Bill Evans at the BBC is the latest in a series of archival releases by Evans, coordinated by producer Zev Feldman. Working with the estate of the influential jazz pianist, who died in 1980, Feldman has proffered official versions of material that often was bootlegged and, in some cases, undiscovered. Issued on Feldman’s own labels, these releases have often been timed to coincide with the vinyl collector-focused Record Store Day. Such is the case with Bill Evans at the BBC.
The material here comprises two full sets recorded by Evans with bassist Chuck Israels and drummer Larry Bunker in March 1965 at the BBC Television Theatre—what is now Shepherd’s Bush Empire. Each set was aired on a separate episode of the BBC’s Jazz 625 television program later that year. In the 1990s, the programs were issued on laserdisc and DVD in Japan. This, however, marks their first official appearance on vinyl and CD.
The previous Feldman archive releases have been well-received. Bill Evans at the BBC, though, is most intriguing and notable for the philosophical questions it raises. Imagine a Picasso viewed through a dirty window that is smudged with mud. Or think of watching a Charlie Chaplin classic on faded, deteriorating film projected onto a six-by-six-inch brick wall. Does the greatness of the artistry remain? Of course. Can pleasure still be taken in its consumption? Yes. But you would be hard-pressed to argue that the full experience and aesthetic appreciation are not severely compromised.
These scenarios matter because the sound on Bill Evans at the BBC is badly distorted. In particular, Evans’ piano often sounds as if it is being played through a dollar store Bluetooth speaker with a blown cone. At its worst, the distortion transforms the piano into a cheap, rattling electronic keyboard. Israels’ double bass is also badly affected. Only Bunker’s closely mic’d trap kit escapes relatively unscathed. The distortion is clearly evident on the broadcast videos, suggesting the issue is rooted in the original BBC engineering. For this release, engineer Marc Doutrepont, a veteran of Feldman projects, is credited with “Mixing and Sound Restoration”. Doutrepont, it seems, was dealt a bad hand.
It’s a shame, because the performances themselves are irreproachable. This second iteration of the Bill Evans Trio had been playing together for a couple of years and were in the midst of a month-long residency at Ronnie Scott’s Jazz Club. They were, as Israels puts it in a 2025 interview with Feldman, included in the liner notes, “playing extremely well”. The material was common to their repertoire, and the television setting finds them rising to the occasion and then soaring above it.
Save a brief theme; there is no overlap between the two sets. Evans’ playing is, typically, both intricate and natural, studied and intimate. The playing of Israels and Bunker isn’t so much complementary to Evans as conversant with him. In “Elsa”, the pianist’s gentle swing, Israels’ lyrical pizzicato work, and Bunker’s pitter-pattering brushes set a sophisticated yet cozy mood that extends throughout both sets.
Showtunes like “Summertime” and “Someday My Prince Will Come” are given jaunty readings. In one of a couple of pithy moments, BBC host (and jazz musician himself) Humphrey Lyttelton marvels at how the Trio leave their audiences “poised between elation and utter despair”. To hear the aptness of this description, one need look no further than Evans’ own “Waltz For Debby” and “Re: Person I Knew”.
As with previous Feldman/Evans releases, Bill Evans at the BBC is thoughtfully packaged with a trove of new analysis and interviews. In addition to the Israels interview, there are track-by-track notes bolstered with Israels’ input and a pair of essays from jazz scholars. Curiously, though, there is no mention or explanation of the compromised sound quality.
Do the quality and care taken in the release itself counter the distorted sound? After all, isn’t a muddied view of a Picasso better than no Picasso at all? In this case, though, the analogy doesn’t hold. Much of the material on Bill Evans at the BBC, as played by this lineup, is available on better-sounding releases, including a couple of Feldman’s own.
Some fervent Evans collectors might be willing and able, somehow, to live with the distortion. For most people, though, Bill Evans at the BBC is at most a one-listen affair. It is a tragedy that such wonderful performances have been so badly marred by such brutal sound quality. There’s no need, though, to compound one tragedy with another by giving it such a conspicuous release and thus sullying the legacies of everyone involved, including those, like the late Evans, who had no say in the matter.