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| Orrin Evans and Ethan Iverson at Jazz Gallery |
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Author: Halle Eaton
Posted on: Wednesday, April 23, 2003
Orrin Evans and Ethan Iveson at Jazz Gallery: 3/15/03
by Halle Eaton
At the Jazz Gallery last Saturday night Orrin Evans and Ethan Iverson
sat opposite each other at the top of the narrow white-walled space (not
your average white box, but perhaps its musical equivalent), and unleashed
a torrent of contemplative jazz from a pair of dueling grand pianos. And
like the pianos themselves – one a brown Yamaha, the other a black
Baldwin, Mr. Evans and Mr. Iverson approached the classic jazz pieces
they played with an individual sense of style. Dressed respectively in
a red Rugby shirt and khaki work pants and a double-breasted gray suit
with a handkerchief tucked conspicuously into the front pocket, each man
made a distinct impression, attacking the keys with individual flourish.
Yet still the similarities abounded: both men wore glasses, were of approximately
the same height and age, both hummed and rocked at various moments throughout
the performance, and both should be considered virtuosos.
The music was
anything but static, moving from mood to mood as easily as the pianists
moved among the keys. It was at once brooding and discordant and then
it would break into dreamy melody. The air in the audience was of rapt
attention, verging on piousness, as though the audience was holding in
a collective breath, waiting for the music to change, stop, pick up, transform.
Waiting for whatever Mr. Iverson and Mr. Evans would do next. At moments
the silence was intimidating. The intimacy of the room captured the slightest
sound, the shifting of weight in a metal folding chair, the scrape of
a shoe on the floor. But the intimacy added to the performances as well,
highlighting the tics of the musicians, the squeak of Orrin Evans’s
piano bench as he swayed along with the notes, or the breathy rumble of
Ethan Iverson’s voice humming in accompaniment. |
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| The set which started just after 10:30 opened with a rendition
of ‘Someone to Watch Over Me.’ But just a quickly as the melody
presented itself it was swallowed, a drift on a river of improvisation,
returning now and then like an echo or a reprise, a whiff of familiarity
in a composition that felt as mathematical as a calculus equation and as
abstract. It made me think of Cy Twombly’s paintings, of white chalk
on a black board, of a sequence of numbers. At other times, however, the
tone was more organic, more earth based, reminiscent of cicadas, of flowers
opening up after a rainstorm. Images of water crossed my mind throughout
-- a waterfall, a thunderstorm, a babbling brook. The music actually made
me thirsty; it was so clean, so clear. You could anticipate a transition,
hear it building, try to track it, but still it would surprise. A couple
of people in the audience were so amazed by one such change they broke into
laughter. At another point a man in front of me grunted with satisfaction.
It was difficult to understand how the pianists were communicating, though
at times it was clear that one was leading, but then that would switch.
They rarely looked up or gave indication that they were following anyone
else, but seemed rather to float on their own imagination, each song flowing
into the next just as each series of notes opened to a new development,
spontaneous and organic. |
The set included ‘Body and Soul’, ‘The Blues’,
‘Just You Just Me’, and Thelonious Monk’s ‘Rhythm
–A-Ning.’ Each pianist played a solo as well. Orrin Evans was
the more dramatic of the two, his head wobbling from side to side as he
played, his upper body hunched over the keys one moment, then arching back
the next. A strange cross between Stevie Wonder and Schroder from the Peanuts,
he banged repeatedly on a couple of keys, his eyes closed in concentration.
But when the melody broke through his solo it was exquisite. Mr.Iverson,
on the other hand, appeared more fastidious. He sat upright, his back straight,
his eyes gazing out over the top of the piano. But as his solo turned layered
and complex, he began to furrow his brow so that a line ran down the center
of his forehead dividing his face into equal parts. Squinting, he angled
his head toward the audience, one ear straining toward the keys as if listening
for inspiration.
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| The Jazz Gallery is not a large space, but even so several
seats remained available for the late show. Perhaps this was due to the
club’s low profile, which can hardly be called a club at all. Folding
chairs were set up on either side of the narrow room and rugs rolled up
to make way for the pianos. Black and white photographs of Jazz musicians
adorned the white washed walls. Although there were certainly a number of
African Americans in the crowd, the audience was predominantly white, and
of the liberal arts variety -- young, educated, and downtown. More cool
than hip. Set up as a not for profit organization the Jazz Gallery is exactly
what it purports to be, a gallery, down to the glasses of red wine available
in the back and the erudite attitude of its patrons (the photographer in
the second row, who had consulted both musicians and club ownership about
taking pictures for this publication, was chastised by a member of the audience
claiming that the click of the flash-less camera was too distracting). The
experience of hearing music at the Jazz Gallery bore more than a passing
resemblance to viewing art in a museum. Much closer to a concert hall than
a club, the relationship between the Jazz Gallery and, say, Carnegie Hall,
could be summed up in the comparison between a protestant meeting house
and a Catholic church; the frills have been scaled down yet the reverence
remains. But aside from the attitude encountered, there’s nothing
objectionable about hearing jazz in a clean, controlled environment. With
all the chaos in the world today it’s nice to be able to sit back,
close your eyes and give yourself over to a pair of talented musicians. |
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