Imagine waking up on a Tuesday morning, right?
You walk into a recording studio and you're told
your job for the day is to play rigid Polished
just totally metronomically perfect pop music.
Oh, wow. Okay Yeah, like it's a track designed
specifically for teenagers to dance to on national
television Yeah, so, you know you lock in you
build this flawless unshakable rhythmic grid.
You just play it totally straight exactly but
then imagine waking up on Wednesday driving to
a completely different studio across town and
the producer asks you to just throw out every
single rule of rhythm you use the day before
just toss it all out the window yep because now
you're playing wildly experimental, avant -garde
free jazz with Ornette Coleman. No grid, no steady
pulse, just pure, spontaneous sonic texture.
I mean, that's a level of mental and physical
whiplash that most musicians, even the absolute
greats, would really struggle and navigate. You
were talking about completely different musical
languages there. Exactly. But in the mid -20th
century, there was one man who didn't just imagine
that scenario. He literally lived it. Yeah, he
did. And he used at least seven different names
to pull it off. So welcome to the deep dive.
Today we are exploring the life of an American
drummer named Samuel Evans, though he was way
better known as Sticks Evans. And he's a fascinating
figure. He really is. Our mission today is to
show you how a seemingly straightforward list
of dates, names, and recording credits actually
serves as a skeleton key. It unlocks this hidden,
deeply interconnected reality of the mid -20th
century music industry. Honestly, I like to think
of Stix Evans as sort of the Kevin Bacon of 20th
century music. Yeah, I love that analogy. Right,
he's this connective thread linking just wildly
different musical universes. Okay, let's unpack
this. Who exactly was Stix Evans? Well... We
can ground ourselves with his vital stats first.
Samuel Evans was born on February 5, 1923 and
passed away on April 11th in 1994 in New York
City. OK, so a long life. Yeah. And his active
professional years span this incredible stretch
from 1948 all the way to his death in 1994. And,
you know, he wasn't strictly confined to the
drum throne either. Right. He did a bit of everything.
He really did. He was a percussionist, a music
teacher and arranger and even a musical director.
I got to say, the very first thing that jumps
out when you look at his career is his identity,
or, well, rather, his incredibly fluid approach
to his own identity. Yeah, the names. It's wild.
He is credited on various records as Sammy Stick
Evans, Sammy Evans with one M, Sammy Evans with
two, Sammy with an I, Stick Evans as Sticks Evans,
and Bilton Evans. It's a lot to keep track of.
What's fascinating here is what that massive
list of aliases actually tells us about the sheer
unglamorous hustle of being a working -session
musician during that era. Yeah, it wasn't just
for fun. No, not at all. When an individual operates
under seven or eight variations of their name,
it speaks directly to the... the cutthroat mechanics
of the recording industry at the time. Right,
because we aren't talking about a modern pop
star adopting an alter ego for some fancy concept
album. This feels like, I don't know, survival.
It was absolutely about survival. You have to
remember just how intensely territorial record
labels were in the mid -20th century. Like they
owned you. Pretty much. If a musician signed
an exclusive contract with a specific label,
they were legally barred from crossing the street
and recording for a rival label. Wow. But session
musicians, they didn't have the luxury of just
sitting around waiting for their primary label
to call them in for a session. I mean, they were
paid per big. Yeah, they had rent to pay in New
York City. Exactly. So wait, if you get caught
moonlighting for a rival label under your real
name, what happens? Are you just blacklisted?
Oh, yeah. You could face severe financial penalties,
breach of contract lawsuits, or yes, you could
literally be blacklisted by the very producers
who controlled your livelihood. That is terrifying.
It is. So to mitigate that massive risk, you
simply vanished on paper. You'd show up at a
different studio, lay down the tracks, take your
cash in an envelope, and just walk away. Right.
And when the album came out, the liner notes
would suddenly credit a Belton Evans or a Sammy
Evans. It's a brilliant reflection of a working
artist navigating the deeply exploitative business
side of music. You just do what you have to do
to keep the sticks in your hands, right? Mm -hmm.
Totally. And his playing timeline in the early
1950s is just a perfect illustration of that
relentless hustle. Like in 1950, he's recording
with the Milt Buckner Orchestra, backing the
rhythm and blues singer, Winone Harris. Which,
by the way, is a massive, highly structured sonic
environment. Right. But then just two years later,
in 1952 and 1953, he is recording with Milt Buckner's
Organ Trio. OK, totally different vibe. Completely.
And then he leaves that trio in February 1953.
And by 1954, he has moved on entirely, playing
in the Teddy Wilson Trio alongside the legendary
bassist Milt Hinton. The rapid evolution in that
four -year window is really striking. I mean,
it's incredibly fast. I have to push back on
this a little bit, though. OK, let's hear it.
Because when I see a guy jumping from a massive
full orchestra in 1950 down to an Oregon Trio
and then immediately hopping over to a totally
different piano trio with Teddy Wilson. Yeah.
Like, does that mean Evans was just a hired gun?
Was he just desperately taking whatever gig paid
the bills that month? Or are we seeing an artist
actively searching for his own definitive sound?
That is the ultimate tension of a session musician's
life, honestly. But I think to really understand
what he was doing, we have to look at the physics
of those specific ensembles. What do you mean
by physics? Well, playing drums in a full orchestra
is an exercise in horsepower and precision. You
are the engine of a massive machine. You have
to drive an entire horn section and keep a dozen
other musicians locked into the conductor's vision.
Okay, yeah. It's almost like driving a massive
semi -truck. Like, you have to plan your turns
a mile in advance, and you cannot just go off
script. Exactly. You'd crash the truck. But then
he moves to an organ trio. The physics there
completely change. How so? In an organ trio,
the Hammond B3 organ takes up an enormous amount
of sonic frequency. It's just huge. The drummer
has to figure out how to lock in with the heavy
driving bass pedals that the organist is literally
playing with their feet without moneying up the
low end of the mix. It's incredibly dense. And
then he pivots again to a piano trio with Teddy
Wilson and Milt Hinton. Right, which is much
lighter. Oh, completely. Now we're talking about
elegant conversational acoustic swing. The sonic
space opens completely up. The drummer has to
put away the heavy sticks, pull out the brushes,
play delicately, and just listen intently to
the unamplified resonance of the acoustic bass.
So it's not just jumping between gigs at all.
It's jumping between entirely different instrumental
vocabularies. Precisely. The fact that Evans
could seamlessly navigate all three of those
highly specialized rhythmic environments in a
four -year window? They're crazy. It is. And
it doesn't say desperate hired gun. It says master
craftsman. He wasn't searching for a sound. He
was proving that he already possessed the vocabulary
to speak any musical language the room required.
Wow. So he was building this massive adaptable
toolkit. Yes. And that chameleon -like ability
he developed in the 50s became his absolute greatest
weapon when he hit his most prolific studio era
in the early 1960s. Oh, the 60s were huge for
him. Yeah. This is when he becomes the secret
weapon for Prestige Records, completely under
the guise of his most prominent alias, Belton
Evans. Yes. His era at Prestige is phenomenal.
As Belton Evans, he foams this incredibly tight
rhythm section partnership, accompanied constantly
on bass by Leonard Gaskin. And the roster of
blues giants they backed as a duo is just staggering.
It really is. I mean, he is laying down the rhythm
for Curtis Jones on the album Trouble Blues.
He's with Sunnyland Slim on Slim's Shout. He's
backing Sonny Terry on two separate albums, Sonny's
Story and Sonny is King. The list just goes on.
He's playing with Big John Greer, Laverne Baker,
King Curtis. And then in 1960 alone, he plays
on Lightnin' Hopkins' album, Lightnin' and Roosevelt
Sykes, The Honeydripper. I mean, it's a definitive
who's who of mid -century blues. Truly. But again,
we need to think about the immense technical
and emotional adaptability required to pull that
off. You are the Rysmic Foundation, but every
one of those bluesmen requires a totally different
kind of architecture from you. Give me an example.
Well, Sunnyland Slim plays a very specific, driving,
heavy -handed Chicago blues style. It demands
a propulsive, relentless backbeat. Okay, but
Lightning Hopkins is the exact opposite of that.
His Texas country blues is notorious for its
loose, unpredictable timing. Like you can't just
set a metronome to a 4 -4 beat and expect Lightning
Hopkins to follow you. Not at all. Solo bluesmen
like Hopkins, they often add or drop entire measures
based purely on their vocal phrasing. Just whenever
they feel like it. Pretty much. If he feels like
holding a note for an extra three beats because
the emotion of the lyric demands it, he just
holds it. As the drummer, you have to be telepathic.
You have to anticipate where he is going to drop
a beat before he even does it. Man. Playing behind
lightening Hopkins isn't like laying bricks on
a grid. It's more like trying to tether a hot
air balloon. Oh, I like that. The timing is erratic.
The wind is constantly shifting. And as the rhythm
section, you aren't laying down a rigid path.
You're constantly adjusting the slack so the
balloon doesn't fly away or crash into the ground.
That is a brilliant way to conceptualize it.
It requires an entirely ego -less approach to
the instrument. Because you can't show off. Exactly.
You aren't there to play flashy drum fills. You
are there to serve the specific, shifting, emotional
core of whoever is sitting in the room with you.
It makes me think of the Evans and Gaskin rhythm
section. A reliable duo of character actors in
movies. Oh, yeah, the, hey, it's that guy actors.
Yes. You know the exact type. The supporting
actors who show up in 100 different films. They
do all the heavy lifting in a scene. They set
the tone. They provide the crucial reaction shots.
They make the A -list star look absolutely incredible.
But they never steal the spotlight. Exactly.
They never, ever pull focus away from the lead.
You don't walk out of the theater talking about
the character actor. But the entire movie would
fall apart without them. They provide the structural
integrity for the stars to shine. And in the
blues world of the early 60s, Evans and Gaskin
were the ultimate character actors. OK, now,
if you are listening to this, you might logically
think, all right, Sticks Evans or Belton Evans,
he found his definitive lane. He was a blues
traditionalist who spent the 60s mastering deep
traditional roots music. That would make sense.
But here is the massive twist. At the exact same
time he is tethering the hot air balloon for
Leighton Hopkins, he is secretly building a resume
in entirely different, radically groundbreaking
genres. Yeah, the genre hopping we see in his
1960s discography is frankly mind -boggling.
It completely shatters any notion of him being
confined to one style. So here's where it gets
really interesting. Let's look at the avant -garde
and jazz side of his work. Okay, let's do it.
In 1961, the very same era he's playing deep
blues, he appears on John Lewis' album Jazz Abstractions.
Mm -hmm. And the personnel on this record is
insane. It's unbelievable. He's playing alongside
Bill Evans, Garrick Dolphy, Ornette Coleman and
Jim Hall. Like, this isn't standard swing and
jazz. This is the bleeding edge of experimental
third stream music. Absolutely. And he doesn't
stop there. He plays on Ornette Coleman's album
Beauty is a Rare Thing, also in 1961. Wow. And
prior to that, in 1960, he was on Charles Mingus's
album Pre -Bird, which Mingus later re -released
as Mingus Revisited. Mingus and Coleman are the
architects of incredibly complex, barrier -breaking,
free -form jazz. But wait, the whiplash continues.
Look at the soul. pop and R &B side of his discography.
It just keeps going. In 1961, the exact same
year he's playing avant -garde free jazz with
Hornet Coleman, he is a member of the Ray Bryant
combo, backing the Queen of Soul, Aretha Franklin,
on her second album, Aretha. with the Ray Brant
Comp. That's just wild. He's also the drummer
on Sam Cooke at the Kurpa in 1964. He played
with Mickey Baker on the Wildest Guitar in 1959
and Bud Johnson's Ya Ya in 1964. Number one that
really breaks my brain, honestly, Neil Sedaka.
Oh yeah, Neil Sedaka. 6 Evans played on Rock
with Sedaka in 1959. Neil Sedaka is pure, pristine,
commercially polished, drill building pat music.
So I just have to ask you, how does a single
drummer's brain physically and mentally switch
from the rigid, commercially perfect pop structure
of Neil Sadaka to the wildly free, abstract,
avant -garde jazz of Ornette Coleman? It's a
great question, and if we connect this to the
bigger picture, Sticks Evans proves that the
neat, isolated genre categorizations we force
on musicians today are largely a modern invention.
What do you mean by that? Well, today, algorithms
dictate our listening right. They put up walls
and say, you are a jazz listener or you are a
pop artist. But Evans proves that in the mid
20th century, the borders between pristine pop,
early rock, traditional blues, and highly experimental
jazz were incredibly porous. Porous borders.
Like, the walls between genres were paper thin,
and guys like Evans were just walking freely
between the rooms. Exactly. And to answer your
question about how his brain switches, it's about
viewing rhythm not as a rigid set of rules, but
as a fluid spectrum. OK, a spectrum. Yeah. So
when he steps into the studio with Neil Sadaka,
he understands his job is basically architectural
drafting. The song needs a relentless, metronomic
pulse that teenagers can intuitively understand
and dance to. Keep it simple, keep it driving,
and just do not deviate from the blueprint. Right.
But when he steps into a room with Ornette Coleman
for Beauty is a rare thing, the blueprint is
intentionally set on fire. He's no longer an
architect. He's an abstract expressionist painter.
The tempo in free jazz is often implied rather
than overtly stated. He has to listen deeply
to the chaotic, brilliant lines Eric Dolfi and
Ornette Coleman are playing and respond in real
time with textures. Like splashes and accents.
Exactly. With abstract splashes of symbols with
unpredictable accents that provoke the soloists.
It's a completely different neurological exercise.
It is. The fact that he was trusting by both
the commercial hit makers producing Neil Sadekka
and a genius like Charles Mingus and Mingus was
a man notoriously demanding and volatile with
his musicians, by the way. Oh, I've heard the
stories, yeah. Right, so to be trusted by both
shows an almost supernatural level of musical
empathy. Supernatural musical empathy, I love
that. He could walk into any room, instantly
read the... emotional and structural requirements
of the universe that Ruhm existed in and just
become exactly what the music needed him to be.
And by doing so, you know, he didn't just passively
participate in these different genres. He actively
shaped the foundational recordings that defined
them from the sophisticated energy of the Copa
with Sam Cooke to the dense, demanding studio
sessions with Mingus. It's the ultimate evidence
of an artist who flatly refused to be boxed in.
Now, all of this accumulated knowledge. this
unparalleled ability to understand the physics
of every conceivable genre, it did not just stay
trapped on the vinyl records he played on, did
it? No, it didn't. It flowed directly into his
role, completely off the stage. Oh yes. If we
look back at the very beginning of his professional
description, we are reminded that he wasn't just
a player, he was a music teacher. And the specific
pupils mentioned in his orbit are fascinating.
They really are. The text specifically highlights
three prominent musicians he taught, Bernard
Purdy, Max Newhouse, and Terry Burrus. Now, without
going down the rabbit hole of their entire separate
biographies, the mere fact that these highly
influential names are listed under his tutelage
speaks volumes about what he was passing down.
It does. And this is really where we find the
why it matters aspect of Sticks Evans' life.
The mark of a true master isn't solely found
in the discography they leave behind. The records
are beautiful, sure, but they are ultimately
a snapshot frozen in time. The true mark of mastery
is in the knowledge passed down to the next generation.
It's the ripple effect of all that cross -genre
playing. Exactly. By teaching musicians like
Purdy, Newhouse, and Burruss, Evans's legacy
becomes exponential. He took the rigid ensemble
discipline he learned in the Milt Buckner Orchestra,
the deep telepathic listening he honed while
tethering lightening Hopkins, the abstract textures
with Hornet Coleman, yes, and the metronomic
precision he needed for Neil Sadaka. And he handed
that entire massive toolkit to the next generation
of players. So what does this all mean when we
look at this seemingly simple page of alias is
dates and album titles, what is the ultimate
takeaway for you listening right now? To synthesize
everything we've uncovered, Samuel Sticks Evans
left behind a recorded legacy from 1959 to 1971
that reads less like a single session man's resume
and more like a definitive encyclopedia of 20th
century music. In a single decade, he touched
the very foundational pillars of rock, traditional
blues, soul, pop, and avant -garde jazz. He was
the invisible architecture holding up some of
the most important cultural recordings of the
era. It fundamentally reframes how you look at
music history. Like the next time you are flipping
through the liner notes of your favorite old
records or, I suppose, clicking through the production
credits on your streaming app, remember what
we explored today. Yeah, look past the main artist.
Exactly. You aren't just looking at the famous
star on the cover. You should be looking for
that hidden, interconnected network of highly
adaptable, working class heroes like Stix Evans,
the character actors of the rhythm section who,
quietly, brilliantly, and under a half dozen
different names, held the music together. They
are the musicians who truly built the sound of
the century, even if they had to hide their real
names to do it. They absolutely are. But before
we wrap up this deep dive, there is one final
lingering mystery hidden right there in the dates
of his life. Oh, right. The timeline. Yeah, provocative
thought I want to leave you with. If you look
closely at his recorded discography, it is absolutely
packed from 1959 all the way through the 1960s.
But then it abruptly stops in 1971. Just completely
halts. The final entry listed is an album called
Gospel Now by Marianne Williams. Right, 1971
is where the trail of records goes completely
cold. But the very first thing we established
was that Stix Evans lived and remained active
in the industry until he passed away from a stroke
in 1994. Yeah. That is a massive 23 -year gap.
So what was this master musical chameleon doing
for those final two decades of his life? It's
a huge question because from 1971 and 1994 the
entire music industry experiences seismic technological
transformation I mean we went through the birth
of disco the explosion of punk the rise of hip
-hop and most importantly for a drummer the digital
revolution the drum machines arrived exactly
did the relentless rise of the programmable drum
machine and synthesized bass in the 70s and 80s
finally create a landscape that even the ultimate
Session Chameleon couldn't blend his way into.
It's possible. Or... Did he simply decide that
after mastering every analog genre on Earth,
his time was just better spent quietly teaching
the next generation how to navigate the new world?
Wow. It's something to mull over the next time
you put on a record and listen to the pulse underneath
the melody. A brilliant question to leave on.
The invisible architecture never really disappears.
You know, it just changes form. It really does.
Until next time, keep looking for those hidden
connections.