Whitney Balliett: Four Great Jazz Pianists

Photo illustration by John MacDougall

I’ve been listening to a lot of Hank Jones, Ellis Larkins, Tommy Flanagan, and Bill Charlap this summer. They’re my favorite jazz pianists. What makes them so great? To help answer this question, I want to consider what Whitney Balliett wrote about them in The New Yorker. Balliett profiled each of them. The four pieces – “Einfühlung” (December 18, 1978), “Poet” (February 24, 1986), “The Dean” (July 15, 1996), and “The Natural” (April 19, 1999) – are among the best things he ever wrote.

The earliest piece is “Einfühlung,” on Ellis Larkins. Balliett wrote,

Larkins’ style gives the impression of continually being on the verge of withdrawing, of bowing and backing out. It is uncommonly gentle. His touch is softer than Art Tatum’s, and the flow of his melodic line has a rippling quiet-water quality. Nothing is assertive: his chords, in contrast to the extroverted cloud masses that most pianists use, turn in and muse; his single-note lines shoot quickly to the left or to the right and are gone; his statements of the melody at the opening and closing of each number offer silhouettes. But Larkins’ serenity is deceptive, for his solos have a strong rhythmic pull. It is clear that he once listened attentively to Earl Hines and Teddy Wilson, and possibly to Jess Stacy. Larkins’ short, precise, dashing arpeggios suggest Wilson, and so do the even, surging tenths he uses in his left hand. He attempts a vibrato effect by adding the barest tremolo to the end of certain right-hand phrases, recalling Stacy and the early Hines. His intent is immediate pleasure – for the listener and for himself – and it is also to celebrate the songs he plays. He endows and sustains them, indirectly fulfilling a nice maxim laid down not long ago by the drummer Art Blakey. “Music,” Blakey said, “should wash away the dust of everyday life.”

That’s one of the most beautiful jazz descriptions I’ve ever read. Two elements stand out for me – Balliett’s appreciation of melody (“the flow of his melodic line has a rippling quiet-water quality”; “his statements of the melody at the opening and closing of each number offer silhouettes”) and his preference for “single-note lines” over “the extroverted cloud masses that most pianists use.” These features appeal to me, too.

Next up is “Poet,” a profile of Tommy Flanagan. Balliett said of him,

Flanagan demands close listening. His single-note melodic lines move up and down, but since he is also a percussive player, who likes to accent unlikely notes, his phrases tend to move constantly toward and away from the listener. The resulting dynamics are subtle and attractive. These horizontal-vertical melodic lines give the impression of being two lines, each of which Flanagan would like attention paid to. There are also interior movements within these lines: double-time runs; clusters of flatted notes, like pretend stumbles; backward-leaning half-time passages; dancing runs; and rests, which are both pauses and chambers for the preceding phrase to echo in. Flanagan is never less than first-rate. But once in a while – when the weather is calm, the audience attentive, the piano good, the vibes right – he becomes impassioned. Then he will play throughout the evening with inspiration and great heat, turning out stunning solo after stunning solo, making the listeners feel they have been at a godly event. 

Note that reference to “single-note melodic lines.” A theme is emerging. Balliett loved single-note melodic lines, and he loved pianists who played them. Consider “The Dean,” the next portrait in this set. It’s a profile of Hank Jones. Balliett wrote,

Jones first came to New York in 1944, to join Hot Lips Page’s band, on Fifty-second Street. He was entering a land of pianistic giants and near-giants. Art Tatum was God, and nearby were Nat Cole, Teddy Wilson, and Marlowe Morris; and just coming up were Bud Powell, Al Haig, Erroll Garner, and Thelonious Monk. Jones listened, appropriating a little of Tatum, a little of Wilson and Cole, and a little of Powell and Garner. The result is a quiet, lyrical, attentive style, so subtle and technically assured as to be almost self-effacing; you have to lean forward to catch Jones properly. He will start two choruses of the blues with delicate single notes, placing them in surprising, jarring places, either behind the beat or off to one side—a path over a rocky place—and then play several dissonant chords; return to single notes, this time letting them pour in Tatum runs, some going up, some down; slip in more chords; and close the solo with a chime sound. Unlike most modern pianists, Jones constantly uses his left hand, issuing a carpet of tenths, little offbeat clusters, and occasional patches of stride. Jones’s solos think, and they rest far above the florid, gothic roil that many jazz pianists have fallen into in the past twenty years.

This piece also contains a wonderful review of Jones’s album Steal Away: Charlie Haden and Hank Jones (1995). Balliett wrote,

Most of the numbers are played straight but with the harmonic and rhythmic inflections that separate jazz from the rest of music. On “Wade in the Water” and “Go Down, Moses,” however, Jones improvises delicately, and on “We Shall Overcome” he pauses after a unison statement of the melody, Haden begins to “walk,” and Jones suddenly lifts into four ringing choruses of the blues, his single-note lines sparkling and his chords bell-like. It’s an electric moment. 

Again, in this piece, we see Balliett expressing his love of single-note lines (“delicate single notes,” “return to single notes, this time letting them pour in Tatum runs, some going up, some down,” “his single-note lines sparkling”).

I now turn to the last piece in my Balliett quartet – “The Natural.” It’s a profile of Bill Charlap, who is one of my heroes. I have all his albums. His music has provided me with countless hours of listening pleasure. This is the piece that led me to him. Balliett described his style:

His ballad numbers are unique. He may start with the verse of the song, played ad lib, then move into the melody chorus. He does not rhapsodize. Instead, he improvises immediately, rearranging the chords and the melody line, and using a relaxed, almost implied beat. He may pause for a split second at the end of this chorus and launch a nodding, swinging single-note solo chorus, made up of irregularly placed notes – some off the beat and some behind the beat – followed by connective runs and note clusters. He closes with a brief, calming recap of the melody. His ballads are meditations on songs, homages to their composers and lyricists. He constantly reins in his up-tempo numbers. He has a formidable technique, but he never shows off, even though he will let loose epic runs, massive staccato chords, racing upper-register tintinnabulations, and, once in a while, some dazzling counterpoint, his hands pitted against each other. His sound shines; each note is rounded. Best of all, in almost every number, regardless of its speed, he leaves us a phrase, a group of irregular notes, an ardent bridge that shakes us.

That “His sound shines; each note is rounded” is inspired. Balliett’s “single note” theme is much in evidence (“swinging single-note solo chorus,” “sailing-along-the-tonal-edge single-note lines,” “loose, almost atonal single-note lines,” “a handful of unevenly spaced single notes”). All four pieces are inspired - as artful and beautiful as the music they describe.