Bill Evans would be doing 80 years this week. Much is already known about this great pianist, but what struck me was knowing someone who lived with him his last and difficult moments in a period where he created an extraordinary work, strong and introspective. Verchomin Bill met Laurie when she was only 22 years in 1979. He fell in love and both are past year and a half in a relationship with a platonic love, until his death in September 1980.
It follows the narrative of the last moments of Evans, narrated by Laurie.
"September 15, 1980"
Bill has been lying low (an understatement) for most of the past two weeks – keeping quiet in his green on green on green room, on top of the pale green brocade king-sized bed, spread out on top of the galaxy of cigarette burns from his two-year stint in this, his bedroom on the ninth floor of the Whiteman House on Center Avenue in Fort Lee, New Jersey.
This is Bill’s room. I share my side of the King. He is on my left; I am on his right. He is nodding, not sleeping. I haven’t seen him sleep yet. I’ve been here for six months, keeping a close eye on things.
Just being there.
I am conscious of death at all moments. Death is in the room like a shadow waiting for the light to come on, to intensify with the contrast. I have prepared grape fruit to cheer Bill up. I am so far out on a limb here. I try putting on some music -- Jim Hall and Bill playing duets. We are willing Bill out of bed so he can make an appointment in midtown to get set up at a new methadone clinic. He is gravely concerned about the fact that his doctor is cutting back his dosage without his permission. So he is willing all of us to bring him to this appointment in midtown NYC.
I am relying on Joe LaBarbera, Bill’s drummer, who has been staying with us this past week while Bill sat out on his gig at the NYC jazz club called Fat Tuesdays. Another piano player, Andy Laverne, took over the rest of the week -- because Bill came so close to a crash on the Eastside Highway with me in the passenger side as it swooped inches away from the side of the underpass. I think someone drove us home. Maybe it was Joe.
It was great to have Joe around that week because, as I said, I was really out on a limb with this one.
We support Bill through the building’s lobby, and into his late-model maroon Monte Carlo. Bill lies down in the back seat, Joe and I are in the front. Joe drives us into midtown, Bill directing us to the address. We are watching the street in traffic, and Bill notices a beautiful woman and makes the comment,“This really must be the end, because I don’t feel a thing for that woman.”
We laugh, the rope trick once again. I am always amazed at how far out he can go (literally leaving his body) and still snap back at just the right moment. Boom.
I took this moment to offer an inspiration I had about Bill’s financial woes. I said, “Hey Bill, what do you think about having a memorial concert to raise money for you.”
He said, “You mean a tribute, my dear, as I am still alive.” Well, Joe and Bill and I laughed a little harder about that one, and then Bill started to cough up blood and soon there was a steady stream of blood coming from his mouth as he directed us to the Mt. Sinai Hospital . “Lay on the horn, Joe. Tell them it’s an emergency,” he instructed.
I felt compelled to keep watch over him as he directed Joe. He gave me the fear in his eyes. I wanted to tell him I needed more, that we weren’t quite done yet. He told me, “I think I’m going to drown.” I wasn’t sure a person could lose that much blood.
We pulled into the emergency driveway of Mt. Sinai hospital moments later. Joe and I lifted Bill from the car and walked him into the hospital. His blood was everywhere leaving a trail through the waiting room. We laid him on a bed in the emergency room and a flurry of doctors and nurses took over.
I was shuffled into the waiting room, where I sat and watched with great alarm as the janitor came out and mopped up Bill’s life force. A nurse appeared and in a soothing voice described Bill’s condition as something similar to a nose bleed that just needed cauterizing.
The woman sitting next to me added that her husband had a very similar experience and went on to describe it in great detail. But I couldn’t take in what they were saying. I was thinking about the blood and Bill’s jacket, which was sitting in my lap.
A moment later a young male doctor came out and escorted me into a small office. He said, “We couldn’t save him.” I looked at Joe and said, “This is déjà vu. I have been here before.”
From this point on I am in a heightened state of adrenaline shock. Joe starts making calls. He calls Helen Keane, Bill’s manager. He calls Marc Johnson, Bill’s bass player.
Nobody showed me the body.
For years afterward, I would dream that Bill wasn’t actually dead, but had planned some kind of escape. That’s why it’s so easy for us to continue our relationship because he isn’t really dead to me.
Not really.
Not at all.
I never left and he is eternal.
PS: Laurie is about to launch a book "Inside The Heart of Bill Evans," which will describe their moments with Evans.
http://charutojazz.blogspot.com/2009/08/namorada-de-bill-evans.html
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