope that you had t cross very, very slowly. But the locals welcomed us wherever we stopped, even though they insisted on trying to cook roast beef- they thought that was all we’d eat.

I went back with a girlfriend soon after leaving the army. I remember she had to promise her grandmother there would be no panky panky. All I can say is, she was true to her word. But I still remember the meal in Dinard, when we turned up at a little café and the proprietress told us lunch was over. She saw the look on my faced and promised to rustle something up. It was a baguette, a plate of ham and a bottle of red wine. What more do you need? I knew then that France was the place for me. There is something about the French that live life with a capital ‘L’. I always have the feeling we British are very much lower case.

When Paddington became a TV series and we were doing The Herbs, with Parsley the Lion, I used to go down to MIPP every year in Cannes with my friend and producer Graham Clutterbuck. Lovely man, but a terrible driver. One year we went in separate cars and I was waiting in line for the ferry I heard a terrible crash from behind. I knew it was Graham. Then heard: ‘Terribly sorry, old chap.. if you’ll just ring my secretary..’.


But I enjoyed those trips – we would plan it so we could drive down by the back roads, stopping off at Michelin-star restaurants. Driving was a pleasure then – even with Graham at the wheel. You never saw another car for miles, which was always something of a relief. And we’d make detours just to find a particular dish, such as a highly rated Grand Marnier Soufflé. Although on that occasion the starter was an artichoke. We’d never had an artichoke before and ended up eating the lot, leaves and all. By the time the soufflé arrived, we were feeling rather poorly.

About twenty-five years ago my French agent asked me if I had an unfilled dream. Yes, I said, I’d quite like a little place in Paris. Ah-ha, he said, you are in luck, I know this apartment in Montmartre that will come free soon. So I ended up renting this small place and it’s been marvelous. I go there to write, to get away from the phone. I began my eighteenth Monsieur Pamplemousse novel there recently. It is interesting to move away from Paddington but it’s also an excuse to go and eat wherever Monsieur Pamplemousse, who is a gourmet, dines around the country.

Paddington has taken me all over the world, America, Australia, New Zealand. When we first turned up in Australia I was walking down the street and four chaps in a car pulled up at the kerbside. One of them wound the window down and shouted ‘Go home you Pommie bastard!’ How did they know? I wondered. Was it the umbrella? That night I saw my son had left his shoes outside to be cleaned and I put a note in them ‘Clean them yourself, you Pommie bastard’ and popped them back inside. At breakfast he said: ‘Dad, you’ll never guess what happened….’ In fact, the people of Australia and New Zealand were wonderful to us, but book tours are exhausting – two weeks or three weeks of answering the same question: ‘How did you come up with Paddington..?’

When I wrote that first story in the late 1950s, I chose Peru as his home country because it was the remotest place I could think of. Who went to Peru? Now, my postman has been. But I haven’t. I was meant to go about ten years ago with Stephen Fry for a documentary, which I was looking forward to. Travelling with Stephen is no hardship. But I had a terrible reaction to the jabs and the doctor said I couldn’t travel. But Stephen went, and he ate some oysters from the Bay of Lima and got terribly sick. Well, I know I would have had some too, so perhaps it’s just as well. So, no, never been to Peru and now I doubt I ever shall.


Does the name Johnny Fedora mean anything to you? What about Philip McAlpine? Gerald Otley? David Audley? No? Well, they were all heroes of action/spy thrillers produced in the sixties and seventies written by, respectively, Desmond Cory (a pseudonym), Adam Diment (an author who apparently vanished from the face of the earth), Martin Waddell and Anthony Price.

      I was reminded of these and many other players in the world of thrillers while reading Mike Ripley’s hugely enjoyable (especially if you recall any of the names from the first go-round) Kiss Kiss, Bang Bang, a survey of British thrillers “from Casino Royale to The Eagle Has Landed” and the social and political landscape that produced them.


      My own personal favourite of the many authors covered is Gavin Lyall, whose best two novels, The Most Dangerous Game and Midnight Plus One, are featured within. Lyall specialised in shabby, careworn, often burnt-out cases who are forced to dig deep and remember the hero they had once been. As Ripley points out, The Most Dangerous Game features a most unusual setting, up on the Finnish-Russian border, and Midnight Plus One a car chase where a Citroen DS is fatally holed in a gunfight.

      “The car had been stabbed in its hydraulic heart: the fluid – the life blood – that powered the steering, brakes, gear-change, was dripping away from the main tank.”

      Bloody French cars – always over-complicated.


Steve McQueen was rumoured to have optioned MPO to play Harvey, the alcoholic American gunman (not a great combination). I checked and Sony does own the rights. And no, they wouldn’t let me have a go at a screenplay. It’s a fine, tightly plotted book, although, as with many novels mentioned in Mike Ripley’s roundup, the sexual politics have not worn well.


By coincidence, my own homage to Lyall appears in the new R J Bailey thriller (I am one half of RJB),  Nobody Gets Hurt, in that Sam Wylde, the series’ hero, has to go on the run in a Facel Vega (as once owned by Ringo Starr), which is beautiful but as lethal as a bleeding Citroen DS.

Screenshot 2017-05-25 09.34.57

Sam Wylde, who can jump start a car that has no battery… but don’t try at home

Nobody Gets Hurt (p/b to follow)  is out as an e-book in August (and available on NetGalley for advanced reading now. https://s2.netgalley.com/catalog/book/114770


Kiss Kiss, Bang Bang by Mike Ripley is published by HarperCollins (£20)


I don’t normally review books on this blog because that’s not what I do. But I’ll make an exception for Howard Linskey’s Hunting The Hangman, not just because it is a cracking read, but because its genesis struck a chord with me.

In 1994 I read a sentence in a motor racing report in the Guardian that said: “..and the Monaco circuit is much the same as it was in 1929, when Englishman Grover-Williams (who went on to became a Special Operations Executive saboteur in France during WW2) won the inaugural event.” Hold the phone. A Bugatti-driving Grand Prix champion joined SOE’s F Section? Not only that, I quickly discovered, so did two others, Robert Benoist and Jean-Pierre Wimille. There’s a book there, I thought.

Indeed there was, but, for various reasons (including access to the then still-sealed SOE files), it proved difficult to write. Early One Morning didn’t get published until eight years later, by which time I had already produced three US-set thrillers.


Howard Linskey’s novel has had an even lengthier gestation. His equivalent of that sentence about Grover-Williams was catching the second half of a documentary on the History Channel about the assassination of Hitler’s heir apparent, the ruthless Reinhard Heydrich, in Prague by an SOE-trained Czech hit team. Fascinated, he began researching everything he could find on subject. That was in 2000. Seventeen years later, and after six well-received, hardboiled northeastern noir books (No Name Lane, The Search, The Damage etc. – also well worth seeking out), his novel about Operation Anthropoid (as the mission was christened) has finally seen the light of day. Makes mine look like speed publishing.

In fact, I always felt fortunate that Early One Morning wasn’t my first novel. It meant I could get some rookie mistakes out of the way in the first three thrillers, which didn’t trouble the bestseller charts – something writers rarely get a chance to do these days, it being perform or die with the majority of publishers. Early One Morning turned out to be, and remains, my most successful novel in terms of sales.

I don’t remember Howard Linskey making any rookie mistakes in his first book, The Drop, but again the delay might have been fortuitous, in that by his own admission the early version he produced was a mix of fact and fiction that he was uncomfortable with. The Hunting the Hangman of today is meticulously researched and firmly based, as they say, on actual events.


Having written about WW2 organisations such as SOE, MI9 and MI19 myself, and seen a couple of movies about Operation Anthropoid, and the terrible retributions in its aftermath, I thought I knew the story well. But, in fact, Howard uses his novelist’s skills to really flesh out not only the monstrous Heydrich, but also the assassins, who are far from the usual bland action-hero stereotypes. There’s bravery, of course, in the tale, but also terrible treachery and cruelty. Historical fiction like this isn’t easy to pull off – cleaving to the facts and the real-life characters while creating novel-like suspense. Howard Linskey has pulled it off. It’s been a long time coming, but Hunting The Hangman was worth the wait.




Last Thursday was an important day in the calendar for fans of Sherlock Holmes. After its winter closure, the funicular to the Reichenbach Falls re-opened. Yes, the place where, in 1893, in one of the most cold and calculated acts of detecticide in literature, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle sent his Sherlock Holmes tumbling into the abyss, locked in fatal combat with Professor Moriarty, the Napoleon of Crime, is easily accessible again. The location of the death plunge really does exist, although it often comes as a surprise to some people that Holmes isn’t real, yet the Reichenbach Falls are.


Given that, until recently, I lived in a road in North London famous for its once-resident serial killer, I am not much given to Murder Tourism. Yet there we were, standing next to the site of one of the most notorious homicides of the late 19th century.

In truth, it is a rather lovely spot to send someone to their doom. Sitting above the town of Meiringen in the Swiss Bernese Oberland, reached by its seasonal funicular railway or a steep, winding path, the Reichenbach Falls cascade in a series of cataracts before spinning through the air for their final free descent, twisting through a hole in the rock halfway down, like liquid cotton threading through the eye of needle, and then plunging into an ice-blue pool at the base.


With a total drop of 250 metres, the falls are dramatic, certainly, but don’t come expecting the Niagara-like flow as seen in the Robert Downey Jr Holmes movie, or even the tumult as described by Conan Doyle, which, before they went through that fissure in the rock, passed through the rapids of a writer’s imagination. It is not “a dreadful cauldron of swirling water and seething foam” from whence no bodies could ever be recovered. And although there is a ledge claiming to mark the exact spot of the momentous struggle between the good and evil geniuses, in actuality the site Conan Doyle had in mind was much closer to the rushing water than the current photo-opportunity. However, the path has become dangerous over the years and, understandably, the local tourist board don’t want too many literal re-enactments of the death plunge.

Yet, all that aside, standing on the bridge at the top, looking down the narrow gorge of “coal-black rocks”, there is something haunting about the falls, the feeling that this beautiful and apparently benign chute is capable of a fatal capriciousness. The waters can, as Watson says, “turn a man giddy with their constant whirl and clamour ”. It isn’t difficult to see why Doyle took Sir Henry Lunn’s advice and chose it as the ideal spot to unburden himself of his over-popular detective, although public pressure meant a resurrection a decade later. And he shows no sign of dying again any time soon.


Even if you are not one of the pilgrims convinced that Holmes was real, there is much to recommend this part of Switzerland, not least the spectacular mountains that ACD loved so much. Having visited with his first wife (as part of her TB cure), the author became a vocal ambassador for the country – arguably his tale of skiing from Davos to Arosa in The Strand magazine in 1894 kick started the whole British Alpine skiing movement.

If you have a Swiss Travel Pass (swisstravelsystem.co.uk; three days from £170), which covers the majority of train and boat services you can easily get to Meiringen and the falls from anywhere in the Bernese Oberland. You could reach Meiringen by using train only, but it would be a shame to miss out on the alternate ferry crossing over the startlingly green Lake Brienz, the hue caused by the cryophilic algae that thrive in the glacial waters. What will impress during the hour-long voyage is the sheer number of lesser-known waterfalls that punch out of the sides of the flanking mountains, as if the whole range is weeping silvery flumes. Many are strikingly lovely, but, thanks to a Scottish writer with a sick wife, none will ever have the resonance of the “tremendous abyss from which the spray rolls up like smoke from a burning house” that is the Reichenbach Falls.


Further information: Switzerland Tourism (00800 100 200 30, MySwitzerland.com). Thomson Lakes & Mountain (020 8939 0740, thomsonlakes.co.uk) has various packages to the Bernese Oberland.

Big Ol’ Jetliners


Play word association with Seattle and most people will come up with a combination of Nirvana, Hendrix, Starbucks and maybe rain (thanks, Frasier). But the list should also includes aviation, because Seattle is home to Boeing, and is one of the few places in the world where the public can get to see a commercial airliner being built. That might sound like watching paint dry (and, if you’re lucky, you might be able to see just that) but for anyone who loves what Steve Miller called big ol’ jetliners – or those who still can’t comprehend how those monsters can get off the ground – it’s a fascinating 90 minutes.


Forty minutes’ drive north of the famous Space Needle is the Future of Flight museum, which, more importantly, is the access point for the Boeing Factory Tour at Everett. And it is just that – a chance to stand in the largest building by volume in the world and watch the planes you might have flown across the Atlantic on being assembled. Illuminated by one million lights bulbs, it is the size of 55 football pitches (Boeing does love stats) and left to its own devices it has its own weather system, with clouds forming and rain falling thanks to condensation from the breath and perspiration of workers. Giant ceiling fans prevent this, but the warmth generated by bodies, lights and machinery means no heating is needed in this enormous shed.

The tour begins with a preliminary briefing (mainly – no phones, no photos, no fooling about) before visitors are allowed onto the factory floor (well, on balconies to one side) to watch shifts put together the 747, the 777 and the 787 Dreamliner. The number “7” prefix, by the way, indicates it is a jet aircraft, not a prop plane, a boat/submarine or, indeed, a spaceship.


       The sleek Dreamliner is assembled like a giant Airfix kit from components produced across the globe. The carbon/polymer resin fuselage comes over from Italy, the engines from the UK, and eight other countries contribute parts. Completed planes have to be towed over a bridge that crosses a busy highway to reach the Everett Field runway for their first test flights. This is now done at the dead of night – during daylight, drivers below were either alarmed to see a very, very low flying aircraft or slowed to gawp, and accidents were not uncommon. 

        The long line of partially completed 787s was certainly impressive – and there are yet more trundling along a similar production line at a sister plant in South Carolina – but it was the sheer size of the sole Jumbo on display that day that still inspired genuine awe. The one I saw was being lined up for final assembly prior to painting (which can add 1,000lbs to the weight), still clad in a protective green skin.


Boeing is down to producing just one Jumbo every other month as the order books switch to the 787s, even though the current 747 is much lighter and more fuel efficient than the original. Which is a shame, because I have a soft spot for it, being the first plane I flew to the USA on (who was it, when asked why they always preferred to fly on four-engined planes, replied “because they don’t make one with five”?). Speaking to the BA cabin crew about their favourite planes on the return trip this time, one them said that, despite its age, the majority of staff still love a Jumbo.

The coffee and the rain will always be there in Seattle, but the 747 will soon go the way of Cobain and Hendrix. Best get your skates on if you want to see this BFG of the skies being put together. 

* The Boeing Tour (001 425 438 8100/futureofflight.org) is at Everett Field and costs £16.30 for adults, £11.50 for 15 and under. Holiday Autos (020 3740 9859/holidayautos.co.uk) has seven days’ car hire from £27 per day. If you aren’t renting a car, Viator (020 3318 0421/viator.com) has tours with transportation from downtown Seattle from £54pp. British Airways (0344 493 0787/ba.com) offers return flights to Seattle from London Heathrow from £640. Virgin Atlantic (0844-573 0088, virginholidays.co.uk) will start flying the route from May 1, with similar prices. Further details at Visit Seattle (www.visitseattle.org) or www.Seattle-WashingtonState.co.uk.


The Car That Killed Albert Camus

As I know one half of the writing duo R J Bailey very well, I got a sneak preview of the next book (the first one in the series, Safe From Harm, is out soon) and it features a starring role for the same make of car that Albert Camus died in, although the author wasn’t driving the Facel Vega at the time, it was his publisher behind the wheel. The Facel Vega was notoriously tricky to handle – beautiful to look at, with elegant French-American styling, coupled with big, brutal US-sourced engines but not always the brakes to match.   cf1c9d6ba074e764358f48e125b18ffdThe authors unearthed the original owner’s manual, which gives a clue as to its unpredictability:.

Driving your Facel Vega. At high speed drivers are warned to be careful to hold the steering wheel with both hands except when shifting gears; to keep as close as possible to the centre of the road; not to overtake on the brow of a hill; to reduce speed over the brow of a hill as a car might have stopped on the far side; not to look at anything else but the road; not to change the radio programme; not to smoke”

Thank God they didn’t have sat navs and iPhones to distract the unwary driver back then. The novel featuring the Facel Vega (“The Hurting Kind”) will be out at the end of this year. Meanwhile, Safe From Harm  (below) is out in paperback from Simon & Schuster this Thursday (Jan 12).

You can read about the role of cars in that book in my interview with half of the team here:



Somebody call the cops….

…Kurt Elling has just stolen a show.

Well, that might be an exaggeration, as there were many highpoints to Guy Barker’s storming Big Band Christmas Show (not least seeing the leader play trumpet, a rare event these days, and the calibre of both the players and arrangements) at the Royal Albert Hall last night, but one of the earliest was Kurt Elling hipping and scatting into The Little Drummer Boy, backed by the two drummers who were another delight of the evening. It is featured, in a slightly politer version, on his new Christmas album, The Beautiful Day.

71kgeex1rl-_sl1200_I have been playing it all morning and was going to review it, but discovered Dave Gelly in the Observer had beaten me to it.

This album’s unlikely subtitle, Kurt Elling Sings Christmas, doesn’t signify wall-to-wall jingle bells. Read the three pages of notes if you want to know exactly where he stands, Christmas-wise. But if you want to hear a subtle, beautifully crafted and constantly surprising set of seasonal songs, just listen. The whole thing starts with bits of favourite carols, apparently thrown together at random, but in fact minutely layered. Along with his superb vocal technique, this artful casualness is one of Elling’s great strengths. From a funky New Orleans version of Little Drummer Boy to a breathtaking evocation of peace in The Snow Is Deep on the Ground, it’s flawless.

He is absolutely right. There’s Leslie Bricusse in there, Edvard Grieg and even Dan Fogelberg. As well as Kurt’s daughter Luiza. And it is great.  It makes most of the other jazzy Xmas albums in my collection look like tasteless kitsch (although I have a very soft spot for Jimmy Smith’s dramatic march into “God Rest..”, as played by Guy’s band at the concert).

Just buy it. And make sure you see him in concert next time he is over. And lobby for the Barker Big Band Christmas to become an annual event.

STOP PRESS: There WILL be another Guy Barker’s Big Band Christmas Show next December.



Get Shirty!

I have had a shirt made for me just three times in my life. The first was at Gieves & Hawkes in London, the second in Hong Kong and thirdly, just recently, at Regent Tailoring in Salisbury. Three is not really enough, because a bespoke shirt is thing of joy, especially the pleasure that comes from having the perfect sleeve length. I would recommend it as either a personal indulgence (go on, you deserve it) or a gift (which mine was). However, one thing I would also advise is this: do your homework before you go and get measured up. I know very well that having a suit made is like the reverse of death by a thousand cuts – creation by a thousand questions, about jacket length, trouser width, pleats, ticket pockets, collar notches, button holes etc. etc. There might be fewer such decisions to make for a shirt, but I had forgotten that there’s still a bunch of them, starting with the very basic one: what colour?


I think even Don Draper might have rejected this one…

But that is just the beginning. It was my friend Jonathan Futrell who pre-warned me about one important aspect (he knows about clothes, fabrics, etiquette; check out his hip outdoor website – yes, those two words do go together here – http://www.goodgear2go.com, which displays but a fraction of his sartorial knowledge). As I wanted a formal shirt to wear with a suit, he cautioned against going with the modern trend of straight cut bottom/tail, on the grounds that they tend to pull out of the waistband of the trousers, which isn’t a good look.

There is one surefire way to prevent this, as used by Frank Sinatra. David Gale, head cutter at Turnbull & Asser, explained it to me thus: ‘It is called a quorn strap, like the hunt [and not the meat substitute], and it runs from the tail and is attached to a lower button at the front. It was originally designed for hunting, so the shirt didn’t pop out of the breeches, but in Sinatra’s case it would be so he could lift his arms on stage without the shirt bunching or coming adrift.’ As I reckon I am unlikely to be singing My Way on stage anytime soon – or, indeed, ever – I decided to go forego the strap in favour of traditional  shirttails.


“Look, no bunching!”

However, having got that out of the way with Jason Regent,  owner of the eponymous store and the man who was measuring me up, he had plenty more to quiz me on. I first met Jason a few years back when I was profiling him for GQ magazine and I wrote this:

“Regent, who worked at Ede & Ravenscroft (Est. 1689) before branching out on his own, often sounds like a mix of Jeeves the valet, Alfred the butler and a naughty uncle as he advises clients on the conventions of dressing for sporting or social occasions. ‘It runs in the family,’ he says, ‘My grandfather was butler to the Flemings, the bankers, which included Ian Fleming, and he used to pick me up at school in a Bentley, which at the time I thought was his. He would tell me things like, never trust anyone who is too polished, that old money is usually a bit scruffy round the edges. He also gave me the first puff on a cigar and drink of whisky. I think I was ten.’

       Born in Essex but brought up in Henley-on-Thames, both Regent’s personality and products effortlessly straddle town and country, traveller and toff, Glastonbury and Glyndebourne. The shop, which is a combination of Timothy Everest’s higgledy-piggledy Spitalfields atelier and the bric-a-brac emporium style of early Paul Smith stores, reflects this. It sells moleskin country trousers, but with a narrow, urban cut, sharp city suits but with roomy shooting jacket pleats and brilliant own-brand woodland boots with a tweedy upper section that really ought to give Hunter a run for their money as the preferred footwear of the country squire manqué. Plus there are little twists that make you smile, such as the tweed caps that can come, if you wish, with matching hip flask.”

All of which is still true, although Jason has recently cultivated a luxuriant beard that makes him look like an East London hipster who has suffered a sudden attack of good taste. So, Jason’s job, apart from getting your dimensions correct, is to guide you through the important decisions, asking if you want to close the cuffs with buttons or cufflinks (he isn’t fan of dual-purpose cuffs, but will make exceptions), what type of collar (I went for a Kent, named after the Duke, rather than the more cutaway New Kent) and buttons (do upgrade from plastic). Then there is the little matter of choosing your fabric….

Eventually, I got through this shirty Spanish inquisition and a month later the much-debated garment arrived. I’d say it fits like a glove, except it fits like a very well-made bespoke shirt.  It’s due its first public outing very soon at a Christmas party where, apparently, there will be be dancing.


Let’s hope I don’t regret rejecting the quorn strap.

Regent Tailoring (73 New St, Salisbury SP1 2PH, 01722-335151, http://www.regenttailoring.co.uk). Custom shirts from £130 (minimum order: one) .

Everybody Digs Bill Evans: Composer of the Week

Bill Evans is Radio 3’s Composer of the Week this week. It inspired me to dig out an old piece I wrote about him. The quotes from various pianists are from a few years ago when I last dusted it off, but they all remain bang on the money. It’s a long piece, but then so was Bill’s career. Although not long enough.


It is July, 1980. As the heat of the summer’s day fades, Simon Wallace, regular pianist at the soon-to-be-legendary Blitz Club, is standing on the corner of Poland and Oxford Streets, waiting for his girlfriend. A thin, middle-aged American, despite the warmth, wearing a thick overcoat, stops and asks for help: ‘Sorry, I’m kinda lost. I’m looking for Ronnie Scott’s jazz club. I’ve been there before, but I can’t seem to get my bearings.’

Wallace explains he is going to the club himself to see pianist Bill Evans, one of his heroes. Oh. Do you play? the stranger asks. Yes, Wallace replies, explaining that he, too, is a piano player, although not in Bill’s league, but has latterly become disillusioned with the music business. In fact, Wallace has just applied for a job as a proof reader in a solicitor’s office. The pair chat some more and Wallace notices how much the man’s hands shake as he lights his cigarette. Wallace’s girlfriend finally appears and the three set off for Ronnie’s. When they get to the club in Frith St, the American greets the owner and says: ‘Hey, Ronnie. I’ve got a couple of guests. Are they OK to come in?’

Ronnie Scott looks them over with his famously gimlet eye. ‘Sure, Bill.’

Only then does Simon Wallace realise the bearded, jittery American is none other than the legendary genius of the piano, Bill Evans.

Thirty-odd years later, the same club. Simon Wallace, now a professional songwriter and of late the piano player with The Waterboys, is sitting at the bar with me. Bill Evans is playing over the speakers – on Stolen Moments by Oliver Nelson – and Wallace is recalling the night he saw the great pianist take to the small stage.

‘It was just beautiful,’ he says, echoing what keyboard colossus Keith Jarrett said about the first time he saw Evans (when Jarrett was 15). ‘Astonishing. The place was packed with musicians. I stood next to Andre Previn for one set. For me it was life-changing. The next morning I called up the solicitor’s office and said: I can’t take the job. I have to keep at the music. The day after that a gig came in playing piano six nights a week.’

It is an Oscar Peterson tribute night at Ronnie’s, and again the place is full of musicians, both veteran and tyro. When I mention the name Bill Evans even the most reticent and taciturn of players dig into their satchel of superlatives. It seems for most jazzers, the first time they heard the man, either live or on record, is seared into their memory. As James Pearson, the house pianist at Ronnie’s, says: ‘Bill Evans invented the piano trio as we know it today. You think it’s been around forever, but that first trio set the blueprint.’

And the soaring edifice constructed from that blueprint is in rude health across the globe. In the UK we have Gwilym Simcock, blurring the boundaries by nudging piano jazz towards classical music, Neil Cowley pushing the other way into hook-laden riffs, Kit Downes gliding effortlessly between the two and James Pearson at Ronnie’s on blistering form. Manchester’s Go-Go Penguin bring Aphex Twin and Steve Reich to the party, with exhilarating results. Elsewhere, Keith Jarrett’s venerable The Standards Trio is still excavating the mysteries of the like of Lerner and Loewe; Sweden’s EST (sadly terminated by Esbjorn Svenson’s untimely death) added electronic textures to the format, while Norway’s Tord Gustavson brings hymn-like grace to his tunes. America’s The Bad Plus and Brad Mehldau Trio turn Abba, Oasis and Radiohead into harmonically complex three-part work-outs, while Australasia has the genre-busting Aronas and Trichotomy threesomes. Italians revere the Alboran Trio and the bands of Franco d’Andrea and Stefano Bollani. (Jazz is still huge in Italy: even Mussolini’s son Romano had a piano trio). The Igor Gehenot Trio from Belgium manages to conjure the spirt of Ahmad Jamal and keith jarret while adding something fresh. There are scores of others who could be added to that roll call, without compromising its quality.


Despite the apparent limitations of a piano-bass-drums set-up, each of the above demonstrates in a different way just how malleable the basic paradigm is, and every one of the outfits owes a debt to Bill Evans. Simon Wallace: ‘As Chuck Israels, one of his great bass players, says, in some ways Evans’ time still hasn’t come. You can build a whole career just exploring what he put down.’

Alex Webb, once of the Barbican’s Contemporary Music Department and now an educator and author (the show café Society Swing is his), and a talented pianist and songwriter, agrees: ‘His work is an absolute textbook for piano players – you never get to the end of studying Bill Evans.’

Yet Evans’ repertoire was very narrow: there are some originals (Nardis, Waltz for Debby, Letter to Evan) but mostly he calls upon The Great American Songbook, material that can, in other hands, veer into cocktail jazz. Don’t ever say that to a Bill Evans fan, though, as I learned to my cost at Ronnie’s. ‘There’s too much going on, musically and intellectually, for it ever to be background music,’ argues Ian Shaw, one of our finest jazz singer-pianists, who also saw Evans at the club in 1980. ‘The harmonies, the passing chords, the touch, just the sound he got from a piano. He could take a song like Some Day My Prince will come or My Foolish Heart and turn it into a musical goldmine.’

It’s thirty-three years since Evans played his last gig at Ronnie Scott’s, one of his favourite venues. (John Fordham in Jazz Man, his biography of Ronnie, tells a knock-about story of the absurd lengths Scott and Pete King went to, trying to find a piano deemed worthy of Bill when he first played there.) Two months later he was dead. But still his name is treated with respect and awe by musicians. Keith Jarrett was once asked a question about technique and he replied: ‘Are you talking about Bill Evans or the rest of us?’

Yet Evans is not a universally familiar name outside the jazz ghetto, the way Miles, Brubeck, Coltrane or Ellington is, even though Bill is the backbone of an album you very likely own – even if you hate jazz – Miles Davis’s Kind of Blue.

Despite being pivotal to that record’s development and sound, Evans is not an icon of cool like Miles. He wasn’t a snappy dresser (dark suit, white shirt, tie) and for most of his life he looked like George McFly, as played by Crispin Glover in Back to the Future. Miles would strike photogenic poses; the bespectacled Bill would hunch awkwardly over the keyboard, cigarette drooping from his mouth, as if trying to locate a soft heartbeat from within the piano.

With Evans, image is nothing. It’s all about the sublime music, his achingly lyrical introspection, the way he can take a well-worn, familiar theme and give it a tension and beauty that at times are unbearable, perhaps all the more if the listener knows that his personal history is coloured, like so many jazz stories, by tragedy: early death, squandered talent, hustled cash, hard drugs, cheated wives, suicide and racial tension all play a crucial role in his tale.


BILL EVANS WAS BORN in Plainfield, New Jersey in 1929 to a Russian mother and a Welsh father. Mom was an amateur pianist; dad was a professional alcoholic and golf course manager. Gifted enough to be able to play violin and flute from an early age, he learned piano from his older brother Harry and by the age of 12 he was depping for him in local bands. The kid quickly gained attention for the way he could invert and substitute chords and phrases, bringing freshness to tired, over-worked tunes. At the same time, he was going through his mother’s collection of sheet music and absorbing influences from Ravel, Debussy, Satie, Bach and Stravinsky, as well as honing his boogie-woogie. He later admitted he played up to six hours piano a day.

By the early fifties he was performing regularly in dance bands and developing his lifelong interest in Eastern philosophies; by the middle he was recording his first pieces for release and by end of the decade he had fallen into the trap that snared so many of his jazz generation: he became a junkie. The piano and heroin would be twin mistresses for the next dozen years.

His first album as leader, in 1956, was called New Jazz Conceptions, not all of which was entirely new (you can hear Bud Powell, Erroll Garner, Nat Cole and others in there), but it did contain his classic piece Waltz for Debby, a gorgeous little jewel of a song that he would come back to time and again. The album was well received by the critics, but sold less than a thousand copies.

Still, the next call was from Miles Davis. Although by this time Evans was a full-blown junkie, that didn’t trouble Miles too much. He had himself been in thrall to heroin, as had the group’s saxophone giant John Coltrane. They could handle that. What proved more difficult was handling Bill’s colour.

Miles later explained why he hired this gangly white boy: ‘Bill had this quiet fire that I loved on piano.. he had a sound that was like crystal notes or sparkling water cascading down from some clear waterfall.’

(To see what Miles mean listen to Peace Piece on his second solo album, the prophetically titled Everybody Digs Bill Evans.)

Evans was to last just 10 months in Davis group before he claimed to be ‘exhausted from all the travelling’. But the effort of feeding his drug habit must also have taken his toll, as would another aspect: many fans objected to Evans because he was white, because he have the ‘gospelly’ sound of Red Garland – whom he had replaced – or because his playing was too ‘delicate’. Which was just another way of saying ‘too white’ again: all those European composers had left their mark. Despite sterling support from the ensemble, the pressure got to Evans. As Miles wrote in his autobiography: ‘Some of the things that caused Bill to leave the band hurt me, like that shit some black people put on him about being a white boy in our band.’


Whatever the real reason – and it might well have been a combination of factors – by November 1959, Evans was gone, replaced by Wynton Kelly, who had the right skin tone and sound for the critical fans.

There is another, positive side to this, of course. Aron Ottignon of the trio Aronas is a talented young pianist from a musical family (dad used to play with Manfred Mann, sister Holly is an accomplished jazz singer) who won the New Zealand under-25s National Jazz Musician of the Year when he was just 11. His thrilled piano teacher gave him a copy of Explorations by Bill Evans. ‘He had his incredible touch, it brought a tear to my eye every time I played it. But just as importantly, here was a white guy – a white guy! – who could swing. He made me believe I could too swing if I wanted if I dedicated myself enough.’

In and out of Miles group, Evans helped convinced several generations that being black wasn’t essential to becoming a serious jazz player.

Race might have driven them apart, but Miles and Evans weren’t done. A few months after he left the band, Evans got a call from the trumpeter, saying he was putting together an album that would take him in a new direction. As he would later write, he wanted to build that recording around the piano playing of Bill Evans. The project didn’t even have a name, but it was to go on to become the best-selling jazz album ever.

KIND OF BLUE is the subject of two excellent books, one, simply named after the album, by Ashley Kahn and the more recent The Blue Moment by Richard Williams. The former is brilliant in elucidating what went on in the studio and how the tracks were put together; Williams does a fine and entertaining job of placing the recording in a larger context, even if sometimes his claims for its universal reach seem a little strained. Both, naturally, agree on the pre-eminence of the album, regarding it as a bona fide masterpiece.

Bill Evans appears on all but one track of Kind of Blue, Freddie Freeloader, the first number recorded (but the second on the final running order) which features the more conventional piano of Wynton Kelly. In fact, this bluesy number is the most straightforward track: the rest of the album bears the subtler, more cerebral influence of the white boy Kelly replaced.


Although Miles had experimented with ways of creating new musical scaffoldings for his players on previous recordings, Kind of Blue is the first entire album based entirely on modes or scales. A modal approach gives players amazing freedom from having to work with the ‘changes’ or chord structures of the conventional songs which were usually the basis of improvisation up to that point. KoB shifted the rules, not just for jazz, but for rock: years later bands like the Allman Brothers and Butterfield Blues Band heard the record and realised you could jam all night on those exotic scales, although not always to the audience’s benefit (on the plus side, Smells Like Teen Spirit uses a modal tuning). ‘Serious’ musicians such as Terry Riley and Philip Glass also took note and assimilated the lessons of Miles’s explorations. Chick Corea has said that Kind of Blue ‘practically created a new musical language’.

Apart from great performances across the board by the band, the album is certainly full of influential and memorable motifs, many that involve Evans directly: So What, with its intriguing, out-of-time intro; the hypnotic rolling ostinato underpinning All Blues and what Scottish pianist Tom Gibb calls the pianist’s ‘rhapsodic moment’ on the final bars of Blue in Green. Over and over, I have heard players tell me that it was that latter track which turned them on to Bill.

Neil Cowley, formerly with the Brand New Heavies, who now leads his own trio and is, like Evans, classically trained:

‘The first time I heard Bill Evans was in a flat in Walthamstow when I was a young musician, hanging around with musos. It was the last 30 seconds of Blue in Green by Miles Davis that was played to me on a tape player. As everyone commented on the economy of his expression, I sat rather quietly, musing on the fact that the last gig I’d done with this particular band of musicians, I’d tried to play just about every note on the piano as fast as humanly possible. So I hated Bill Evans for the humiliation. But of course, it was the best lesson of all: to strive to say something real, with one note if need be, knowing that it was actually learnt and understood, over and above trying to emulate ‘flashness’ with a thousand notes and saying absolutely nothing. Blue in Green taught me that.’

It is also the most contentious track, because, as is often the case in improvised music, there was some dispute over the exact authorship. Evans insisted it was his: ‘In a sense me and Miles co-composed [side two’s] Flamenco Sketches but Blue in Green was all mine.’

When he later re-recorded the tune Evans credited it to the pair of them. Miles, though, was adamant: ‘Some people went around saying that Bill was co-composer of the music on Kind of Blue. That isn’t true; it’s all mine and the concept was mine.’ Then again, it wasn’t the only accusation of co-opting Miles suffered in his career.

Whoever made the music (and the Davis estate conceded Evans’ contribution in 2002), neither could guess at its lasting impact or the 3 million-and-counting sales KoB would generate or the fact it is number 12 in Rolling Stone’s 500 Greatest Albums.

Drummer Jimmy Cobb, the sole surviving member of that group of seven musicians (Davis, Evans, Kelly, Coltrane, alto player Cannonball Adderley, and Paul Chambers on bass), has always insisted: ‘To me it was just another Miles Davis recording and one that everybody played well on. If Miles had even had an inkling of what was going to happen, he would have asked for a truckload of money and four Ferraris sitting outside.’

No doubt so would Evans. A considerable proportion of his money at that time was going on drugs. He was married, but his wife Ellaine was on heroin, too. Not that he was a nasty junkie. His approach was passive-aggressive, mostly without the aggressive. His producer Orrin Keepnews said: ‘Bill was a sweet guy would just hang around the office till you felt sorry for him and gave him an advance.’ The advance inevitably went into his arm.

However, his friend the great jazz writer Gene Lees also described how when Bill once received a very large upfront payment for a contract, they scrupulously went around and paid back every friend he had hustled for cash, including Zoot Simms, who had forgotten all about the six hundred dollar ‘loan’ he had made to Evans.

But in between the troughs of a troubled personal life, Evans moved on from Kind Of Blue, back to the small group setting that would dominate his career, to create what is still considered the greatest three-musician partnership in late 20th-century jazz – the so-called First Trio – and which produced one of the most captivating and best-loved live recordings in popular music.

THE VILLAGE VANGUARD is still in the same crepuscular basement it’s occupied since 1935, still doesn’t take credit cards or serve food and is still steeped in legend about the musicians who got a start there. The owner Max Gordon once asked Miles to back a support act. As Miles wrote: ‘So I told him I didn’t play behind no girl singer.. So Max said, “Her name is Barbra Streisand and she’s going to be a real big star.” So every time I see her today somewhere I say, “Goddamn,” and just shake my head.’

But the club is also known as an important rite of passage. If you can put ‘Live At The Village Vanguard’ on your record, you know you have moved up several rungs of the jazz ladder. Over a hundred albums have that coveted impreteur, but the reputation is actually built on a handful of genuine classics, from Sonny Rollins, John Coltrane, Dexter Gordon, Brad Mehldau and, at or near the top of the tree, Sunday at the Village Vanguard by the Bill Evans Trio and its companion piece Waltz For Debby.


The trio was Bill plus drummer Paul Motian and a young bassist called Scott La Faro. They were booked in for a two week residency at the club in June, 1961, after they had been playing together off and on for two years. Producer Orrin Keepnews chose to record the last day of the run, because there would be a matinee set on the Sunday as well as the evening show, so there would be two complete takes. ‘Why did I choose the final day of the two weeks?’ he asked himself later. ‘Talk about living dangerously.’

He needn’t have worried. Ronnie Scott’s house pianist James Pearson: ‘Those albums are really remarkable because for the first time there are three players sharing the spotlight. Before Bill Evans’ trio, the drum and bass were just there to keep time or to support the piano, but that isn’t the case here. Scott La Faro, in particular, is just right up there.’

Kit Downes, one of the UK’s brightest piano stars, says: ‘Out of all my records, Sunday at the Village Vanguard is probably my favorite – sensitive but yet powerful, loose but tight, educated but still natural – Bill Evans really embraced the things that I love most about any kind of music.’

And, even more impressive, as Evans once revealed: ‘We never rehearse. Never have. We just go up on stage and play.’ Which made the band’s achievement even more incredible.

Two weeks later the 25-year old La Faro was killed in a car crash. Evans went to pieces and didn’t – couldn’t – touch a piano for months. He told Gene Lees that he felt guilty because his addiction meant he hadn’t made the most of his time with La Faro. When the first Vanguard album came out, it was a memorial to the bassist, and opens with his tune Gloria’s Step (on which the Evans biographer Keith Shadwick says La Faro is ‘mind-bogglingly creative’) and the selections were those that best showcased the young man’s playing over the two sets.

Whether that first trio would have survived for much longer is open to question. La Faro was increasingly appalled by Evan’s addiction and frequently tried to make him give up, but to jazz fans his death is a Jimi Hendrix, Richey Edwards or Kurt Cobain moment, full of what-might-have-beens and cruelly curtailed talent and opportunity.

IF EVANS HAD ENDED his career there and then, he would still have had a firm, guaranteed place is the jazz pantheon. But he struggled on, playing in trios with other hugely inventive musicians, recording groundbreaking multi-tracked albums (Conversations with Myself), solo albums (Alone) and duets (notably with guitarist Jim Hall and sax great Stan Getz). His life was still blighted by drugs and he couldn’t escape the physical consequences: at one point one of his hands had swollen to twice its normal size and he had constant trouble with his bloated ankles and feet.

The fact he lived so long is probably down to two people: Gene Lees, who as well as putting lyrics to some of his songs, nurtured and protected him, and his feisty manager, and later producer, Helen Keane (whom Lees introduced to Evans). Both believed in his talent, and both tried to free him from his addictions and to keep the loan sharks at bay, men who, in shades of the busting of Paul Newman’s thumbs in The Hustler, would threaten to smash his fingers.

He did eventually free himself from dependence on drugs, and so did his wife, but then in 1973 he met Nenette Zazarra and fell in love with the younger woman. Ellaine Evans threw herself under a subway train when she realised her man had gone. Evans slunk back to the numbness of narcotics after that, before finally getting clean.


Creatively, the 1970s were full of other kinds of highs, usually with bassist Eddie Gomez and various drummers, but Evans’ style of music was now moving out of fashion. Miles’s In A Silent Way/ Bitches Brew axis had spawned jazz-rock; synths and electric keyboards were in vogue and Weather Report, the Mahavishnu Orchestra and Return to Forever were the big, bombastic stars. While they sold out stadiums and drained National Grids, Evans was still exploring the Great American Songbook in small jazz clubs or at festivals such Montreux, where it was often the electric warriors who were treated with suspicion, not a man at a grand piano. He did try varying his line-ups (and even used the electric piano here and there), but shied away from suggestions that he make a rock album or somehow pander to the market. But this integrity counted for nothing with the public, and his critical and popular standing slipped.

In 1975 Evans recorded and performed with Tony Bennett, who had seen him at Ronnie’s in London and conceived the idea of a stripped-down piano/voice album. Ian Shaw is a huge fan of the duets: ‘Evans’ “comping” has these little chordal, semi-quaver footsteps between the melodies of the most beautiful collection of love songs, somehow lush yet harmonically playful. He gives a dream accompaniment for any jazz singer, although many purists thought Bennett wasn’t that at all.’ And at that time, before his current International Treasure status, Bennett was seen as decidedly old school, and the collaboration seemed to confirm to younger jazz fans that Evans was of the past.

But what all this means is that the Evans catalogue is remarkably pure and unsullied, light on embarrassing follies or crass commercialism. Even when a particular setting doesn’t work, or it’s not a sparkling night for the band, you hear an artist doing what he wants to be doing, following his creative urge, rather than what he feels he should be trying.

And listen to what the current generation of piano talent, in the form of Jamie Safiruddin, pianist with the very up and coming Ben Cox Band, has to say about those two Bennett albums: ‘Evans achieves an apotheosis of jazz artistry and accompaniment, which are the ideal contrast to Bennett’s powerful but succinct singing. Evans’ uniquely rich sound, deftly virtuosic touch and playful rhythm create a broad and innovative palette with which this great master pays perfect homage to the melody, the lyrics and the song.’

By the end of the decade Evans had formed another in his sequence of trios, with Marc Johnson on bass and Joe LaBarbera on drums. It is now known as the Final Trio, and Bill Evans declared this unit to be the closest yet to his seminal La Faro/Motian line up. This was the group that played at Ronnie’s in July 1980 and you can hear them there on a hard-to-find album called Letter to Evan, the title track of which is dedicated to his young son with Nennette. That record and – especially – others taped later at The Village Vanguard give the lie to the theory that his talent was ossified or dissipated, for the standard of playing and the communication between the band – albeit it in a different way to that of the First Trio – is often exceptional. True, the repertoire has hardly widened, but at his best he is still finding fresh things to say and different ways of attacking songs. One surprise is the speed with which Evans occasionally performs, there are sudden bursts of high-energy single lines or a flurry of chords as a theme is stated and dismissed. This is probably because, by 1980, he was using cocaine.

Separated from his second wife and son, depressed by the suicide of his brother Harry at 52, living alone, consuming coke – which he thought ‘safer’ than heroin – at a prodigious rate, a twilight figure in his own country (but not in Europe, where he was still revered), Evans’s life was yet again a grueling dichotomy, with professional joy contrasting with a rapid personal decline. His physical condition deteriorated throughout the summer of 1980; at the end of it he asked Joe LaBarbera to drive him to hospital, as he was having severe stomach pains. He died in Mount Sinai on September 15th.


SINCE HIS DEATH Evans’ reputation has been restored and grown, dozens of recordings have been unearthed, and without doubt there is now a cult of Bill Evans, the lost, tortured soul, not dissimilar to that surrounding Nick Drake (albeit with considerably more recorded output). This annoys Gene Lees, who describes the adulation given to every last note his friend ever played as ‘morbid bordering on necrophilia’. He simply says: ‘Bill Evans was incredibly talented and equally incredibly self-destructive.’ Perhaps the two were interwined, somehow, like a pernicious DNA.

Evans for sure would be dismayed that his chaotic personal life sometimes gets in the way of appreciating his music, just as he would agree that not every night he played was worth preserving. Evans’s early-sixties bassist Chuck Israels reckoned the real magic, the almost telepathic interplay of three world-class musicians at the top of their game, only happened consistently about once every thirty performances. Still, that was never for want of trying.


In his autobiography, The Good Life, Tony Bennett tells of a call he received from Evans in 1980 while the singer was playing a small town in Texas. Amazed that his friend and collaborator had tracked him down in the boondocks, Bennett could tell Evans was sick and both knew that the end was near. Not surprisingly, the pianist was in a plaintive, ruminative mood. ‘I wanted to tell you one thing: just think truth and beauty,’ Evans told him. ‘ Forget about everything else. Just concentrate on truth and beauty.’

Truth and Beauty: two things you’ll still discover on any Bill Evans album you care to play.