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“The Washington Post has called Martin Williams "the most knowledgeable, open-minded, and perceptive American jazz critic today," and countless others have echoed that sentiment. To Gary Giddins of The Village Voice he is "one of the most distinguished critics (of anything) this country has ever produced," and Nat Hentoff has observed, "Martin Williams persistently gets at essences, and that is why he has contributed so much to the very small body of authentic jazz criticism."”
The following are Martin Williams’ comments and observations about one of the recording sessions that was ultimately released on CD in 1989 as Paul Desmond - Gerry Mulligan TWO OF A MIND [RCA Bluebird BMG 9654-2-RB] with insert notes by Will Thornbury.
It is one of six essays in the MUSICIANS AT WORK segment in Jazz Heritage, a compilation of Martin’s writings published by Oxford University Press in 1985.
As you can tell from the opening plaudits, anything by Martin on the subject of Jazz is worth reading and this one is especially welcomed because its story that is not often told - how Jazz goes about being made in a studio by two of the Giants of the modern idiom, in this case, alto saxophonist Paul Desmond and baritone saxophonist Gerry Mulligan.
And, as you read Martin’s description of the session, please keep the following insight in mind: “Like most jazz recording dates, this one combined constant pressure, banter, and even levity with utter seriousness, hard work, and musical accomplishment.”
We so often take excellent Jazz recordings as a finished product, distilled in some magical way from the musicians’ minds, emotions and souls, and while that may be so to some degree, recording Jazz in a studio is a challenge under the best of circumstances, even for the likes of Gerry Mulligan and Paul Desmond.
“Studio A at RCA Victor Records is a large rectangular room, and recording engineers will tell you they get a very special sound there. If the group of musicians is a lot smaller than the room they install baffle boards and place their mikes carefully, and the sound they get is still special. The four-man group that Victor engineer Mickey Crofford was to record in Studio A on a warm summer evening was small in size, but not small in fame or talent—saxophonists Paul Desmond (who, of course, does most of his playing with Dave Brubeck) and Gerry Mulligan, plus bass and drums. And they were to improvise freely around arrangements written by Mulligan, which he had kept modest and flexible, with plenty of room for solo invention.
Like most jazz recording dates, this one combined constant pressure, banter, and even levity with utter seriousness, hard work, and musical accomplishment.
Desmond was early and by 7 p.m. he was seated in the engineer's booth just off Studio A. The booth is also a rectangular room, smaller than Studio A, with elaborate tape recorders and control boards at one end, and a comfortable visitors' area with chairs, couches, and a table at the other. From this booth there is a clear view of the rest of Studio A through the wide glass panel which runs along one end.
Desmond was going over some of Mulligan's scores with A & R man George Avakian, who was producing the date, and Avakian's associate, composer Bob Prince. As usual, the alto saxophonist was dressed in a neat brown Ivy League suit, white shirt, tie, and fashionably heavy-soled shoes. Also as usual, his suit was slightly in need of a press, his shirt a bit rumpled, and his shoes not recently shined.
Avakian seemed vaguely worried—for no good reason, but Avakian usually seems worried at the start of a recording date. Desmond seemed serious; Prince, confident. And Crofford was busy in the studio and in the booth with his microphones, switches, and dials.
Suddenly, all heads bobbed up as a knock on the glass and a broad grin revealed that Mulligan had arrived in Studio A. In contrast to Desmond, he was dressed in a pair of khaki slacks, a sports shirt, and a thick cardigan sweater. He was obviously ready to go to work: ready to exchange his black shoes for the white sneakers he was carrying, and to take his baritone sax out of its canvas sack and start playing.
Desmond had selected the Modern Jazz Quartet's Connie Kay as his drummer, and Kay entered almost on Mulligan's heels, waving his greetings and going immediately to work setting up his drums. Bassist John Beale, who had arrived soon after Desmond, was quietly running over his part to Kay's right. Kay had just returned from San Francisco with the Quartet. "Glad I finally got to you, Connie," said Desmond, crossing from the booth to the studio. "I was about to send up a skywriter—Connie Kay call Paul Desmond."
Crofford had placed music stands and high stools for the two horns facing the rhythm, with Desmond's alto on one stereo microphone and Mulligan's baritone on the other. Avakian—busy enough to be just now grabbing his supper, an oversized and somewhat over-drippy sandwich—was seated with pencils, note paper, and a stopwatch beside Crofford's complex array of knobs, switches, and dials.
There had to be at least one run-through to test balance and mic placement. "We'll try one, okay?" said Avakian into his microphone, as Mulligan turned to Desmond with a mock serious frown to remark, "And please try not to play your best chorus now."
"Yeah, I'll save it," he answered, perhaps implying that he really had no control over the matter.
The piece was Easy Living, with Mulligan carrying the melody, Desmond inventing a countermelody behind him and taking the first solo. The performance was promisingly good, but Prince and Crofford decided there was too much mike on Kay's cymbal, and went into the studio to move things around a bit.
After another partial run-through, Avakian asked, "Want to tape one to see how it sounds?" But Paul and Gerry had their heads together over the music sheets.
"Try that last ensemble bridge again," Mulligan was saying. "You have the melody. It's the part down there at the bottom of the page." He pointed. "It could be a little more legato sounding." Desmond looked it over.
"I just wrote those notes in so you could see the pattern," Mulligan reminded Beale. "You don't have to play anything."
"Suppose I blow what you're playing along with you?" They tried it, and everyone commented that it sounded good.
"Want to tape one?" asked Desmond, affirming Avakian's suggestion. "We can figure out from the playback what's wrong."
In a few minutes there was a preliminary take of Easy Living on tape, and after the last note of the playback had echoed through the studio, it was obvious that this was going to be a relaxed and productive record date. Even Avakian seemed convinced of it. Mulligan had played with buoyancy, Desmond with fluent melodic ideas, and the improvised counterpoint had had fine emotional and musical rapport. As one visitor said, "Yeah, tonight they're going to play!"
As saxophonist of the Brubeck Quartet, Desmond is in a rather odd position, for his talents are more respected by musicians and critics than those of his pianist-leader. There is, in fact, constant wonder in the trade as to why Paul doesn't leave Dave and go off on his own. At the same time, Desmond is of a cooler and more lyric persuasion than some of the hard-blowing funk merchants who sell well on records nowadays, which puts him out of fashion in certain circles. Mulligan is something of an elder statesman as things go in jazz: his popularity dates from the early fifties and the days of the Mulligan Quartet. Since then he has held a large following, while leading both large and small groups. Recently there has been as much talk of Mulligan the movie actor (The Subterraneans, Bells Are Ringing) and of Mulligan the Broadway composer (a promised musical version of Happy Birthday for Judy Holiday, who is to contribute the lyrics) as about Mulligan the jazzman.
Several visitors and friends were in the booth by now. And each time the door to Studio A was opened, the grinding monotony of a rock and roll date being held next door in Studio B assaulted the ears. It soon developed that some rather illustrious jazzmen were involved in that music next door, and their aesthetic escape proved to be frequent brief visits over to the Desmond-Mulligan session to hear what was going on.
After a good version of Easy Living had been put on tape, there was some banter in the studio about, "Okay, that's it. Everybody come back the same time tomorrow." And there was some serious unwinding over Cokes, while Connie Kay pulled out one of several hamburgers he had brought with him.
But discussion of the music didn't stop, and Mulligan was soon demonstrating a point, seated at the piano that stood in the far end of the studio.
Desmond said he wasn't sure he had quite done his best by Easy Living, and requested they try a slightly faster tempo—that they "make it a little brighter," as he put it— and all agreed to try the piece again. Just then Avakian threw his switch inside the booth and announced over the studio loudspeakers, "Gentlemen, I hate to say this, but I suggest you tune up a little."
"What? How could you even imply such a thing?" protested Mulligan with affected seriousness. And he carried his heavy horn over to the piano again to correct the matter.
When the tapes were rolling, Mulligan felt free enough to do some improvising even in his written parts.
At the end of the new take, before anyone had spoken, there was silent acknowledgment that it was the best yet. "Fine," said Avakian into his mike.
"Want to hear it back?"
Mulligan again affected his cantankerous tone. "It's bad enough making these things without having to listen to them." He turned to Desmond, bobbing his eyebrows a la Groucho Marx, "Right? That a good attitude?" And a moment later, "Well, Paul, what other tunes do you know?"
"I know Melancholy Baby."
"Who are you? Tex Beneke?" Desmond whispered quickly.
As Desmond improvised his solo, Mulligan again did his side-to-side strut. Then, with the tape still rolling and Desmond still soloing, Mulligan signaled to the rest of the group for a round of four-bar phrases from player to player, before he and Desmond went into the counterpoint choruses that finish the piece. An arrangement changed even while it was being recorded. They played the "fours," and as the saxophones were restating the theme at the end, Mulligan began to improvise and merely suggest the melody with a few key notes, as Desmond was playing it in full. It was an effective idea. This was really becoming a cooperative two-man date.
At the end of the take, Mulligan registered approval by turning his heavy horn horizontal and laying it across a raised knee. Paul entered the booth and asked almost shyly, "Where'd that coffee come from? Is it a local concern?"
Soon they were listening to a playback of a Mulligan blues they later decided to call Blight of the Fumble Bee, and a few minutes later they were running through the arranged parts of All the Things You Are. As they finished the conservative Bach-like ending Paul asked, "Isn't that a little daring?"
"Maybe," Mulligan countered. "It'll go okay in the Middle West."
As all this talk filtered through the open studio microphones into the visitors' booth someone muttered, "Maybe those two are trying to work up some kind of act. The bantering, and this Alphonse and Gaston about who's got the first solos and who has the melody and who the harmony. Maybe they could take it on tour."
"Connie," Desmond was saying, "do you remember the tempo of the last take you did?" Kay started to brush his snare drum with perfect memory, and unbelievable lightness.
On another All the Things You Are at a faster tempo, Paul seemed to be more comfortable. Gerry had been better at the slower one. Their only musical disagreement so far.
In a final take of All the Things You Are, Mulligan was smiling broadly as Desmond went into his opening "break" over suspended rhythm, and then invented a lyric solo as the beat resumed. He was still playing hunched over his horn, but this time he was allowing himself a slight motion of the legs in time to his improvising.
At the end, everyone seemed pleased with the performance. But the playback revealed a once-in-a-thousand accident: one of the microphones had briefly cut off during the counterpoint, and some bass notes didn't get on the tape. Desmond was especially disappointed, and for a moment looked as if he didn't want to play any more.
With their heads together, Avakian and Prince decided they could rerecord the bass part later and blend in the few missing notes, saving the performance.
"Otherwise, Bob," said Avakian, as everyone's relief settled in, "did you ever see a more relaxed and easy date?" Mulligan had again sat at the piano and was somehow running through a Mexican waltz, alternating it with some raucous low-down blues.
The ending Mulligan had designed for Stardust was rather complicated but Connie Kay had it after one explanation, and with no music sheet to refer to.
Mulligan said after a run-through: "Did you play a B flat there instead of a B natural?"
Desmond: "Um huh."
Mulligan: "Goodness gracious!"
As the take started, there was a fluent opening exposition by Mulligan, and it was evident from his first phrase that Stardust has a special meaning for him; he became so involved in his playing that at first he didn't hear Avakian calling out that there was not enough tape on the machines to finish the piece, that they had to put on another reel before making a full take.
On the next try, more new ideas rolled out of Mulligan's horn, and then Avakian waxed philosophical. "Very good! But it always seems to me if you get a very good one you should try another. A very good one may be a sign that an excellent one is on the way."
"Well, I don't hear anything dramatic about it," said Desmond quietly, "but otherwise it was very good."
They did Stardust again, and Mulligan's involvement was unabated. At one particularly delicate turn of phrase, a visitor in the booth yelled out. And in the studio Paul indicated his pleasure by smiling and pretending to conduct Kay and Beale, waggling his right forefinger in the student conductor's double-triangle 1-2-3-4, 1-2-3-4.
At the end, as they heard it played back, Mulligan smiled and laughed aloud at one of Desmond's phrases, and he danced a bit during the ensemble.
When the speakers were silent again, Desmond said quietly, "I think it's about time to amble on home, for me, anyway."
Mulligan started to play his theme song. And Kay had his cymbals almost packed away. (1963)”
