Jimmy Rowles’ “The Peacocks” always gets me. I heard it for the first time on a Smithsonian compilation (that is, by the way, a peerless anthology of jazz piano). I love the song because it artfully conveys longing and mystery. Its loneliness is palpable and even painful.
In some cases, appreciating atonality takes work, but dissonance in “The Peacocks” delivers instant gratification, the logical outgrowth of a perfect idea. No matter what Rowles intended by the title, when I listen to his phrasing, I can imagine the stilted motion of the peacock, a bird both awkward and beautiful.
Of all the versions I’ve heard, only Rowles’ resonates. I am a big fan of Bill Evans and Dexter Gordon, but their covers aren’t as spare and evocative. To me, the song is perfect as its composer played it—on a piano, with a subtle bass accompaniment, the last few measures like ethereal, incidental thoughts, and at the end, a numinous major-minor chord.
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