Friday, July 31, 2015

Gerry Mulligan - "A Writer's Credo"

© -  Steven A. Cerra, copyright protected; all rights reserved.

“Mulligan has been closely involved in the entire history of modern jazz orchestration, and younger fans, who know him primarily as a baritone saxophonist, are unaware of it. Yet it was as a writer that he gained his broadest early acceptance, and some of the arrangements he wrote for Gene Krupa— and an original for Stan Kenton called Young Blood —  are well-remembered classics.”
- Gene Lees, Jazz author, critic and producer of the JazzLetter

"Chet was one of the best intuitive musicians I've ever seen. We used to get some remarkable things going. I remember one night at the Haig in Los Angeles, nobody called a tune all evening. As a tune ended, someone would noodle with another melody, and we would all go into the same thing. We'd play for an hour and a half that way, take a break, and go on and do it again. It never let up. It was one of the most exciting evenings of playing I can remember."
- Gerry Mulligan, baritone saxophonist, composer-arranger, bandleader

"Then, too, to be honest, I find writing very frustrating. I'm a slow writer, because I'm trying always to think what it will feel like to play it in various situations. There's too much in jazz writing that doesn't move well. They haven't learned from the simplifying that we did with that nine-piece band with Miles, when we got it down to the fewest necessary elements.”
- Gerry Mulligan, baritone saxophonist, composer-arranger, bandleader

"What I came back to is that jazz is a music to be played and not to be intellectualized on.”
- Gerry Mulligan, baritone saxophonist, composer-arranger, bandleader

Who can foretell the future?

When Gene Lees wrote the following about Gerry’s lack of composing and arranging, primarily for larger groups, who could know that Gerry had another thirty-three years ahead of him and would spend most of the decades of the 1970s and 1980s writing for various configurations of his “new” Concert Jazz Bands.

Yet, its great to look back to gauge where things were in the Jazz World and Jeru’s World fifty years ago and to add this piece to the growing JazzProfiles Mulligan Bibliographic Holdings.

down beat
January 17, 1963
Gene Lees

'”Why aren’t you writing more?" a friend asked Gerry Mulligan recently.

A rising young arranger said, "I learned a lot from Gerry. He's such a fine arranger. I wish he'd write more these days."

Another friend buttonholed Mulligan to say, "The only criticism I've ever had of your big band is that there aren't more of your charts in the book."

To all of which Mulligan grins and says, "I feel like asking all of them, Why don't you write something for me?' "

The fact remains that one of the best and most influential of modern arrangers writes remarkably few jazz arrangements nowadays. He does produce spontaneous ones with his quartet, which he plays with as much warmth and amiability as he ever did. But the big-band arranging of which he is one of the leading exponents isn't coming from his pen in any quantity these days.

Mulligan has been closely involved in the entire history of modern jazz orchestration, and younger fans, who know him primarily as a baritone saxophonist, are unaware of it. Yet it was as a writer that he gained his broadest early acceptance, and some of the arrangements he wrote for Gene Krupa— and an original for Stan Kenton called Young Blood —  are well-remembered classics.

In the 1940s, Mulligan was writing for the Claude Thornhill Band. The band's chief arranger was Gil Evans. Mulligan and Evans agree that Thornhill never has been given his due as an influence in the evolution of modern jazz writing. It was Thornhill’s instrumentation (the use of French horns was among his innovations) that led to the development of Evans' early style.

In 1949 Evans and Mulligan had an idea for an experimental band. Pooling efforts and resources with other searchers, including John Lewis and Miles Davis, they organized a group. When Davis arranged for jobs and recordings, he became leader.

"We kicked the ideas around all that winter," Mulligan said. "We were looking for the smallest ensemble to give the writers the maximum possibilities. We got it down to six men and the rhythm section. You couldn't write for the sections — sax section, trumpet section, trombone section —  because there were no sections."

The influence of the Evans-Mulligan-Davis nine-piece band is well known. It played few public engagements, though it made some appearances at the old Royal Roost in New York City. But it did make a series of single records for Capitol, launching the era of so-called cool jazz and shaking up jazz arrangers rather considerably.

Lewis went on to the Modern Jazz Quartet and Third Stream-ism. Evans and Davis were to part company for a few years, to join talents again in the mid-1950s to produce a now-famous series of trumpet-and-orchestra albums for Columbia. And Mulligan went on to form a series of groups, including a sextet and a big band and several editions of a quartet, the latest revision of which includes Mulligan on baritone and occasionally piano; Bob Brookmeyer on trombone and, also occasionally, piano; Bill Crow, bass; and Gus Johnson, drums.

Mulligan remembers with particular affection the version of the quartet that included Chet Baker on trumpet.

"Chet was one of the best intuitive musicians I've ever seen," Mulligan said. "We used to get some remarkable things going. I remember one night at the Haig in Los Angeles, nobody called a tune all evening. As a tune ended, someone would noodle with another melody, and we would all go into the same thing. We'd play for an hour and a half that way, take a break, and go on and do it again. It never let up. It was one of the most exciting evenings of playing I can remember."

Like Gil Evans, Mulligan has debts as an orchestrator to Duke Ellington.
There are, basically, two ways to orchestrate for the large jazz orchestra: the Don Redman-Fletcher Henderson way, which involves voicing saxes with saxes, trumpets with trumpets, trombones with trombones, in blocks; and the Ellington way, which, while recognizing the existence of the sections, doesn't hesitate to voice across the section lines — for example, a trumpet, a clarinet, and bass clarinet in trio in front of the rest of the band.

Evans' approach to the orchestra, while the end result sounds vastly different, is technically similar to Ellington's. So, very often, is Mulligan's.

Mulligan has been writing for big bands since he was 15, which means that although he is only 35, he's had 20 years' experience at it. Besides Thornhill and Krupa, he wrote for the Elliot Lawrence Band and several other groups. His own Tentet records for Capitol, which came after the Miles Davis nine-piece sides, still stand as some of the most delightful writing in jazz.

Why, then, has this long stream of impressive writing stopped — or at least slowed?

"I don't know why I'm not writing, really," Mulligan said during a reflective evening in New York, where he lives. "There are so many reasons that there's no one.

"My approach to the thing was always to simplify rather than to complicate. I've concentrated on the small band lately, but I've used my arranging ability not in written orchestrations but in making spontaneous arrangements and un-writing things we worked out. The main point has been to be able to change our arrangements to suit our whim. This is true of all the groups I've had.

"If I haven't written much for the big band, I've always tried to be clear about what I wanted the writing to be like. I made my taste the criterion in my approach to the band, and usually if I made myself explicit to the arrangers, they were happier, because they knew the restrictions within which they could work.

"But I wanted to keep freedom in it too — to permit the guys to improvise patterns, riffs, and the like, in ensemble behind the soloists. Bob Brookmeyer would wisecrack, 'We're having a rehearsal. Bring your erasers.'"

Mulligan said he spends most his time erasing things. He quotes Dizzy Gillespie as once saying, "It's not what you put in — it's what you leave out." Mulligan said he feels that's very frequently the case—and he would like what is going on in jazz writing better these days if "more guys understood that."

"Whereas everyone's been after me to write," he said, "I've been happy to let it rest. For one thing, I don't have the drive I had when I was experimenting, because I'm no longer experimenting — I know what I want.

"Then, too, to be honest, I find writing very frustrating. I'm a slow writer, because I'm trying always to think what it will feel like to play it in various situations. There's too much in jazz writing that doesn't move well. They haven't learned from the simplifying that we did with that nine-piece band with Miles, when we got it down to the fewest necessary elements.

"They seem to be reverting to writing by section. We should consider the dance-jazz ensemble as an orchestra to write for, not as three sections. But the guys today are writing more vertically than we were doing in the late '40s and early '50s.

"Mind you, it often sounds simpler. But that's because more groups of studio men can make things swing today than the guys would have been able to do 15 years ago."

Did this mean that the level of musicianship today is higher than it was then?
"I suppose," Mulligan said . . . and then added: "No. Let's say that the developments in jazz since that time have demanded more technical fluency. Musicianship is something more than fluency."

Mulligan paused at this point. The location was a musicians' hangout on 48th St. He ordered a beer and then asked the waiter what was on the menu. Hearing, he made a wry face. "I don't like food that much," he said.

"That's why you're so skinny," a musician cracked.

Mulligan's huge Irish grin flashed on, and he said "Yeah? A lot of my fat friends wish they disliked food as much as I do." Finally, though, he ordered and returned to the subject of jazz writing.

"This business of looking for new forms is asinine," he said. "The forms are there. They've got to be used. The problem I ran into, and I suppose all the other guys ran into, was that we tried to expand and disguise the existing forms and find new ones.

"What I came back to is that jazz is a music to be played and not to be intellectualized on.

"We're back to the same forms. With the quartet, we've got to a point where the arrangements are as simple as possible. The function of the arranger is to set up a framework for the players to express themselves — and not only the soloists but the whole ensemble. This is applicable to the big band as well. That's why there are those improvised ensemble passages. I want things to arise as naturally as possible.

"I saw the direction we were all going — getting involved in classical techniques. I find it difficult to concern myself with watered-down versions of what classical composers did 50 years ago.

"From time to time you hear in classical music an idea you can make use of. But just to start using it, to throw it into the music, is no good. You must go through a period of initiation with it, then figure out how to use it."

He said it would be nice to have an experimental orchestra but that he found out the only way he could have one was to pay for it himself.

"It's not enough to write it — it's got to be played and heard," he said. "That's experimentation, and I don't believe that experimental things are meant to be heard by the public. They're for the composers themselves to hear. I don't want everything I write to be heard. I wrote and rehearsed a number of things for the big band that I still haven't used. We should all be not only professionals but also perpetual amateurs."

A classical composer to whose influence Mulligan submitted himself was Paul Hindemith. Yet this was a case of absorption: Mulligan took from Hindemith precisely what he wanted. He explained:

"When I was writing for Gene Krupa and other big bands in the 1940s, I became involved with the problem of naming some of the chords I was writing. And then I came across the Hindemith technical books, not all of which I had the equipment to understand.

"He was criticizing the formal theories of harmony. They make up rules of harmony that are so loaded with exceptions that the rules don't mean anything. Traditional harmony says that a fourth isn't a chord. And that's ridiculous. It is. Hindemith showed that going up the overtone series you cover everything. I was delighted to see this. I voiced chords in fourths—chords for which there was no name, but which implied the sound of some chord for which there was a name.

"A-D-G-C sounds like a C-chord, but it's not. A C-chord is E-G-C. Through that period, when I was reading the Hindemith books, I learned the lack of importance of naming chords."

A musician whose work Mulligan has lately found stimulating and interesting is Ornette Coleman. At first, he said, he was repelled by Coleman's playing.
"But as soon as I forgot about the mechanics of music as I know them, I was very excited by it," he said.

"Ornette is a very talented writer. He writes very clever and nicely constructed pieces for his group. As a matter of fact, I asked him to write a thing for my quartet, which we unfortunately never could play.

"I'm well aware of the pitfalls of extreme freedom in improvisation. Guys can become just as repetitious in their choruses as when they have restrictions.
"In a group, you have to work inside the limitations of the members, and we all have limitations. We tried to play Ornette's piece, but there were too many tempo changes and key changes. So I can't say we gave it a fair try.

"But, on the other hand, I can't say he wrote a piece for my group."

FOR ALL THAT Mulligan may not be actively writing arrangements now, it seems likely that he will resume doing so for his big band. He had planned to take the band out again this spring but has decided to work out the season with the quartet. He has changed booking agencies, and the bookings in the field he wants to work in — the colleges and small campuses — are starting to roll in. The forthcoming tour appeals to him, he said, especially since there's a tour of Japan in the works at the end of it.

"The big band is far from being ancient history," he added. "We have an unreleased album in the can with Verve, and I'm toying with the idea of taking the band out this fall.

"By the way, while we're on the subject, there's a matter I'd like to get straightened out. Martin Williams said in a record review in Down Beat something to the effect that the big band was a financial failure. That is not so. "The band did not lose money. At a time when one bandleader went $60,000 in debt . . . it's quite remarkable that my band didn't lose money. I don't owe a dime because of it, and the arrangements are all paid for when I want to take it out again. But the reasoning seemed to run: I disbanded, didn't I? Why else would I disband?

"I thought by now I'd established a pattern that the critics would understand. My bands last two years, more or less, and then I take time off to digest what I've been doing. Each band is another experience. I may put the same group back together as I've done lately with the quartet, but I like to take those periods off. I've been doing that for 10 years, and as many times as I've said publicly that this is what I do, no one ever seems to believe it.

"You know, there can be a philosophy of bandleading, as there can be a philosophy of anything. But you're accused of being pretentious and conceited if you state a philosophy.

"I've learned from many things. As you know, I did a few acting roles in films, and I learned a great deal from them — from seeing a whole put together.

"But I'm not an actor, and I don't want to be one." This brought him to a peeve:
"It seems that in this country, you're expected to be a specialist. People get used to you in a certain role in life, and they don't like you to step out of it. In other countries, particularly the Latin countries, it doesn't surprise anyone when a man is an attorney and a jazz musician, or a playwright and a painter. People in this country seem to find it hard to understand that a man can have a deep and abiding interest in one art and a lesser, but still real, interest in another."

One of his greatest current pleasures is writing songs to lyrics by actress Judy Holliday for a Broadway show.

"Who knows what I'll eventually be able to do because of this broadening of experience? When, for example, we're doing something with the quartet on television, it helps to understand the production problems and the nature of the work of the people you're dealing with. Some day I’d like to produce such things, not just play in them."

For the moment, though, it's the quartet and probably the big band in the fall. "And I'll probably get around to doing some writing."”

The following video features the Concert Jazz Band performing Gerry’s Bweebida Bobbida as set to the almost anthropomorphic animal photograph of Mark Laita.

Thursday, July 30, 2015

Scott Hamilton With Strings

© -  Steven A. Cerra, copyright protected; all rights reserved.

“... With strings” recordings can be tricky for Jazz musicians. Some of the Jazz greats - Charlie Parker, Clifford Brown and Chet Baker to name a few - have made the “With Strings” form almost immortal. Bird, Brownie and Chettie have pretty much set the bar very high for any other Jazz artist’s attempt at a “With Strings recording.

For the mere mortal who is your basic, everyday Jazz musician, playing with strings can be very intimidating, restrictive and down-right upsetting.

It seems that three things are almost prerequisite to a successful “with strings” recording: [1] the Jazz musician’s tone must be beautiful so as to blend in with the softer sound of strings, [2] the arrangements must be done by someone who knows how to voice for strings, especially how to make them sound fuller, [3] and the strings themselves must be trained to phrase in a looser, dotted eighth note style that is common to Jazz and not employ the stricter on-the-beat style of phrasing which is often heard in Classical music.

Tenor saxophonist Scott Hamilton has a tone on tenor saxophone that is so fulsome, bright and unfussy that the collection of Great American Songbook and Jazz standards which make-up his Scott Hamilton With Strings Arranged and Conducted by Alan Broadbent CD [Concord CCD 4538] is just the sort of material which allows him to show off his strengths: harmonic subtlety at slow tempos, delicate, almost seamless transitions between ideas, and an ability to invest a simple, familiar melody with maximum expression.

Alan Broadbent may be the best things for string arrangements since Robert Farnon, the recognized master of voicing for strings, came along. And the twenty violins, violas, and cello on the date phrase, accent and accompany in the Jazz-trained manner of the string sections that make up the Netherlands Concert Jazz Band, The Jazz Orchestra of the Concertgebouw and The Metropole Orchestra under the direction of Dutch Masters such as Henk Meutgeert, Rob Pronk, and Lex Jaspers.

Richard Cook and Brian Morton in their Penguin Guide to Jazz on CD 6th Ed., shared these observations about Scott:

“Born and raised in Providence, Rhode Island, Scott Hamilton has helped redefine mainstream jazz for two decades. To say that he plays like Ben Webster or Don Byas is to miss the point, for Hamilton has always been more resolutely contemporary than conservative.

He doesn't double on soprano, bass clarinet or flute. He probably doesn't know what multiphonics are. He has never been described as 'angular', and if he was ever 'influenced by Coltrane' it certainly never extended to his saxophone playing. And yet Scott Hamilton is the real thing, a tenor player of the old school who was born only after most of the old school were dead or drawing bus-passes. His wuffly delivery and clear-edged tone are definitive of mainstream jazz, and the affection in which Hamilton is held on both sides of the Atlantic is not hard to understand. And yet what he does is utterly original and un-slavish, not in thrall to anyone.

Concord boss, the late Carl Jefferson, remembers Hamilton turning up for his first session for the label, looking 'like a character in Scott Fitzgerald', with a fifth of gin tucked into his jacket, and playing, as it turned out, like a veteran of the first Jazz Age, a style which drew on Coleman Hawkins, Chu Berry, Lester Young, Don Byas and Zoot Sims, resolutely unfashionable in 1977 but completely authentic and unfeigned.”

And here are Peter Straub’s insightful insert notes to  Scott Hamilton With Strings Arranged and Conducted by Alan Broadbent CD [Concord CCD 4538].

“Two days before he made this recording, Scott Hamilton was sounding uncharacteristically anxious on the telephone - he was explaining various things he had to do, none of them any more stressful than picking up his laundry or deciding what kind of portable CD player he wanted to buy. "And then," he said, getting to the heart of the matter, "I have to go to Hollywood and face twenty strings." Said that way, it sounded more like an appointment with a firing squad than the fulfillment of a desire he'd had for years.

I guess it's axiomatic that virtually all great jazz musicians, especially horn players, yearn to make string albums. Ever since Charlie Parker's Just Friends magisterially redefined the notion of what sort of background suited a jazz soloist, string albums have appeared by Cannonball Adderley, Zoot Sims, Stan Getz (three times), Ben Webster (three times), Clifford Brown, Johnny Hodges, Warren Vache, Phil Woods, and Paul Desmond, among others. All of these are very good, and some of them are great. Scott wanted to make an album that would stand up to the best of these, and he wanted to do it the right way, by choosing some of his favorite ballads and playing them live in the studio with the string players, with no overdubs or laid-in tracks. When Carl Jefferson invited him to Hollywood for the fifth and sixth of October, 1992, Scott must have felt like a gifted and popular young RSC actor who learns that he's getting the lead in Hamlet.

There would have been an additional reason for pre-performance jitters. All jazz involves an intense degree of collaboration, but in albums with strings the soloist's collaborator is not his actual sidemen, the men and women staring at their music stands and wielding their bows, but the arranger. Scott had decided tastes in arrangers, and Carl Jefferson had paired him with someone he knew chiefly as a piano player. I don't think Scott knew what to expect when he walked into the studio and met Alan Broadbent in front of all those violinists. But I bet that two or three minutes into their first take, he was leaning backwards with his eyes closed, playing magnificently, both reassured and inspired by the amazing sounds coming from the orchestra. Scott is a very quick study, and it wouldn't have taken him any longer than a chorus or two to understand that Alan Broadbent had given him some of the most beautiful arrangements ever to appear on any soloist-with-strings recording.

When Scott got back to New York, I asked him how things had gone. Normally, Scott responds to dumb questions like this with a noncommittal evasion like "I suppose it was okay." This time, he was euphoric - he had loved the date. He was full of praise for the depth and originality of Alan Broadbent's arrangements, and it was clear that he was still hearing them in his head.

Now we can all hear what came to Scott Hamilton through his headphones, and listen to the way he responded to it. Throughout this recording, Scott Hamilton plays at the absolute top of his form. He says that the best thing on the album is Broadbent's arrangement of the verse to Young and Foolish, but I want to point out the eloquent authority with which he delivers the melody of every song here and the intensity of his soloing, especially on Goodbye Mr. Evans, The Look of Love, The Shining Sea, and Young and Foolish. He plays these melodies as freshly as if they'd never been played before, renewing their luxurious romanticism, tender regret, and sorrow by singing them with the flawless intelligence and grace of Nat Cole or Frank Sinatra; and then, as Broadbent's strings dart and hover, burnishing a chord before blissfully expanding it, touching the melody and swooping away from it, Scott Hamilton instinctively executes the essential miracle of jazz music by moving inside the song and cracking it open to let us know what it would say if it were given the power magically to recreate itself as passionately and expressively as possible.

Scott says that Alan Broadbent's writing gets even better the more he hears it, and anyone who buys this recording will discover that the same is true for his own part in it. Scott Hamilton With Strings represents a kind of perfection, and I can't imagine anyone ever making a better record of this kind.”

You can hear Scott with Alan broadbent string arrangement of My Foolish Heart on the following video.

Tuesday, July 28, 2015

Lucas van Merwijk - Cubop City Big Band - Que Sensación! Revisited

© -Steven A. Cerra, copyright protected; all rights reserved.

I am revisiting this piece in order to add the video tribute to Arsenio Rodriquez that opens it and to re-size the videos below so that they will fit more comfortably into this new blog format.

Lucas continues to grow and develop as one of the major musical talent of our generation and one of the busiest. One visit to the activities, recordings and concert appearances listed on his website will tell you why.

© -Steven A. Cerra, copyright protected; all rights reserved.

Lucas van Merwijk is one of the great drummers of our time.

He lays down so much good stuff that even the eyes of a trained drummer can't catch it all [thank goodness for the ears, too!].

And he makes it all look so easy.

Lucas is based in Amsterdam, although he travels all over the world as a principal in a number of percussion-oriented groups.  You can locate more information about Lucas' background, his current group affiliations and his recordings by visiting his website.

Lucas' main passion is Latin Jazz; he's a real afficianado when it comes to the many percussion rhythms and elements associated with this music.

Under his leadership, the Cubop City Big Band [CCBB], which is partially supported by an ethnic music grant made possible through the people of The Netherlands, has developed a reputation for performing authentic and excellent quality Latin Jazz.

Therefore, whenever the CCBB puts out a new CD, in this case -  Que Sensación! - it is considered to be "an event" by those who follow the music.

Fortunately, for fans of the Cubop City Big Band, there are also first-rate videos of the band performing two tracks from the new CD that were made from the Dutch public broadcaster VPRO's "Free Sounds" [vrije geluiden] television program.

The first of these has the band performing the title track: Que Sensación! The arrangement is by pianist Marc Bischoff.

The audio track on the next video is also a Marc Bischoff arrangement and is entitled A Puerto Padre.  See if you can pick up on what Lucas is laying down beginning at 4:54 minutes - it's a shame that we can't see his feet in action, too.  By the way, Lucas is holding his drum sticks in the "matched hands" position.

Earlier we featured the best in Latin Jazz by the Nettai Tropical Jazz Big Band based in Tokyo, Japan!

And now we follow with a Latin Jazz profile of a band led by a drummer based in Holland!!

The world is becoming such a cosmopolitan place.

Rest assured, wherever the best in Jazz is happening, we'll bring it too you here on JazzProfiles or should we say - JazzProfielens?

Monday, July 27, 2015

Gerry Mulligan - After: Second of Two Articles by Leonard Feather

© -  Steven A. Cerra, copyright protected; all rights reserved.

"Gerry has a missionary's zeal. He equates jazzmen with the left bank writers in Paris in the 1920s. He goes about things so fiercely that sometimes he may antagonize the very people he's trying to win over. But what's most important of all to him is to be a great jazzman and a great leader. Like Eisenhower, he's a great general who'd have made a very poor sergeant."
- Marshall Brown, leader of the Newport Jazz Festival youth jazz band.

"It was St. Patrick's day. A jazz fan who happened to stop in at a bar near Yankee Stadium glanced idly at the jukebox. This was a typical Irish bar— nothing on the piccolo but songs of old Erin, plenty of Bing Crosby's Irish efforts and, of course, the customary quota of Carmel Quinn. But the box was not 100 percent square: nestled like a jewel in one slot was a card announcing a side by Gerry Mulligan.

That Mulligan today is at a zenith of esteem, among both Irish and non-Irish from Hollywood to Helsinki, is a source of astonishment to many of those who observed his arrival in Los Angeles in the summer of 1951, when his fortunes were at their nadir.

Mulligan's first Hollywood job of any consequence was an assignment to write some arrangements for Stan Kenton. Though the music he wrote (10 charts in all) was not quite startlingly colorful enough to elicit the unbounded enthusiasm of Kenton himself, many musicians both in and out of the band felt that the Mulligan contributions were among the swingingest pieces ever inserted in the Kenton books. Some of them were used only as throwaways on dance dates. But Stan did record two of Gerry's originals, Swing House and Young Blood, and continued to play the latter frequently long after Mulligan stopped writing for the band.

During the Kenton period, Mulligan became friendly with a young man named Richard Bock, then a student at Los Angeles City college with a side job doing publicity and organizing Monday night sessions at the Haig. One day, at the Laurel Canyon home of his friend Phil Turetsky, Bock produced some tapes with Mulligan, and without a piano. It had not been scheduled as a pianoless session. "Jimmy Rowles was supposed to be there," Bock related, "but couldn't make it at the last moment. So we did it with just Gerry, Red Mitchell, and Chico Hamilton." This was in July of 1952, and the records were never released.

Soon afterwards, Bock began to use Mulligan on the Monday nights at the Haig. Only a couple of these gigs had taken place when, said Bock, "one afternoon in September we went up to Phil's home again — he had some fine sound equipment — and made Bernie's Tune and Lullaby of the Leaves, with Gerry and Chet (Baker) and Chico (Hamilton) and Bob Whitlock. This started the Pacific Jazz label, with a single 78 disc. Later, we went into the Gold Star studios on Santa Monica Blvd. and did the other tunes for the first 10-incher, LP-1. This was how the company got started."

By year's end, the LP had been released, lines were forming all around the block at the Haig, and the Gerry Mulligan Quartet was put to work on a full-week basis. Before long, Gerry had reached what is usually the vital point in any artist's career: people needed him more than he needed them.

Soon after success struck, Gerry eloped to Mexico with a young former college-mate of Bock. The marriage was short-lived, and after an annulment, Gerry married Arlyne Brown, whose father was one of the celebrated Tin Pan Alley team of De Sylva, Brown, and Henderson. A son, Reed Brown Mulligan, was born in 1957; Gerry and Arlyne were divorced last year.

During the first half of 1953, Gerry and Chet had a partnership that seemed as historic, in its way, as Venuti and Lang in the 1920s, Tommy and Jimmy in the '30s, and Diz and Bird in the '40s. "Gerry's musical communion with Chet was a fantastic and beautiful things," said a girl who knew them well. "But as a person, Gerry wanted Chet to be so much more sensitive than he was capable of being. Chet was so different as a musician and a person — a real juvenile-delinquent, hot-rod kid in his attitudes."

"The group really came off until Gerry and Chet started hating each other," Chico Hamilton said. "They'd come on the stand and Gerry would face one way and Chet another. A couple of times I had to pull them apart."

The breakup that resulted was inevitable. But, though it seemed to augur disaster, Mulligan turned it to advantage: during Christmas week of 1953 he organized a new quartet featuring the valve trombone of Bob Brookmeyer instead of trumpet.

This group represented the second of six major phases in Gerry's career as a leading jazz figure. The third was a sextet he led in 1955-56, with Zoot Sims, Brookmeyer, and Jon Eardley or Don Ferrara; the fourth was the 1958-59 quartet with Art Farmer; the fifth was a period of movie-making, during most of 1959, when he had no organized group, and the sixth began a few weeks ago when he formed a 13-piece band in New York.

"Each of my groups has had an entirely different sound, and an entirely different effect on me," Gerry said recently. "It's misleading to talk about 'the quartet' as if there'd been only one. And the sextet was completely different again — there we had the first leanings toward a big band sound, a more concerted thing, getting away from the strictly spontaneous counterpoint." How, he was asked, did he feel about the use of the pianoless format by so many other groups since his?

"I don't think there have been that many, have there? But if there have, that must mean that it's practical, that it works well. However, the way the music is written must have a concerted enough sound to cancel out the need for a piano. It won't work if everybody is just playing long solos all in a row. For instance, there's one group that dispensed with the piano — Max Roach's  — that I thought was doing something musically incomplete. They would play the same number of solos that they'd have used if there had been a piano, and the fellows didn't alter their style. When you play without a piano it does require a different approach. With Max' group, it was a big test for my ears just to be able to follow the soloists through 10 or 12 choruses. It was a noble experiment, though, and I must say that the way Max plays has a concerted enough sound in itself to give the others a very melodic style of accompaniment. But the soloists have to be up to this challenge; you've got to establish some kind of chordal progression, you can't just skate over the rhythm section as you can when the piano is there stating the chords."

Mulligan's innovation was not long in acquiring imitators; by 1954, Lars Gullin in Sweden had taped an LP patterned directly after the Mulligan-Brookmeyer quartet sound. Meanwhile, Gerry had run the gamut from best-selling records (LP-1 ultimately went over 30,000, an exceptional figure by jazz standards) to night club attendance records and jazz festival eminence. Soon the critics, fans and musicians who came to know him realized they had been ignoring an extraordinary personality in their midst.

Perhaps the first qualities with which Gerry became associated, after he had made it, were his musical and personal gregariousness and his penchant for analysis, discussion, and suggestion, no matter what the subject.

George Wein, producer of the Newport festival and operator of Storyville in Boston, said, "At first, when I saw Gerry walk onstage and sit in with Billie Holiday and Teddy Wilson and Pres, I thought he was just trying to hog the limelight. Later I realized he just had a love for the music and wanted to be a part of it. Then, at Storyville, I once had him working opposite Jimmy Rushing, and he'd just stay up there and play straight through both sets! He's very eager, very sporadic, and gets upset very easily. As for his urge to play, I think Gerry and Dizzy are the last of the blowers —the men who really enjoy a session."

Ellingtonian Harry Carney, always Gerry's baritone idol, has this recollection: "One night Gerry came over to Duke's record date and we decided to celebrate my birthday by going out to hear Pepper Adams at the Bohemia. We wound up listening to a terrific baritone player with the other combo there, a group from Cornell [Nick Brignola with Reese Markewich] and after he'd listened a long time Gerry just had to get up and play." It was during that evening that Mulligan and Carney conceived the idea of a duet with Duke's band, later consummated at Newport in [Duke Ellington’s composition]  Prima Bari Dubla.

Elaine Lorillard, one of the founders of the Newport festival, recalls one of the greatest sessions ever, at her house in Newport. "Chico came out, and Tony Scott and Art Farmer, and Gerry played piano; Father Crowley and a few other nonplayers were there. It was utterly spontaneous and lasted from 4 until 8:30 a.m., and the sun came up and the roses were blooming —  beautiful sights and sounds. The next evening was the exact opposite, completely formal as Gerry posed for a picture spread for Vogue.

"Gerry may put his foot in it here and there, but he's basically dedicated to the cause. And his ideas are constructive. Everything he said was wrong with the festival, really was wrong; the musicians were the last to be consulted, and he wanted an auxiliary board of musicians to act as advisers. He supplied a whole list of musicians' complaints, from programming of the music to lack of refreshments and toilet facilities. He was firm but friendly; although at first he felt the festival setting was how jazz should be presented, he became more disillusioned every year."

"What galls me at these festivals," Gerry said recently, "is the way they emphasize all the names of the '30s and '40s and wind up minimizing our names. They use the prestige of the people of my generation, but then put us in a subordinate position. They have hurt my drawing power by not drawing attention to how much of a boxoffice name I am. The handling of Monterey [Mulligan played there in 1958] was even worse than Newport. Eventually, I'd like to ease out of the jazz festival scene entirely."

"Gerry has a missionary's zeal," declared Marshall Brown, leader of the Newport youth jazz band. "He equates jazzmen with the left bank writers in Paris in the 1920s. He goes about things so fiercely that sometimes he may antagonize the very people he's trying to win over. But what's most important of all to him is to be a great jazzman and a great leader. Like Eisenhower, he's a great general who'd have made a very poor sergeant."

'Though Brown's analysis may be right, General Gerry still enjoys nothing better than a barracks bash with GIs of every rank. At the first Newport festival in 1954, he not only sat in with Eddie Condon's Dixielanders but also took part in a fantastic finale that brought Mulligan, Kenton, Condon, and a dozen more of every breed into a wild rideout on I Got Rhythm.

"Gerry loves to play and he loves to talk," Condon said. "You can make some casual remark about the weather or the new Buick, and then he'll go into an hour's oration. He's got guts,too. One time we were in Toots Shor's together and Toots, who didn't know who Gerry was, made some kidding remark about not talking to musicians. Gerry said to me, 'I don't like the way that fellow talks. I think I'm gonna take him outside.' Well, you know the size of Gerry — he couldn't get any skinnier and live. And you know the size of Toots. He could have picked Gerry up and thrown him right through the wall!"

More often than not, Mulligan's belligerence has some reasonable foundation. "Once we had a reservation at a hotel in Frankfurt," said agent Bert Block, "and when we arrived, we found a Russian trade delegation had taken our rooms and we had to go to some beat-up joint. Gerry blew his stack. Here we are financing Western Germany, he says, and we have to give up our rooms to the Russians. He threatened not to do the concert. But after a while everyone cooled down."

"We were almost brought to court in Bologna, Italy," drummer Dave Bailey related. "We were invited to a restaurant after the concert and there were some Communists sent there apparently as troublemakers. One of them said something insulting to Gerry and he just threw some water in the guy's face and said, 'Leave me alone.' It was tough for Gerry to keep his head, but except for throwing the water, he restrained himself. Finally some non-political jazz fans just took this man and threw him out bodily."

Mulligan's European visits, the first of which was a 1954 trip to the Paris Jazz festival, consolidated what was already a firm foreign reputation. In England, where even in 1957 he was able to command $3,500 a week, every London show was a sellout, and Gerry registered more poll victories than probably any jazzman since Armstrong. The only cool European response, according to Brookmeyer and others, was that of the blase audience during a month at the Olympia theater in Paris. ("Gerry tried announcing in French at first," Brookmeyer said, "but he didn't find it as easy as playing.") The press reaction, all over the Continent, was uniformly warm.

Mulligan's eagerness to adapt himself  to any social or musical environment, which made many friends for him during the European trips, did not extend to the glamour world of Hollywood celebrity life.

Around Thanksgiving of 1958, at a party in New York, he had met Judy Holliday, and by the time he had worked in The Subterraneans and The Rat Race, the following summer in California, their friendship was founded partly in a common distaste for the superficialities of the film world, partly in a common concern for all the arts (and a common ability to play a fierce game of Scrabble, aiming exclusively at the seven-letter words). Gerry's assignment to an acting role in The Bells Are Ringing came about through the enthusiasm of producer Arthur Freed, a former songwriter who wrote the lyrics to I Cried For You and many other standards.

"When he wanted Gerry for the part," Miss Holliday, confessed, "I was against it, because I tend to get nervous when any personal friend of mine is acting with me — especially if they're not an actor." It was not long before everyone concerned was fully aware that Gerry was indeed an actor. So successful was this venture that he has been asked often since then if he would care to make a career out of it. Gerry answers that he wouldn't mind it at all if he could continue his life as a bandleader simultaneously.

At the suggestion of Columbia's Irving Townsend, Miss Holliday and Mulligan
recorded a couple of sides together a few months ago; they turned out so well that an album is now in the works. One of the first tunes taped was Loving You, with her lyrics to his music. "At first I didn't know why Irving suggested the idea," Miss Holliday said. "It seemed as if we were from two different worlds. Then I found out about Gerry's talent for writing melodies, and his ability to orchestrate for me in a medium completely different from his usual one. It's almost like Jekyll and Hyde." She has since set lyrics to Tell Me When from the Mulligan-Ben Webster LP, and there will be other such collaborations. 

Regardless, though, of what his future may be as a popular-song writer or motion picture actor, Gerry at present is very much wrapped up in his new band. So far, the general reaction among musicians both in and out of the orchestra, and among critics and the more attentive listeners at Basin Street, has been uniformly enthusiastic. During several visits I found enough excitement, both in the writing and in the spirit that formed the interpretation, to produce some of the most genuine and unpretentious swinging big-band jazz this town has heard in years

Just before he opened at the club I interviewed Gerry in an hour-long session over WNCN-FM, New York. The dialog that follows combines excerpts from this broadcast and passages from a tape-recorded private interview.

Feather: Let's talk about the new band, your personnel, and your plans.

Mulligan: Well, first and foremost, let's say we have Bob Brookmeyer and Bob Brookmeyer and Bob Brookmeyer . . . playing valve trombone and writing; Wayne Andre on trombone and Allan Raph on bass trombone; on trumpets Phil Sunkel, Danny Styles, and most of the solos are taken by Don Ferrara. The reeds are Eddie Wasserman on clarinet; Bill Holman on tenor —he came east to do a lot of writing for us. [Holman played only the first week at Basin Street, then withdrew to concentrate on writing, and was replaced by Zoot Sims.] We also have arrangements by Al Cohn, and some by Johnny Mandel of themes from his I Want to Live score. The alto is Dick Meldonian, the baritone is Gene Allen, bass is Bill Takas, and on drums another old face from quartet-sextet days, Dave Bailey.

The instrumentation problem was, I think, one of the things that kept me from getting a band together. I started one a couple of years ago, and I was thinking in terms of four trumpets, three trombones, and five saxes, and I wrote arrangements and even started on an album. But after I got halfway through, I decided it was bottom-heavy, too full, and didn't allow the kind of freedom I'd come to enjoy with the small bands. Also it didn't have that kind of clarity of sound that I liked, with the interplay of lines, in the small groups.

Now the present band gives us most of the possibilities that we had with the other one, but it also allows for a great deal more clarity. And of course a practical consideration is, if you've got people sitting on the bandstand, you've got to have them playing. If they don't play enough it's bad for their lips and their horns get cold; they tire of not playing, they lose interest, and contribute nothing.

Feather: Are you using the clarinet a lot in the reed voicing?

Mulligan: We've used it not so much as a reed section sound, but rather as a sound that contributes to the ensemble as a whole. We've been trying to avoid the clarinet lead effect.

Feather: Are you aiming this band purely at listening audiences, or do you think it might be adaptable to dance dates if you're interested in playing any?

Mulligan: What I'm really building is a concert band. It's a jazz band for listening, and there are only a handful of clubs in the country that can handle a band like that. I don't want to think about dance dates yet, until we've established ourselves and are working the way we want to. But it's fun to play dances occasionally, fun to play a prom, when we get to feeling like the old folks sitting up on the stand watching the kids have a good time. We play differently. You get very sentimental and all that sort of thing.

Feather: The reason I asked is that John Hammond said recently he feels jazz is essentially a functional music and is coming back to that.

Mulligan: I'm really not too concerned about where jazz is going, what it's doing. I'm concerned about the entity that I've tried to put together, which is really quite separate from the entire field of jazz. My answer to John is, there are jazz musicians who have never gotten away from that. Now if you're talking about jazz in terms of what the avant garde has been doing, or what's the most influential thing with the younger musicians now, that's not what I'm basing my ideas on.

But anyhow, by taking the band out on dances now, I would dissipate the band's power as a jazz band, a listening band, a show band. The bands in the '30s and '40s did it the other way around. They were basically dance bands; then the theater shows came along, and the bands that could put on a good show were successful. But at this point there would seem to be a good field for a real out-and-out jazz band, which is what I want. Most bands that have been put together lately have been trying to reach a happy medium, and this doesn't exist; they spoil the possibilities in both directions.

Feather: Do you find it easier to get sidemen than it was years ago? That the level of musicianship has advanced a lot?

Mulligan: Well, they cost more! But there have always been good players around. In fact, several in this band are guys I played in bands with in years past. There were always plenty of guys that had technical proficiency, but it took someone like Lester Young to come along and turn everybody around and show them a new way to use their technique; and then the same with Charlie Parker. So the kind of technical facility that these people brought into jazz has come to be an accepted thing —  you either play that way or you can't play.

Feather: How about your soloists?

Mulligan: Well, I've approached this band on a very strict premise, which possibly doesn't always meet with the complete happiness of all the fellows in the band. In the sextet there were four soloists. To simplify our own problem and that of the audience, in this band, too, we have four basic solo chairs: I'm one, Brookmeyer is another, the trumpet and tenor are the others. To a great extent we restrict solos to these four chairs; as time goes on we'll find things that will provide a solo outlet for others. But first we want to establish some sort of basic approach to the band.

I've seen a lot of bands fall into a trap of spreading the solos around so everybody can play. Now these are known as musicians' bands, and one of the reasons they can never establish themselves with an audience is that the audience takes time to be able to understand the playing of each man, and so many players go by that they never really have a chance to hear anybody, so nothing really sticks in their minds.

Feather: Did you want to have Art Farmer on the band?

Mulligan: Well, all I can say is, I hope Art's band is a big failure so he has to come back with my band! No, actually, of course, Art's band was just wonderful when I heard it. I wish him nothing but ill.

Feather: About your movies. Do you think I Want to Live got the recognition it deserved for its musical achievements?

Mulligan: Listen, the fact that they not only didn't give Johnny Mandel an Oscar, but didn't even nominate him, just convinces me of the closed doors, the private little club that the movie composers have. And they say this is the first movie music Johnny wrote. Actually it's just the first he ever got credit for — a good part of the good jazz music that was heard in segments of other pictures was written by Johnny. They call that ghosting.

Feather: You did a little ghosting yourself, didn't you, I mean ghost playing?

Mulligan: Yes, in The Rat Race, they told me I was to play a bandleader on a cruise ship, but it turned out they were just throwing me a bone. It was a very small acting role and they really wanted me to play baritone for Tony Curtis — a ghost baritone voice. Well, I like Tony and I didn't want to be a bad guy, so I wound up doing it anyway.

In The Bells Are Ringing, my scene with Judy comes right at the beginning of the picture and the whole thing is slapstick. She told me she'd had no experience with this kind of thing, and I'd had less than none, so it's a wonder we didn't kill ourselves! Hitting each other in the head and breaking glasses and catching on fire ... But this opening is supposed to be building to a love story, and it should be a gentle buildup to her first love song, which she sings beautifully. But coming right after this comedy sequence really kills it for her, so I asked them, I said, "Well, it's nice, let's all show it to our grandchildren and all that sort of thing, but please cut it out of the picture." So they cut out one of her songs and they cut this scene and that scene. But our own scene, the one that was the root of the trouble, they left in!

Feather: Gerry, let's project a little into the future. What would you like to be doing, say, when you're 50 years old?

Mulligan: When I'm 50? Well, I'd like to be doing some of the same things as now — but I'd like to double on other horns, and play a lot more piano than I'm playing now. And I'd like to be a producer in various other fields besides jazz. I'd love to do some television production, with jazz used on a popular level.

I'd also like to produce for Broadway, because I love the theater. I think Leonard Bernstein created a great innovation when he integrated an orchestra into a show as he did with West Side Story ... Of course, these are all idle dreams at the back of my head, but they are possibilities.

As far as the immediate future is concerned, I'm glad to be getting into the position where I feel I'm able to call my own shots. I want to take this band out on the same level of prestige as my small bands. I'd like to package my own show built around the band; I'm sick of being booked on these miscellaneous package shows and I feel my name has drawing power enough to fill a hall.

The powerful sound-wave on the crest of which Gerald Joseph Mulligan is currently riding seems unlikely to diminish in intensity in the foreseeable future. After a long siege of hard times, he has found the artistic and economic security that for so many years seemed hopelessly out of reach.

Perhaps the best summation of Gerry's story, during the weeks I spent talking about him to past and present friends and associates, was offered by Chubby Jackson, who knew Jeru (as Miles Davis nicknamed him) back in the hungry '40s.

"Some people," said Jackson, "would say Gerry was stupid in his attitude, but in so many ways it was the most commendable thing he could do. Gerry wouldn't conform, would never give up his musical principles, even when it meant starvation. He played true to life the defiance that every musician of a creative nature feels. And he's finally made it. And I say, more power to him."