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43 of 44 people found the following review helpful:
5.0 out of 5 stars
Extremely Essential: Evans as Zen Master, August 20, 2001
There's a misleading myth about Bill Evans that seems to be gaining acceptance, if the increasing references to his drug problem are any indication. The necessary inference is that Evans' genius and career fall within the familiar patterns of the tragic romantic artist--a burst of youthful, inspired creativity followed by gradual decline and eventual disrepair.Nothing could be further from the truth, as these recordings from a late 1979 Paris concert should make abundantly clear. In fact, they are every bit as impressive as the celebrated Vanguard recordings with LaFaro and Motion in 1961. Evans is one of those rare artists who experienced an unparallelled surge of creative energy and passionate lyricism in his so-called autumnal period, which makes these late sessions as essential as the early Vanguard ones. Compare his performance here of "I Loves You Porgy" with his Vanguard performance (or any intermediate recording) of the same tune. It's every bit as nuanced and fresh as the early recordings yet possesses a boldness and confidence not always present in the earlier work. One thing Bill Evans was NOT about was "ego". Unlike many of the younger, heavily promoted pianist/keyboard players he influenced, Bill did not require grunts and groans, physical contortions, funny clothes, production special effects, etc., to make his musical statement. In fact, he preferred not to have the spotlight on himself. The lowered position of his head (or, in the 70s, his shoulder-length hair) concealed his face and, in effect, required the listener to focus only on the hands and the keys, on the music itself. And notice the size of his hands! As lean and slight as Bill appeared in the 50s and 60s, his hands seemed to belong to another creature--not just the length of the fingers but their thick diameter and sheer bulk. He had but to stroke the keys to extract from a grand piano the purist, fullest, most vibrantly warm sounds it was capable of producing. More than any other major musician, Evans' aesthetic was the counterpart to that of John Keats, whose poetic credo of "negative capability," association of joy and sorrow, and equation of beauty and truth ("Truth is beauty") resulted in some of the purest poetry in the English language. But because of his virtual self-effacement, Bill was especially susceptible to the ready criticism of a Scottie LaFaro, who could be a punishing task-master in his insistence on perfection. Bill not only expanded the bass-player's role but developed a deference that could result in the bass player practically supplanting the pianist as the primary solo voice! This unselfishness soon became habit, leading to a certain unassertive sameness in many of his mid-career recordings. ("The Tokyo Concert" I'd single out as an example of the trio's tedious and tepid virtuosity--much busy-ness but little action or swing.) With the final trio of Marc Johnson and Joe La Barbera, however, Bill assumed, along with an appreciation of his companions, a mentor's responsibility for them. On the Paris Concert he's a teacher/master as much as a student, and the result is perhaps the most satisfying trio performance of his entire career. He's not merely drawing upon fresh blood as a source of inspiration but using his experience to guide his proteges while bringing his own instrument into the prominence it deserves. Good learners become teachers, but in that role remain forever learners themselves. In one of his very last recordings, Evans manifests the fruits of a lifetime of learning yet produces music that registers freshness and discovery in each passing note.
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by Bill Evans 
