On Bill Evans In The Middle Of The Night

In case you missed it, my short story Bill Evans In The Middle Of The Night is here.

Nothing is more unsettling than a ringing doorbell in the middle of the night. Nothing, that is, except wondering if you heard it at all.

When it happened to my wife and me, we lay awake for hours trying to decode if it had actually rung. It seemed paramount to figure out what had made the noise.

As I lay in bed with my heart thumping and my senses on high alert, I cataloged the sounds I heard. A few mechanical clicks as the AC turned on, like a drummer counting off. A dramatic whoosh of circulated air rattled the vents. The clank of the icemaker, dry and sudden, as the cubes dropped through the chute. The trill of chimes on the back porch, played by the passing wind. I even listened to the silence, still and shapeless, giving space for the sound to ring out.

Nothing matched the doorbell, but our house showed off its musical chops. An extended improvisation just for me.

I wrestled with how to describe the sound of the doorbell. By tone, tempo or something else? My wife was pretty sure that the bell had rung three times in quick succession. For some reason that made me think of jazz pianist Bill Evans, who was known for his use of triplets–essentially playing three notes over two beats. It was one of those leaps you can only make in the middle of the night.

One of my favorite albums is Miles Davis’ Kind Of Blue, and depending on the day you catch me it may be my favorite. Bill Evans played piano on the record, and as time has worn on been given more credit for its signature style, with Davis admitting in 1989 that “he planned the album around the piano playing of Bill Evans.”

I heard the record at my first job out of college with MAXI-management. At that time, my knowledge of jazz was limited. The closest I came growing up was a few Herb Alpert records my mother played. My boss had a large CD collection and one of us would load up the CD player for the day, and invariably Kind of Blue would be the first one.

At the time I was pulling double duty, managing bands by day, slinging beers at the Cat’s Cradle by night. Most mornings found me bleary eyed and tongue tied, showing up but not succeeding till the afternoon. Kind of Blue unfolded at a languid pace, fading in like a dimmer switch being turned on. The first track “So What” is over 9 minutes long but doesn’t really get cooking until nearly the two minute mark. The perfect accompaniment to slow starts.

The album was mostly an improvisation by Miles Davis’ sextet, built around rough ideas Davis sketched out hours before the first note was recorded. Each performer was given a set of scales that defined their style, but left wide latitude to what they actually played. Bill Evans’ piano playing stood out, which was no small feat considering the combo also included Miles Davis, John Coltrane and Cannonball Adderley. Evans employed dynamic rhythmic phrasing, hitting the notes lightly. His fingers floated along at their own pace, giving the feeling that he was slightly ahead or behind the beat.

On the original liner notes for Kind Of Blue, Evans compared this style of jazz to the Japanese watercolor practice known as Suibokuga, where the artist must paint on thin parchment with a wet brush. A single errant stroke will tear the paper, and since no changes are allowed, the artist must simply trust the direct deed.

Evans explained, the final product might lack complex textures but “those who see well will find something captured that escapes explanation.”

Like writing about a doorbell in the middle of the night.

Recognizing that, I stopped listening for the doorbell. By then it didn’t matter. What mattered was whether I could capture the moment while fresh in my mind.

I got out of bed at 5 AM, went to my office, and put on Kind Of Blue. I wrote the draft of the short story in a single uninterrupted session. Like my days at MAXI-management, I got off to a slow start but by the time “Freddie Freeloader” came on I found my rhythm. No hesitation, just trusting the direct deed.

The story is real but the doorbell is still a mystery. In the end, we never figured out if it rang.

This One’s Called… On Bill Evans In The Middle Of The Night.