The Longest Suicide In History

Here is a short story I wrote about Bill Evan's and Scott LaFaro's relationship. The story is based on actual events. I arranged them in a way that made more of an artistic impact. Without further ado, I implore you to read my little story. 

THE LONGEST SUICIDE IN HISTORY

In 1959, Bill Evans started to play with Scott LaFaro. Bill had previously been playing as a sideman with Miles Davis, but he met Scott, who wanted to start a trio. Scott suggested to Bill that they become a trio with Paul Motian. Bill wanted to be in a group, but he wanted to find people that would like each other. He wanted their talents to merge in a natural way. He agreed to play with them. They later became The Bill Evans Trio.

On Sunday, the 25^th of June 1961, the trio went to record a live album at the Village Vanguard. Bill and Scott played like they had become known to play. Bill spun lines in the clouds on his piano, and Scott made the Earth below. Scott made the heavens, and Bill colored them. Together, they painted lush worlds of sound. What they did together was greater than just Bill’s piano and Scott’s bass; together, they created a whole world that neither Scott nor Bill were a full half of.

Bill never had to look at Scott. Bill could arch his body over the keys to where his face was inches from his hands. Bill was free to go wherever he wanted, and Scott would be there with him. They could be lost with each other, and everything would be okay because they knew where each other were. Scott always knew where Bill was. Scott could drape himself over his bass without seeing anything but his hands and the strings, and only trough tonal inflection, Scott knew exactly where Bill was.

Their music was like a conversation had between two poets. Their melodic lines were both lyrical, but together, the lines made more than just what they played. Their lines together were like doves flying in perfect tandem—flying close, but never crashing.

Bill would write new pieces, but Scott seemed to already have known them. The second Bill could think of something, Scott already knew it. It was almost like being in love. They could communicate without words; they were free together to speak their own language. Bill had found those special people whose talents could naturally merge.

***

Ten days later, on the 6^th of July 1961, Scott LaFaro was on his way to his parent’s house in Geneva, New York by car. The road was wet, and the tires had met their limits. The car skidded into a tree. Scott died instantly.

Bill heard first from Scott’s parents. He called Paul at four in the morning and said, “Scott’s dead.”

“Yeah,” Paul said in a deep groggy voice.

“Scott’s died, Paul! How can ‘yeah’ be the only thing you have to say? I’ll never hear him again. It’ll never be the same! And you can only say ‘yeah’?” he said as his voice cracked and squealed. His vocal chords could not match his emotion.

The line lay silent. Bill hung up. He stayed up for the rest of that night in his pajamas and robe. He paced around his apartment alone. He paced until the sun rose. He cried until the sun rose. He thought about the last time he saw Scott until the sun rose.

Then the phone rang. He picked up shakily and collapsed onto his bed. He could barely hold the weight of the phone with his once dexterous hands. He answered, “hello”, as his voice shook from crying.

            “Hey! It’s Paul. You’re never going to believe the dream I had last night. I dreamed that you called me and said Scott died. Can you believe that? Anyways, are we going to get together today?”

            “Scott did die, Paul. It was a car accident. It was last night. He hit a tree,” he said slowly scrapping words together out of grief.

            “Scott?”

            “Yes.” He wanted to say more, but he could not muster any more.

            “I’ll be right over. Will you stay there until I get there?”

            “Yes.” Whether Bill wanted or not, he would be there. He physically could not do anything.

            “I’ll be there soon.”

            The line went dead and Bill fell over. His head lay on the pillow, but his legs were still on the ground. He was lying, but he would not sleep. He laid there for what could have been years. Bill could not feel the time pass anymore. He just laid catatonically still and thought about what Scott could play and how he would never hear it again. Then, Paul was there. Bill walked to the door as fast as his aching body could. He opened the door and Paul hugged him. Bill stood like a plank. Paul had a record in his hand.

            “I thought we could listen to some old times,” Paul said.

            “Okay.” Whether he wanted to or not, there was nothing he could do. He did not have the strength to disagree. 

            Paul opened the record player and put in the Portrait in Jazz album the trio had recorded a year earlier. “Witchcraft” started playing. The trio’s rendition was up-tempo. Bill played the melody. He played it with tall chords that made the piano sound like a full orchestra. He used an entire pallet of colors that made the melody more than a mere sequence of notes. The way he manipulated the attack and sustain of every moment made the melody unique to the trio. And instead of only supporting, Scott and Paul played the melody as much as Bill did, but in their own way. Bill’s lines would dovetail into Scott’s, which would continue on to Paul’s. Bill would invent a motif and Scott and Paul would be with playing with his theme. Bill would go on musical excursions and Scott and Paul would be there with him. They all played in a way that made the entire recording more than just the sum of their individual parts.

            “Listen to that bass,” Bill said as he stared into the spinning record.

            “I know. He was a good kid. You know, I couldn’t believe it when you told me. I thought it was a dream. I never expected it,” Paul said as he looked at the side of Bill’s head.

            “Listen to that bass. It’s so big. It’s like an organ. It’s not real. I’ll never hear that again. I’ll never hear that…” he said as his head drooped down and hunched over into tears.

            Paul grabbed Bill’s shoulders, which were still faced to the record player, and faced Bill towards him. “Bill, it’s okay. I know it’s bad now, but we can’t change it. We had some good times. We played well together. I’m sure there will be other bass players.”

            As his eyes were closed and tears streamed down his face he said, “It won’t be the same. It’ll never be the same. How am I going to find someone like that, Paul? Who could replace him?”

            “There, there. I know it’s hard, but it’s okay. Some things just happen. You can’t be miserable about it forever. You’ll get past this. You’ll move on.”

            “Okay,” he said between spastic respirations. “I’ll try.”

            Hours passed. They listened to the record over and over. Then, Paul stopped the record and Bill sat at the piano. Paul sat on the chair facing him. Bill hunched over the keys and began to play “I Loves You, Porgy”. He played it at a slow and malleable pace. He played it will his tall chords and long luxurious lines, but his lines had nowhere to dovetail. He invented motifs, but nobody was playing them with him. He would go to musical places, but nobody was along side him. It was only he.

            After he would play his solo, he would play the melody again and go into more solo. He would play it endlessly in a recursive cycle. Paul sat and watched him play the same song for hours.

            “I think I’m going to go home and get some sleep.”

            Bill nodded while playing.

            “I hope you feel better. You should sleep.”

            “Okay,” he said as he continued to play.

            “I’ll call you tomorrow. Goodbye.”

            “Thank you, Paul. Bye,” he said still playing.

            Bill continued to play “I Loves You, Porgy” to nobody. It was the only thing that made him feel any better. 

***

            Shortly after Scott died, Bill became addicted to heroin and cocaine, as most jazz artists eventually do. As the years went on, his cocaine consumption rose. As the years went on, he stopped taking his medication. As the years went on, he lost his will to live.

Bill Evans continued to play with various trios. He eventually found another bass player and another drummer. He would play the same songs, but they never felt quite the same. There was not the same sense of communication with anybody. He played and became increasingly unsatisfied. Music, itself, was not the same.

            Bill would still play “I Loves You, Porgy”, but no one would join him. He would always play that one alone.

            On the 15^th of September 1980, Bill Evans went to the hospital for severe stomach pains. His organs had met their limits. He died for hours.

            His death was a combination of several physical ailments caused by decades of drug abuse. Each day after Scott died, so did Bill in small amounts. Over nineteen years, Bill died slowly from what he did to himself. 

REFLECTION ON THIS PIECE:

            What must Bill Evans have said after he heard that Scott LaFaro died? He must have wondered whether or not he would ever find another bass player—another telepathic communication that he had with him. He must have been devastated. He was. He didn’t record for weeks. He must not have played for days. I want to capture the relationship between that. I want to capture that one half of something died. Moreover, I want to do that between two men to show that music is also love. It’s not just between a man and woman and it’s not sexual. Music is love.

            Historically, I was making the point that Bill Evans, playing and psyche, was never fully the same after Scott LaFaro died. In fact, in each part of this piece, I made a point to listed to recordings from the time period I was writing. In the part of the story when Scott was alive, I listened to recordings that Bill Evans played with Scott; mainly, I listened to Sunday at the Village Vanguard. That was the album that Scott recorded ten days before he died. In fact, the first description of their playing is entirely based on that album.

            In the part after Scott’s death, I listened to “I Loves You, Porgy” as obsessively as Bill Evans played it after Scott died. I tried to capture what he was feeling when he played. The part immediately after Scott’s death, I listened to that to understand Bill’s emotions.

            When Paul and Bill were listening to “Witchcraft”, I listened to that song, but from a different perspective. I tried to remove myself and listen to it longingly—like I would never hear that bass again. I tried to see what Bill thought looking back on that album.

            Also, the story is in three parts purposefully. Individually, each part could be taken separately, but I feel that there is a deeper meaning when the stories are put together. The connection-of-dots, so-to-speak, shows the deeper meaning and, therefore, the bottom of the fish.

            Thematically, I feel that there is the theme of happiness and its extreme converse. The first section is happiness. The second section is the decline into the converse.