The Fabulous Gerry Mulligan Sextet [Fresh Sound CD 418-419] - Alun Morgan

© Copyright ® Steven Cerra, copyright protected; all rights reserved.

Born in Wales in 1928, the esteemed British author and critic Alun Morgan [d. 2018] became a Jazz fan as a teenager and was an early devotee of the bebop movement. In the 1950s he began contributing articles to Melody Maker, Jazz Journal, Jazz Monthly, and Gramophone and for twenty years, beginning in 1969, he wrote a regular column for a local newspaper in Kent. From 1954 onward he contributed to BBC programs on Jazz, authored and co-authored books on modern Jazz and Jazz in England and wrote over 2,500 liner notes for Jazz recordings.

Alun was a gentle and genteel person with many significant achievements as a Jazz writer and critic during his long career.  His writing style is succinct, accurate and easy to read and understand. Held in the highest regard by the British Jazz community, it’s an honor to have the writings of Alun Morgan featured once again on these pages.

Our thanks to Jordi Pujol, the owner-operator of Fresh Sound Records for the preview copy of The Fabulous Gerry Mulligan Sextet [Fresh Sound CD 418-419].  Founded in 1983 in Barcelona, Spain, the Fresh Sound catalogue has an exceptional selection of recordings from the Golden Age of Modern Jazz and you can visit the collection on offer by going here.

“The well-known author, lecturer and historian Bob Reisner began holding Sunday jam sessions at the Open Door in New York's Greenwich Village (at West Third Street and Washington Square South) on April 26, 1953. It soon became a focal point for jazz; Charlie Parker was a frequent visitor and participant. It was also a place where young, up-and-coming soloists could perform, one of whom was trumpeter Jon Eardley from Altoona, Pennsylvania. Years later Jon told Pat Sullivan in a Jazz Monthly magazine interview that "one night there were three trumpeters on the stand: Tony Fruscella, Don Joseph and me. Gerry Mulligan and his wife were in the audience. When we'd finished Gerry's wife, Arlyne, came over and asked me, 'how many white shirts do you have?' It was a way of inviting me to join the band. The following Friday, Gerry gave me about 16 LPs and a record player and I had to learn the lot by Monday when we opened in Baltimore." All this took place in the autumn of 1954 and Eardley was to work with the Mulligan Quartet and the later Sextet for nearly two years... with a few breaks in-between.

The formation of the Sextet came about originally as a one-off concert staged at Hoover High School in San Diego shortly before Christmas 1954. During October and November of that year, the Stan Getz Quintet plus the quartets of Mulligan and Dave Brubeck were part of a Norman Granz package titled Modern Jazz Concert, headed by Duke Ellington and his orchestra. The concert personnel appeared at fifteen locations across the United States, from Carnegie Hall in New York to the closing appearance at the Shrine Auditorium in Los Angeles. Mulligan's quartet was completed by Jon Eardley, bass player Red Mitchell and drummer Frank Isola. The Getz Quintet contained valve trombonist Bob Brookmeyer, who had worked with Gerry in the early months of 1954. Although Getz returned to the east coast after the Modern Jazz Concert tour ended, Brookmeyer remained in Los Angeles and was available for the San Diego school musical event. It was an opportunity for Mulligan to write for, and play in, a six-piece band rather than the quartet lineups which had been his main force since August 1952 when he launched the foursome with Chet Baker. In some ways, the famous west coast Mulligan Quartet was something of a setback in his career. Although highly rewarding in terms of finances and personal publicity, it was not the direction Gerry wanted to take. Left to his own devices, he would have preferred to write for—and lead—a big band.

In Chet Baker he had an ideal frontline partner who had an intuitive grasp of what was required and could produce just the right musical lines which interlocked with, or complemented, those produced by Gerry. The original quartet was disbanded in June 1953 when Mulligan was found guilty of narcotics possession and given a custodial sentence. Released on Christmas Eve 1953, his immediate aim was to reform the quartet with Chet Baker, if only to give himself some breathing space and an income. But while Gerry had been serving his six months at the Peter Pitchess Honor Farm in Saugus (thirty miles north of Los Angeles), Baker had formed a quartet with pianist Russ Freeman which was a musical and financial success. Actually, they had recorded in April — two months before Gerry left the scene. The May 6 Down Beat carried a review of "The Lamp Is Low" and "Maid in Mexico." This session at Gold Star Studio is listed in all discographies as late July. The discrepancy can probably be traced to Dick Bock, who wasn't the most organized man when it came to hard facts about his sessions. When the two men met after Mulligan's release, Chet demanded a weekly salary of four hundred dollars to rejoin a reformed quartet. Gerry terminated the discussion at this point.

The baritone saxist then telephoned Bob Brookmeyer in New York, asking him to fly out to Los Angeles with "a New York rhythm section." Bob arrived with bass player Bill Anthony and drummer Frank Isola, two men who had worked with Brookmeyer in the Stan Getz Quartet. Mulligan reformed the Tentette he had employed for recording purposes a year earlier and played one concert with the group at the Embassy Auditorium in Los Angeles. A few weeks later he flew back to New York. He then replaced Anthony with Red Mitchell and this was the quartet which remained in being until Gerry fulfilled his contract to play at the Third Salon du Jazz in Paris at the beginning of June 1954. However, the idea of a larger group was never very far from Gerry's thoughts. He must have looked back with pleasure on that evening in San Diego when he played alongside not only Jon Eardley, Bob Brookmeyer, Red Mitchell and Larry Bunker, but the sixth member of the group: the constantly-swinging Zoot Sims. At that time, Zoot was resident in Los Angeles, having left the Stan Kenton band in November 1953. Amazingly, this outstanding musician had difficulty in finding regular musical work and was forced to take any available employment. Ed Michel, an ex-bass player who lived in California during the early Fifties and later worked in the record industry, once told me Zoot was so frustrated at this time he was prepared to sit-in with any kind of band just to play. "I've seen him playing with a Latin-American band, his knuckles covered with green paint because he'd been painting fences that day in order to make some money."

The San Diego concert remains a highlight in the Mulligan discography. It was recorded direct to two-track by sound engineer Phil Turetsky, who had recorded the very first Mulligan-Baker Quartet recordings. "Bernie's Tune" and "Lullaby of the Leaves" were done on an Ampex tape recorder in August 1952 in his bungalow on Wonderland Park Avenue off Laurel Canyon Boulevard in the Hollywood hills. The transfers heard here present the best sound yet achieved and preserve the immediacy of the live recording. The Hoover High School concert commenced with five tunes played by a quartet (Mulligan, Eardley, Red Mitchell and Chico Hamilton) which have not been included here as this album concentrates on the Sextet's music.

The complete Sextet is heard on the following numbers: "Western Reunion," "I Know, Don't Know How" and the "Ellington Medley" which includes "Flamingo" on which Bob Brookmeyer switches to piano. There is an atmosphere of pure musical joy here, particularly on the saxophone duet of "The Red Door." Mulligan shows that the baritone saxophone need not be a cumbersome instrument as he treats "Polka Dots and Moonbeams" with loving care. I think we can assume that Gerry wrote "Western Reunion" specifically for the San Diego concert, and as a tribute to the meeting of Gerry and his old-time friend Zoot... probably a play on the telegraph company Western Union. If "I Know, Don't Know How" sounds familiar it is because Mulligan has done a little recycling. For the eight bar A section of this A-A-B-A construction tune, Gerry has used the middle-eight of his earlier composition "Line for Lyons." Perhaps the most stunning track is "I'll Remember April" which features Zoot Sims at his very best, superbly backed by a brilliant rhythm section with Larry Bunker   proving that exciting and driving drumming need not necessarily be loud. Brookmeyer again plays piano and it should be pointed out his keyboard work is not simply a useful "double" on occasions. Bob once worked as a full-time pianist with the band of Tex Beneke, and in 1959 he and Bill Evans made a brilliant two-piano album (The Ivory Hunters) together. Brookmeyer had taken the place of Chet Baker in Gerry's new quartet at the beginning of 1954; he was never happy with the arrangement although he pointed out to author Gordon Jack in his Fifties Jazz Talk: An Oral Retrospective (Scarecrow Press, 2004), "this was the official start of Gerry as a well-dressed, successful bandleader.

When he first arrived in California, he just wanted to play and write, but when he went on the road with the quartet he became a bandleader." Bob's problems with the Mulligan Quartet were musical ones. "I knew how good the group had sounded with Chet Baker, and I thought it really needed a trumpet, not a trombone. In other words, somebody higher up because Gerry and I were so close in sound."

Things came to a head at the Paris Salon du Jazz (also known as the Salle Pleyel Concert) at the beginning of June 1954. Even to we outside observers, it was sometimes obvious that Bob and Gerry were frequently at musical loggerheads and it was no surprise to learn Brookmeyer had given his notice and left the quartet after the Salon du Jazz. He returned to the United States, recorded an album for Dick Bock's Pacific Jazz label in Rudy Van Gelder's New Jersey studio with pianist John Williams and his ex-Mulligan colleagues. Red Mitchell and Frank Isola, then flew west to work (briefly) at The Haig club in a band he formed with Zoot Sims. As for Gerry, he continued with the quartet which now had trumpeter Jon Eardley as a replacement for Brookmeyer. Jon never tried to sound like Chet Baker; his tone was hotter and he could dig back into the Swing Era for ideas when the music called for it.

This quartet lasted until the end of 1954. Pacific Jazz taped the unit at two concerts, the first at Stockton High School; then a month later came the San Diego appearance by the group plus Brookmeyer and Sims. After that, Gerry disbanded and returned to New York to write some new music. The first half of 1955 found him appearing on the Steve Allen Show and various other gigs, often accompanied by Jon Eardley. In July 1955 he played at the Newport Jazz Festival where he appeared as a guest with both the Chet Baker and Dave Brubeck quartets as well playing with a pick-up group containing Miles Davis, Zoot Sims and Thelonius Monk. By August of that year he was ready to form his new sextet and had secured a contract with EmArcy, the newly formed jazz subsidiary of Mercury Records, headed by Bob Shad and Jack Tracy.

After a series of rehearsals, Gerry's sextet went on tour, opening at Cleveland's Loop Lounge on August 29. then proceeded with a one-week engagement at Boston's Storyville that lasted until September 18. Then, back to New York to record the September 21-22 sessions, and after a successful engagement at Basin Street, the group continued on the road, hitting the East and Midwest circuit, stopping only to record the October 31 session. The tour ended after a week at the Rouge, a night club in River Rouge, Michigan, on December 11.

The majority of the music on the enclosed Compact Discs comes from this most productive period and is played by one of the finest small groups ever to be formed and led by Mulligan. It benefited from its exemplary personnel (which remained virtually the same throughout the eighteen months of it’s existence), Gerry's impeccable leadership plus his understanding as composer and arranger. It gave him the sound palette he needed with a range from the top notes on the trumpet plunging more than three octaves to the lowest notes on baritone and valve trombone. Of equal importance was how the skillful writing often made the band sound bigger than it really was. Mulligan told Ira Gitler, "with the four horns we did a lot of clubs, a lot of concerts. It was a nice, hot band for playing theaters. We'd start with the four horns grouped around the microphone and by the time we were into the show we'd be all the way across the stage. I'd be at one end, then Bobby and Zoot, and the trumpet just spread all the way across. Really a ball."

The albums Jack Tracy supervised for EmArcy made use of some pre-existing pieces rearranged for the Sextet such as "The Lady Is a Tramp," "Bernie's Tune," and "Makin’ Whoopee" as well as material recently written by Mulligan for the new group. The impact of his music on both audiences and record buyers was the same, and in 1957 Ralph J. Gleason, reviewing the Sextet's first album for Down Beat magazine, awarded it the maximum of five stars. He drew attention to "the times, usually as an interlude towards the end of a number, when (Gerry) is able to direct the horns into a boiling and bubbling stew which can raise me right off the floor. I have heard no one else but Dizzy Gillespie do this particular thing successfully." Mulligan could take full credit for such matters. As Zoot Sims told Ira Gitler, "Mulligan doesn't do anything unless it's set, rehearsed. You know, it's all that playing together. Gerry's very well organized. He won't go on the road or in a club until it's set. That's the way I like it." Gleason continued his review. "As further evidence of his structural proficiency, his second chorus on piano in 'Blues' seems to be an almost classic example of construction, moving, as it does, from simplicity to full complexity without once losing definition. You will not want to miss this LP."

In later years, Bob Brookmeyer stated that the Sextet was Gerry's favorite group, even more satisfying than the quartet with Chet Baker or the various editions of his magnificent Concert Jazz Band. This six piece band comprised the most suitable group of players and had rare flexibility enabling it to tackle music from a range of eras and sources. For example, the highly successful "Ain't It the Truth" is Mulligan's interpretation of a number dating back to July 1942 when composed and arranged by Laverne "Buster" Harding for the Count Basie orchestra. It turned out to be the Count's last official recording session for twenty-nine months. (The AFM imposed a record ban which came into effect four days after "Ain't It the Truth" and six other titles were recorded.)

At the other end of the scale Mulligan's Sextet used pieces seldom played by jazz units. A prime example is "La plus que lente" first recorded by the Sextet in October 1955; and again the following September with trumpeter Don Ferrara replacing Jon Eardley. (This later recording was the only occasion Ferrara worked with the group.) The title translates as "Slower than Slow" and is based on something Gil Evans transcribed from music written by the French Impressionist composer Claude Debussy. It is largely an ensemble piece, beautifully played by the Sextet which maintains the almost ethereal mood of the music. It bears out the assertion of critic and musicologist Max Harrison in 1959 that "the real nature of (Mulligan's) subsequent achievement was hinted at early in his career by his facility in arranging and his concern with unity. In addition to the personal expression of his solos, what Mulligan has given jazz is a fresh ensemble style. Whereas men like Armstrong and Parker, in forging a new mode of solo utterance, give us primarily themselves. Mulligan like Gil Evans has given his fellow musicians a new way of thinking about playing together, a new approach to the jazz ensemble" (from These Jazzmen of Our Time, Victor Gollancz, 1959).

The Sextet was a success wherever it played in the United States; then in the spring of 1956, the six musicians embarked for Europe aboard the Italian passenger liner Andrea Doria to play dates in France, Germany, Italy, et al. While in Paris, Gerry bought a soprano sax and Zoot an alto at the Selmer factory.

On some dates they came across Chet Baker, who was also touring Europe at the time and there is at least one recorded German transcription (from Landstuhl) of Baker sitting in with the Sextet. When the band returned to the United States, Jon Eardley left and the last studio records by the group in September had Don Ferrara on his only appearance with the Sextet. The final date was at the Preview Lounge in Chicago by which time Oliver Beener had the trumpet role. Zoot Sims left to freelance in New York before teaming up with Al Cohn while Mulligan reverted to the quartet format, partnered by Bob Brookmeyer.

Although the life of the Mulligan Sextet was comparatively short, it was a most important phase in Gerry's musical development. In April 1957, he was commissioned by Columbia Records to assemble a big band and provide original arrangements for a recording session. For some reason, most products of the session were not released for twenty years by which time Mulligan's own Concert Jazz Band had performed widely in both the United States and Europe. In almost every manifestation of the CJB, the triumvirate of Mulligan, Brookmeyer and Sims was present indicating the importance of the personnel chosen for the Sextet.

Of paramount importance to the Sextet was that original concert held at San Diego's Hoover High School. More than half a century after the event. Bob Brookmeyer confirmed that rehearsals indeed did take place in Los Angeles before the group traveled the one hundred and twenty-five miles south for the event. And he recalled that the poster in front of the auditorium simply stated, "Gerry Mulligan and His Band," giving no mention of precisely what the audience might expect to see and hear that evening. After the opening numbers by the quartet, the appearance of Bob and Zoot for the remainder of the concert was a well-orchestrated surprise. As may be heard here, the music was a revelation and is now enhanced by improvements made in the remastering for this Fresh Sound release. It can be said that this collection is a fitting tribute to the undoubted genius that was Gerald Joseph Mulligan.”

— Alun Morgan May 2006

The Miles Davis 1948/49 Group - from "Modern Jazz" by Morgan and Horricks

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

For the longest time, I was under the impression that the primary treatments on the subject of West Coast Jazz or, if you prefer, Jazz on the West Coast, were contained in the books written on the subject by Ted Gioia, Robert Gordon and Alain Tercinet [in French; no English translation that I am aware of].

[Gordon Jack’s fine series of interviews with prominent West Coast Jazz musicians as contained in his Fifties Jazz Talk: An Oral Retrospective and the many articles and interviews by John Tynan the West Coast Editor of Downbeat during the 1950s and early 1960s are also important sources on the subject.]

When I mentioned this observation about the Gioia-Gordon-Tercinet West Coast Jazz trilogy in casual conversation with a friend whose knowledge of all-things-West-Coast-Jazz I greatly admire he replied:

“Of course you know about the chapters on the subject in Alun Morgan and Raymond Horricks Modern Jazz: A Study of Its Development Since 1939” [1956, Gollancz; Greenwood, 1977]. And then there’s also Woody Woodward’s Jazz Americana” [Trend Books, 1956].

While I “knew of” Woody’s book [really a magazine], but didn’t own a copy, I had no knowledge of the one by Morgan and Horricks. I was aware of Alun as something akin to the Senior Dean of British Jazz critics and authors and I knew of Raymond Horricks’ compilation of a discography on Gerry Mulligan’s music, but knowledge of their writings in tandem on the subject of Modern Jazz in general and West Coast Jazz in particular had eluded me until my buddy’s reference.

With a copy of the Morgan-Horricks book now in hand and a paperbound version of the Woody Woodward’s work on the way, I thought it would be interesting to share Alun and Raymond’s thoughts on the evolution of West Coast Jazz in a contiguous, three-part blog based on the relevant chapters from their book.

A caveat at the outset: in these racially sensitive times, one wonders about categorizations such as “White Musician” and “Negro Musician” with the connotation that the latter is superior to the former.

I suppose that it is too much to be hoped for that one day, those who play this music will simply be referred to as Jazz musicians, but in the context of the times in which the Morgan-Horricks book was written - the mid-1950’s - these distinctions were still in vogue.

For many students of Jazz, the predominant style of Jazz that developed in California primarily between 1945-1965 had its beginnings in what have come to be known as the Miles Davis, Birth of the Cool recordings.

So let’s begin there with Alun and Raymond’s take on the significance of the 1948/49 Miles Davis Group and its relationship to the development of the “Cool” style of Jazz on the West Coast.

“In September 1948 New York's Royal Roost presented a nine-piece modern jazz unit led by the young Negro trumpeter Miles Davis. In comparison with the familiar attractions at the club this group had a most unusual instrumentation. With a front-line of trumpet, trombone, alto and baritone-saxophones, French horn and tuba, it represented the first real step beyond the confines of the unison-ensemble small group. Collectively the musicians had achieved a unique orchestral effect; a confirmation of the many experiments which haphazardly had contributed to the evolution of the modern movement in jazz. Miles and his fellows had created a new sound, at last a satisfactory co-ordination of the ideas growing from the Minton theorists. Even today the group represents the highest artistic level ever attained by the modernists.

Miles made one of the worst financial flounders in the history of jazz. As a regular unit the group's duration can be counted in weeks. Its music was incomprehensible to audiences seeking only the frenzy of jazz, its appeal so esoteric that the superior musical policy was hardly appreciated outside a small circle of musicians. Yet through just three recording sessions for Capitol (supervised by Pete Rugolo) Miles achieved an orchestral cohesion never to be equalled since by a modern jazz group. Greater individual solos have been created.  Certain musicians have succeeded in expressing more drive, more abandon, more of the vital emotional inspiration so necessary to jazz. For a representation of collective modern jazz, however, and for imaginative scoring to assist and accentuate the soloist, there the group's style climbs worthily on to its historical pedestal. Without destroying the essential elements of jazz it took on the careful preparation normally found  only in  chamber and symphony music.

The thought of forming such a group was conceived by Miles Davis during the summer months of 1948. Meetings with Gerry Mulligan, then a little-known arranger and baritone player with the Claude Thornhill band, brought the opportunity to discuss the idea in practical terms. With a strong emphasis on the written aspect of jazz Miles would obviously require a concentrated pool of arranging heads. Men capable of exploiting the new group to its fullest extent. In turn Mulligan and the Thornhill staff arranger, Gil Evans, assured the trumpeter of the wide possibilities offered by such a band. Ideas for scoring were legion. With the right musicians the plan could certainly take shape.

Gradually the three men brought their blue-print to the reality stage. Through several discussions, test sessions and hours of burning the midnight oil on experimental writing, a concrete policy was laid. Basically the need was for a medium-sized group, capable of supporting soloists with scored backgrounds after the fashion of a full orchestra. They wanted to improve jazz in written form but at the same time maintain an atmosphere of relaxation for the individual. It meant the innovation of a new ensemble sound, of contrasting section voicings within the front-line. Yet these respective changes were skillfully introduced without impairing in any way the force of the rhythm section. The beat had to be preserved because it holds the key to every form of jazz. There was a conventional rhythm section, using of necessity written parts, but not restrained in its punch behind the ensemble.

The final constitution of the band was determined by several important requirements. Without being a power-house group the front-line needed depth. Miles wanted a rich, full sound, mellow in its unison voicings, but prepared for definite contrapuntal designs within the arrangements. The baritone, French horn and tuba would increase the tonal depth, offering the arrangers an ensemble range of three and a half octaves. In the overall voicing the complement of light and deeper-toned instruments was perfectly balanced. Plenty of room was left for the arranger to stress light and shade while the melody instruments were not too unwieldy to be pushed and swung by the rhythm section. The tonal quality of the ensemble could be varied considerably by the distribution of the lead parts. Looking through the group's records one can distinguish marked changes in the arranger's attack on, say, Israel with a trumpet lead and Jeru with its two-saxophone lead. The richness of voicing remains common to both, but the former has a harder edge, a stronger impact which stiffens the entire ensemble effect.

In the main, of course, the orchestra reflected the subtle, devious approach originally advocated by Lester Young. The desire to occasionally leave the obvious road and explore the beautiful woods on either side. Yet as with Lester there was a certain natural warmth about the music. Its sounds were relaxed but never in the cold, detached sense that for several years was to envelop the younger white modernists. Miles might unconsciously have pointed a finger towards the cool style, yet the relaxation of his group was no mere affectation; it was only the logical outcome of the instrumental design being used. The ensemble was never allowed to drift listlessly through the orchestrations. Continually the arrangers were taxing its elasticity with complex scoring devices and new thematic material. Many jazz groups have developed a stereotyped style through the reins being completely in the hands of one arranger. Even the best musicians are very much at the mercy of their staff writers in this respect. (Exceptions, of course, are bands portraying the written work of truly gifted minds like Ellington, Carter and Redman.) Miles wisely avoided any possibilities of this pitfall, however, by having a varied panel of arrangers, each one able to present a different facet of the ensemble scope. The music never became a stagnant pool.

A group of this kind required an acute concentration from its musicians. The wide range of material naturally placed a limit on the men Miles was able to employ. To avoid becoming a precision machine, completely devoid of all musical emotion, the trumpeter aimed for musicians who from his own acquaintance he knew to be sincere. He sought sound technicians, alert to the increased complications of transcribed jazz, yet also men with a creative ability. There was no sensational collection of soloists. No high-priced stars to disturb the productivity of the group with their purple passions and egocentric gluttony for the spotlight. The musicians were competent readers, fully conscious of their role within the group. The recorded solo work was tasteful and free from exhibition. The fact that greater individual solos have been recorded is not meant as a derogatory remark about the group. Solo contributions maintained a high standard (Miles's own imagination in particular can hardly have been more vividly inflamed by a supporting group), and this aspect of the soloists is only pointed out to illustrate more clearly the make-up of the band. Virtuoso musicians of the Gillespie and Parker calibre had given way to the younger modernists, to musicians less matured in their outlook and therefore better suited to the group's pattern. Everything was calculated to place the most pliable material in the hands of the arranger. For the guiding light of the band unquestionably shone from its reservoir of scoring talent. If any solo weakness existed it was belittled by the collective produce of the band. No other modern jazz group has ever held such a strong writing staff.

At the outset the larger proportion of the scoring came from Gerry Mulligan. It was really the first definite step in the saxist's career. Previously he'd earned appraisal from musicians for his “Disc Jockey Jump” with Gene Krupa and a little scoring for Thornhill, but the seeds of his present reputation were sown through his work with the Davis band. Having taken an active part in the construction of the ensemble, Mulligan revealed a firm grasp of its value even on his earliest scores. He wasn't the most gifted mind ever to write for the group, but in the embryonic stage of the experiment he played the most vital writing part.

Mulligan's style represents a compromise between the extremes in jazz composition of Ellington and the white school of Bill Russo. He is basically a technical writer, with none of Ellington's racial romanticism or melodic invention. A composer concerned with strong group construction as opposed to sensitive material. Yet through this medium of technique he shares the Duke's gift for writing to offset the soloist. He keeps the musician at ease with his scoring; and although a far less talented creator his work seems to carry a conviction through to the soloist. There's a rhythmic pulse in his style which has defied all attempts to class him alongside the cold abstraction of Bill Russo. The arrangements of Mulligan carry a direct attack while those of Russo are moody and introspective. They have a swing which is often found lacking in the white arrangers.

At times the role of Gerry Mulligan's composition has been exaggerated in jazz. One cannot afford admittedly to discount the obvious qualities in his work with regard to precision and orchestral control. On the other hand, Mulligan as a composer is still only a miniaturist. He is gushing with ideas regarding presentation, the actual execution of his thoughts, but his themes are limited by their own purely technical make-up. As yet they have not provided a basis for written jazz in extended form. Instead of blending into a strong melody they remain a collection of technical phrases. They cater for the soloist through the strength of their harmonic changes, but they lack the melodic beauty necessary for a logical expansion. Mulligan composes for a certain group of instruments; it's not always easy to convert his themes to other jazz groups. He is in approach the complete arranger. Here lies his real strength. The ability to cope with technical problems as they arise; to perfect the actual executive work of a group. As a baritone player he can be excused his tendency to overscore the reeds at the expense of the brass.  This mannerism has its advantage. The slight melodic content of his writing is rather enhanced by the sleek run of the saxophone voicings. It certainly seems that Mulligan is really more the engineer than the sculptor. When examining his work the arranging strength appears to dominate the actual composition.

Similarly Gil Evans's real value sprang from his understanding of the orchestra rather than from the creation of original material. Years of scoring commercial music had coated his style with a strong melodic sense, a gift for blending attractive voicings in his arrangements. In this respect Gil remained a continual asset to the group for the scoring of standard melodies. He could make alterations to the melodic lines without destroying the intrinsic beauty; create an elastic interpretation of a commercial theme to suit the style of the group. This is doubly evident in his scoring behind a vocalist. On the occasions that Kenny Hagood sang with Miles it was Gil Evans who carved the supports. He used the voice as he would a solo instrument. Hagood appeared to be surrounded, rather than backed by the group. Gil's scores are not content to occasionally stress points in the singing. They must continually be portraying the melody with him, blending tonally with his voice and adding richly-banked harmonies to the overall sound.

Other musicians had also contributed to the band's repertoire. Since coming to New York, Miles himself had studied at the Juilliard Institute and he began writing originals for the group. Single compositions came from Bud Powell, Cleo Henry and Johnny Carisi. Carisi, a little-known New York trumpeter, wrote the futuristic “Israel.” Like Emily Bronte's novel this solitary score was a masterpiece. Carisi gained the utmost effect from the contrast of sectional voices in a contrapuntal design. He tossed the theme around the ensemble like a ball, using mainly a trumpet lead, though continually playing brass against reeds, one moment swelling, the next retracting the volume of sound. Johnny arranged the composition himself for the group and presented the melody in a most dramatic light, with unusual rhythmic accents behind the sharply-defined main phrases of the theme. It is indeed unfortunate that Miles didn't record any further material by Carisi.

The trump card of Miles's arranging, however, came shortly after the group's inception. The trumpeter gained his one truly great composer in the person of pianist John Lewis. For whereas Gerry Mulligan has a competent mind for orchestral jazz, Lewis has all the gifts of a composer. While being well-versed technically, he has the imagination and the natural inspiration to create music worthy of expansion. He is the first composer since Ellington to write real jazz in extended form. His thoughts are often simple, at times invoking the serene beauty of the French Impressionists, but they may be developed along logical lines. John's writing with Miles gave one of the earliest pointers to the later developments of Negro jazz in New York. He dispelled the theory that written jazz must eventually incarcerate the natural feeling of the soloist. Intelligent writing can be sensitive to the needs of improvisation; John's orchestrations will have a scored part for every musician in the group, even to the rhythm section, and in the resulting sound not one musician will appear strained. The acute orchestral sense of Lewis provides a backing suitable to the musician. His scores have the same sympathy for Miles or Clifford Brown that Ellington's impart behind Cootie Williams. Like the Duke, his deep technical knowledge serves only as a gilt to the expression of ideas. The propensity for correctness, the orderly form of presentation, the minute detail of his construction—these elements in the make-up of John's style are the tools to model his creations. Being a sound technician increases the power of his portrayal. It is employed to develop not to submerge jazz. Every group for whom John Lewis writes appears to be illuminated by his ideas. The Miles Davis unit was no exception.

When selecting the musicians for the group Miles made no distinctions regarding colour. The men were required for a band pattern, not a prolonged jam session.  Considering that most musicians are normally reluctant to join experimental units, the response to the trumpeter's venture yielded a good harvest of rapidly developing soloists. The band represented a strong racial co-operation; probably the final alliance of any importance prior to the movement of modern white jazz to the West Coast.

The white musicians again came chiefly from the Claude Thornhill band. Mulligan on baritone, tuba player John Barber, bassist Joe Shulman and the young altoist Lee Konitz were the first to cross over to the new group. French horn player Sandy Siegelstein joined from Thornhill shortly afterwards.

Mulligan had already developed into a confident soloist at this time. His soft intonation became a familiar solo sound with the group and minimized the absence of a tenorman. Actually Gerry handles this normally unwieldy saxophone with the facility one might expect from a tenor. He slides lucidly through each register with the structural perfection so typical of his writing. Although it would be hard to imagine him unleashing the full emotional force of a great Negro saxophone player he does play with a beat. In a way he suffers from the elegance of his expression. Rather than risk one badly-phrased note he will abandon the gutty impetus of a baritone player like Harry Carney. Restraint can be an aid to beautiful phrasing, but too much of it can also withhold the feeling from a solo. The inspiration remains within the musician instead of being communicated through his playing to the listener. Taste and technique remain Mulligan's gods. He impresses the intellect as a fine musician, but fails to arouse the same excitement as a gushing, forceful blower like Charlie Fowlkes, the less technically minded baritone player with Basie.

Joe Shulman, really a disciple of the Tristano school, produced a strong drive behind the ensemble. Barber and Siegelstein were sound studio musicians, chosen to play the difficult written parts, and on record they blend well with the various voicings. Lee Konitz was perhaps a less happy choice for the group. The altoist was already infatuated with the cold, almost abstract style of improvisation. His playing was fluent but concerned entirely with technique for its own sake. The ideas displayed no strong melodic content. On record, at least, their ring is shallow. Even the tone has the limp, dewy tracery of a water-lily. Beautiful yet so fragile. When Konitz joined the Kenton orchestra several years later his style underwent a rapid change of face. He began to blow with a piercing tone; to swing instead of merely moving mechanically with the beat. Obviously the altoist was passing through an awkward phase while with Miles. He seems unsure of his true position in jazz and only rarely does his solo work flicker with inspiration.

Miles opened with Kai Winding, the Danish-born musician on trombone. Later he brought in Jay Jay Johnson, the greatest technician of the younger Negro trombonists. As with John Lewis's composition, Johnson uses his technique to create jazz. He swings all the time. He has a very direct attack as opposed to the poetic, fanciful flights of Benny Green. For the easy swing and tonal beauty he is slightly outclassed by Benny, though for range and swift articulation he is ahead of everyone. Johnson handles his slide with the apparent ease of a valve trombone.

Pianist Al Haig (like Kai Winding) only made the first recording session with the group. Shortly afterwards John Lewis took over the position. On drums Max Roach was reading the parts without difficulty. Nothing ever disturbed the precision of his playing. His beat remained a tower of strength behind the ensemble; light, relaxed, pliable to the rhythmic contrasts, yet swinging all the way.

Crowning the group was Miles himself, one of the most sincere soloists in modern jazz. A trumpeter whose artistic expression transcends all criticism of his technical shortcomings. It is true that Miles is dwarfed as a technician when ranked alongside the dynamic virtuoso Gillespie. He was quick to grasp the scored side of modern jazz and the new styles of phrasing, yet his trumpet lacks a powerful tone. His tone is soft, noticeably warm but clouded in comparison with the cutting edge of Gillespie's or Navarro's. This naturally reduces the impact of his top-register work. With continued practice Miles' technique today has improved beyond measure, as indeed his recordings with the younger New York school will show. At the time of the Capitol sessions, however, he found it difficult to blow a sustained high note. His phrasing was often clipped, staccato style as he avoided the longer melodic lines.

The group's arrangers recognized these drawbacks and avoided taxing his technique unduly. They conceived subdued backgrounds with organ-styled harmonies to cushion the natural relaxation of his playing. Given this support the trumpeter excelled himself. One can sense him feeling the expression of every note. The phrasing is precise but garnished by many beautiful ideas. Miles had a most fertile imagination. His logical development of a theme cannot be darkened by the technical faults. The inspiration given to him by the group greatly reduced the hesitancy of his early solos with Charlie Parker.

Miles first took the group into the Capitol recording studios on January 21, 1949. With him on the date were Mulligan, Konitz, Winding, Junior Collins (French horn), Barber, Haig, Shulman and Roach. They recorded four scores: “Godchild,” “Budo,” “Jeru” and “Move.”

“Godchild,” a composition of the modern pianist George Wallington, was arranged by Gerry Mulligan. From the opening bars of the theme the saxist draws back the curtains to reveal the complete ensemble range. The composition has an ascending main phrase and Gerry opens the score with the tuba, the deepest voice, leading the front-line, then moves the phrase to the lighter instruments so that the trumpet seems to fly upwards from the full ensemble. Miles must have been very impressed by this design, for he flows from the written line into one of his best recorded solos. A lyrical piece of invention, expressed with the normal subdued but feeling approach. It is interesting to note from the record how Mulligan has determined to obtain a maximum expansion of the composition. For the final thirty-two bars, instead of merely reiterating the opening chorus, he has conceived a new thematic statement, with an entirely different melody built over Wallington's chord sequence. This is a breach of jazz ethics which should occur more often. The imagination of an arranger ought not to be lazily curbed by the satisfaction of producing an original theme. If the composition is worthy of further development then the material should not be wasted.

The moody “Budo,” as its title implies, was officially composed by pianist Bud Powell. Bud also recorded the theme himself under the alias “Hallucinations.” Actually the piece has more structural tissue than is normally found in his pretty piano compositions. This bears out his own admittance that Miles helped to write the piece. With the exception of “Tempus Fugit,” Bud's piano themes have never really lent themselves as features for a group. We think Miles took a major part in composing this one. “Jeru,” on the other hand, can be easily identified as a Gerry Mulligan composition. This is one of the baritone man's typical swingers with its light reed voicing and smoothly-riding phrases. The supple movement of the ensemble is fully demonstrated here. Underlined by Max Roach's superb open cymbal work, the whole band swings along in complete concord.

John Lewis scored the fourth title, “Move,” a composition by drummer Denzil Best. His close interplay of the reeds and brass immediately gives the impression of a much larger band. “Move” is not a theme of great melodic power. It gives itself to orchestral exploitation essentially as a piece of impact; the rather plain phrases flimsily cover a series of strong rhythmic accents. John's score, poised perfectly on the beat, seems to incite every member of the group to uncoil and blow with remarkable force. The punching ensemble is most impressive for a smallish jazz group. Nothing is strained about the sound. The effect has the freedom of a head arrangement. With records of this standard it becomes very difficult not to admire the abilities of John Lewis in modern jazz.

On April 22, 1949, Miles recorded four further scores. With a reshuffle of musicians the personnel read as follows: Miles (trumpet), Jay Jay Johnson (trombone), Sandy Siegelstein (French horn), John Barber (tuba), Lee Konitz (alto), Gerry Mulligan (baritone), John Lewis (piano), Nelson Boyd (bass) and Kenny Clarke (drums). Nelson Boyd had played with the Gillespie big band in 1948. He joined Miles from Charlie Barnet. Although preferring a four-string bass to the more commonly accepted five strings, Nelson generates a powerful force behind the ensemble. His sure-fingered accuracy is yet another case to point of a fine musician playing in an artistic, but completely unappreciated group. Kenny Clarke, of course, was the foremost pioneer of the modern drumming system. In joining the band he renewed a long-standing musical association with John Lewis. Whilst in the Army Kenny had been the first modernist to recognize the pianist's writing talents. Later he'd introduced him to Gillespie. At the end of Dizzy's European tour of 1948 the drummer had stayed on in Paris to teach and record with some of the younger French musicians. This record date was his first important engagement after returning to the New York scene.

The scores used on the session were Gerry Mulligan's “Venus De Milo,” Johnny Carisi's “Israel,” John Lewis's “Rouge” and Cleo Henry's “Boplicity.” Lewis had also arranged the last-named composition. Mulligan again incited the leader to conceive a really fine solo with his “Venus De Milo” tribute theme. The piece has an attractive melody and the later trumpet improvisation does it full justice. In turn “Rouge” must have bubbled into a fountain of inspiration for Lee Konitz, because his sixteen-bar solo here is without question the happiest thing he ever recorded with Miles. The thirty-two bar opening theme portrays a well-balanced contrapuntal design between the deep and lighter toned instruments. It is a clever statement, every instrument being expertly woven into the complete tapestry. Even the middle-eight is a perfect fit. Instead of standing as a passage of sharp relief it traces in its final two bars a logical reintroduction for the main melodic line. The relaxation only arrives with John's subsequent piano solo—a simple, unruffled half chorus over light background harmonies from the front-line. Konitz follows, flashing into double time, then relapsing in favour of easy, legato phrases. Apart from the solo interest of the succeeding chorus by Miles it's worthwhile noting how John builds up the ensemble strength behind the trumpet, gradually stacking the instruments in preparation for the final theme statement. A closing point of interest is the skillful key modulation in the coda.

In contrast the rich tonal shading in the melancholy “Boplicity” reflects the sensitive touch of Lewis. Employing a thick voicing, dominated by the deeper sounds of the ensemble, the pianist succeeds in creating a mood of ultra-relaxation. His impression of serenity and shadows has been faithfully captured on the score-sheet. Towards the conclusion he takes a piano solo and even as an active band musician he continues the pattern of his mood. There are no thoughts of a technical flag-waver. Obviously he has deeply considered the atmosphere of the piece and constructed his solo in agreement with its solemnity.

The third and final Capitol session took place on March 13, 1950; organized in the aftermath of the band's complete financial failure. Throughout America modern jazz groups were trying to imitate the voicings and complex scores propagated by Miles, yet the public refused to appreciate the fountain-head. An ironic gesture. So typical of the crave for sensationalism in jazz. Musical value is ignored. Anything bizarre and pretentious is automatically swallowed. This session was Miles' swan-song as a leader, but still a tribute to his sincere ideals.

With him in the studio that day were Jay Jay Johnson, Gunther Schuller (French horn), John Barber, Lee Konitz, Gerry Mulligan, John Lewis, Al McKibbon (bass) and Max

Roach. McKibbon, another fine bassist, plays with a full, clean tone. He'd played on and off with Gillespie since 1947. Like Nelson Boyd he imparted a definite drive behind the group. Again four scores were used at the session: the two standards, “Darn That Dream” and “Moon Dreams,” Miles' “Deception” and Gerry Mulligan's “Rocker.” “Darn That Dream” has an impressive score built by Gil Evans around Kenny Hagood. It proves a most intelligent setting for the voice within a jazz group. While Kenny's expression of the melody remains the focal point of attention it appears to ride lightly with the ensemble in the manner of a solo instrument. “Moon Dreams” may also be a Gil Evans score, yet in parts one senses the methods of John Lewis again. There is that same blending of the deeper voices that John introduced with “Boplicity.” Principally it remains an orchestral feature. The solo work is limited to four bars from Lee Konitz and four from Mulligan. (Miles's trumpet is used sparingly as a lead instrument, occasionally playing accents to the wistful melodic line.) One central passage strongly recalls the Lewis touch. From Mulligan's solo the instruments assemble for an ascending phrase, then are one by one peeled away until only a sustained high note from Konitz remains; a thin, watery sound, quite the extreme from the rich ensemble which moments later engulfs it. “Deception” and “Rocker” use faster rhythms. The former has a complex interplay of instruments but reveals a chord sequence based on Shearing's “Conception.” Mulligan's tune is a thirty-two bar, with the main-eight revolving around a reiterated three-note phrase. For this score the saxist again built a second theme over the chord sequence. He features it in a central ensemble chorus, then breaks the pattern in eight bars of solo baritone to reintroduce the original melody.

Perhaps the most unfortunate feature of the band's dissolution lay in the section of its score-book which remained unrecorded. Several items like “Broadway Theme” (a Max Roach feature), John Lewis's “S’il Vous Plait” and another Evans-Hagood collaboration, “Why Do I Love You?,” were privately recorded during Royal Roost concerts. Yet part of the repertoire has presumably been shelved for ever. While so much musically sterile material was being recorded at a prolific rate by commercial groups the precious Davis book received only a coating of dust.

One of the most significant qualities of true jazz is its durability. The records we have by this short-lived band even today do not appear in the least dated by the latest developments in jazz. No one can claim to have advanced upon the Davis formula and yet still be creating jazz. Certain musicians have introduced new technical devices, but the frantic search for fresh sounds has not innovated a modern voicing to out-class the nine-piece unit of Miles. And while the band as an active force may have been silenced, its individual musicians have continued to infiltrate their ideas through to the newer experiments in jazz. Konitz, after having absorbed much of the Tristano influence, turned to a big band and stamped the cool alto style of the younger white modernists. Mulligan, via arranging for Kenton and Elliot Lawrence, made his way to the West Coast, where he innovated the designs for a piano-less quartet and a ten-piece group which partly followed the path of Miles' band. John Lewis laid the foundations for the written side of the New York school. Miles, Jay Jay and Max Roach began to shape the solo styles of the younger New Yorkers. The nine-piece unit was the last real act of co-operation by the white and coloured factions of the younger modernists. These factions have now gone their separate ways. As a result the racial affinity of ideas which came through the Minton movement has been torn asunder. The younger Negro modernists feel unable to participate in the trends of white technical development now growing on America's Pacific Coast. They are guarding more jealously the emotional elements of jazz in their search for advancement. In consequence the same separation of white and coloured jazz which existed with the swing era of the thirties has now returned.”

Roy Eldridge - "Swingin' on the Town"

 © Copyright ® Steven Cerra, copyright protected; all rights reserved.

When they first came out in the late 1990s, I snapped up as many of the three dozen or so limited edition Verve Elite series CDs as I could while they were still available.

And why not?

The were packaged in beautiful multifold paper cases, with handsome jewel case artwork, loads of photographs and music by many of my favorite artists including Louie Bellson, Art Blakey, Ray Brown, Buddy DeFranco, Illinois Jacquet, Tal Farlow, Lee Konitz, Yusef Lateef, Sonny Stitt and Ed Thigpen - artists who had had a long association with impresario Norman Granz and his Jazz at The Philharmonic concerts [JATP] and/or had recorded for his various labels over the years including Clef, Norgran and, of course, Verve.

One of my earliest purchases in the select list of issues was Roy Eldridge: Swingin’ on the Town [Verve 314 559 828-2] which was originally released as a Verve LP in 1960 with Roy’s mellifluous and swinging trumpet accompanied by Ronnie Ball [p], Benny Moten [b], and Eddie Locke [d].

Roy is often characterized as the trumpet player whose phrasing bridged Louis Armstrong’s style of playing to the modernists such as Dizzy Gillespie, Fats Navarro and Clifford Brown. Since all Jazz musicians are said “to come from someone” in terms of influences on their playing this is probably true to some extent.

What is irrefutable are these assertions about Roy’s legacy by the highly regarded English Jazz critic Benny Green which form the original liner notes to Roy Eldridge: Swingin’ on the Town  Verve Records – MG VS-68389

“What a blessing Roy Eldridge is to those of us whose job it is to see the development of Jazz music as a single continuous process instead of a huge chaotic accident dominated by geniuses who just happen along every so often. It is one of those convenient over-generalisations of jazz theorising that Eldridge is the logical link between the classic style of Louis Armstrong and the revolutionary innovations of Dizzy Gillespie. There is a great deal of truth in this statement, but it always seems to me to reduce Eldridge himself to the proportions of a stepping-stone from one great man to another, which is gross aesthetic injustice.

There is a misconception on the part of the laity, and some critics too, that each new stylistic development is supposed to be an improvement on the fashions it has replaced, and that progress is a synonym for improvement, a kind of artistic demonstration of the old Shavian dictum "Onwards and Upwards''. Well, Dizzy Gillespie himself has punctured that one. He has testified to the fact that one of the factors which inspired him to evolve a personal approach to improvisation was the fact that he could never seem to approach the standard of his great hero Roy Eldridge, and it is true that some of the historic recordings of Little Jazz in prewar clays stand as perfect examples of the jazz art.

Today Eldridge, like many others of his generation, is demonstrating on album after album that the years are having little effect on his instrumental prowess. When Eldridge toured Britain with JATP a few months ago his was easily the outstanding musical contribution, for he played with a power and imagination which blew several of his fellows off the stand. At one concert he performed with such enthusiasm that he split the seam in his trousers. Later in the band room he showed me this split with some pride.

On this album there is one moment of captivating historical interest, and it occurs on "Sweet Sue". After stating the theme Eldridge moves into his first chorus of jazz. And immediately pushes the clock back thirty-two years to a day in 1928 when Bix Beiderbecke, surrounded by the lumbering legions of Paul Whiteman's circus, blew some jazz on the same "Sweet "Sue". On that day Bix, pushing aside the hindrances of stodgy accompanists and idiot vocalists, created a musical fragment which possessed a wonderful skipping gaiety, and Eldridge, no doubt appreciative of the fact, quotes Bix almost verbatim over the first eight bars. Within a few moments Eldridge has moved on to harmonic movements which belong to a period far more sophisticated musically than Bix's day, and it is this very quality of eclecticism in the players of Eldridge's generation which makes them such stimulating listening. Eldridge, who has lost none of his high spirits as a man (in Britain he is always the most courted of the visiting raconteurs), has lost none of them as a Jazzman either. After only a few bars of, for instance, "The Way You Look Tonight", one senses that old quality of pent-tip excitement, that feeling that power latent is behind the power actually expressed. It is at these moments that I find it so hard to believe that Roy Eldridge is several inches shorter than I am. One should never go by appearances.”

--BENNY GREEN

The Observer, London

Personnel:  Roy Eldridge, trumpet; Ronnie Ball, piano; Benny Moicn. bass; Edward Locke, drums.

When Roy Eldridge: Swingin’ on the Town [Verve 314 559 828-2] was released as a Verve Elite CD in 1999, Alun Morgan, another of England’s many knowledgeable writers and critics about Jazz provided these booklet notes: 

“When the bebop movement made its impact on the jazz scene, Roy Eldridge found himself marginalized by some jazz writers. He was relegated to the position of a link between Louis Armstrong and Dizzy Giliespie, a gross and inaccurate oversimplification. Eldridge was very much his own man, with a unique style and a career that included years of experience with big bands (Teddy Hill, Fletcher Henderson, Gene Krupa, Artie Shaw}, his own small groups, and units led by such men as clarinetist Benny Goodman and saxophonist Coleman Hawkins, plus tours with Norman Granz's Jazz at the Philharmonic troupe. The album Swingin' on the Town is typical of the quartets he led for nightclub engagements in the late Fifties.

In the jazz pantheon, Eldridge was a true giant: his nickname "Little Jazz" referred only to his physical stature, it was a sobriquet given to him by alto saxophonist Otto Hardwicke when the two of them were working for banjoist Elmer Snowden in 1931. As Eldridge told it, "I was very small at the time. I weighed about a hundred and eighteen pounds — soaking wet — and I used to play all the time. If I couldn't play on the bandstand I'd go in the men's room and play. Otto caught me there one night and said, ‘I’m going to call you Little Jazz because you've always got that horn in your face,' and the name stuck."

A strong competitive spirit and a compulsion to play at every opportunity were important qualities in Eldridge's makeup from his earliest days. Born in Pittsburgh on January 30, 1911 (the same year as fellow trumpeters Buck Clayton, Cootie Williams, Yank Lawson, Bill Dillard, and Louis Prima), Eldridge started out on drums at the age of six, encouraged initially by his brother Joe, three years his senior. But it was Joe who later convinced Roy that he should switch his talents to the trumpet, largely because he felt that his younger brother lacked the physical stamina to carry a drum kit from one gig to the next.

"But I was lazy," Eldridge told Leonard Feather. "I barely learned my solfeggio, and couldn't read music." He was sixteen when he left home to play with the Nighthawk Syncopators, a band of young musicians all with one thing in common: None of them could read a note.

By now Eldridge had learned to play Hawkins's solo on the Henderson band's recording of "Stampede", a feat that got him a job with a carnival band in Youngstown, Ohio. His inability to read a score was seriously affecting his professional career, but his empirical approach to the trumpet was not without its compensations, as he explained in a 1977 BBC interview with Charles Fox:

“From my mother I had developed an ear. Anything I heard, classical or anything, I could automatically play. I didn't know what key I was playing in but I could automatically play. That's why today all the trumpet players, like Dizzy, say to me, 'I don't know how you finger things like that,' and it's because I didn't know what I was doing, I never knew the legitimate way to do things. I just played what came out.”

It was his brother who insisted that Eldridge make the effort to learn the rudiments of music. And it is some measure of the trumpeter's determination to succeed that he was eventually employed by CBS Radio in 1944 to work in the studios as a member of an orchestra fronted by Paul Baron, which also contained such jazz stalwarts as pianist Teddy Wilson, xylophonist-vibraphonist Red Norvo, and trumpeter Charlie Shavers. He told Feather, "It's a nice feeling at first to know that you can make it, that you can read well and fast enough. But after the thrill of reading, I mean of blowing along with everyone else and not having to have an orchestra of thirty men stopped because of you, then what do you have? Playing the same thing again and again becomes monotonous. I guess I don't have the temperament for it. That's why I've stayed with jazz."

Here lies the key to Eldridge's success as an outstanding jazz soloist. He had mastered the academic side of his profession, but his heart lay in the creation of spontaneous improvisation. The very sound of his instrument immediately stamps his identity on the music; a handful of notes at the beginning of a soio and the listener knows that he is hearing Roy Eldridge. His involvement with his music was total, and a strong emotional quality was always manifest. Don Ferrara, a fellow trumpeter who contributed a column to Metronome magazine in the Fifties, wrote, "When Eidridge plays it's his feelings rather than his fingers which push the valves down" — surely one of the most penetrating statements ever made about Eldridge's playing.

The writers who dismissed Eldridge as merely a link between Armstrong and Gillespie were obviously unaware of his upbringing. His first influences were Rex Stewart and Bobby Stark, both members of the Fletcher Henderson trumpet section in the late Twenties and early Thirties, but he was also very impressed by the work of two saxophonists, Coleman Hawkins and Benny Carter. In fact, he did not hear Louis Armstrong in the flesh until 1931. He admired Armstrong greatly, but Armstrong was never a major figure in Eldridge's development as a soloist in his own right.

The competitive spirit was strong, and Eldridge always tried to play higher and faster than anyone else: "I started to feel that if I could combine speed with melodic development while continuing to build, to tell a story, I could create something musical of my own that the public would like." The public certainly liked what he did to "Rockin' Chair" and "Let Me Off Uptown" when he played them with the Gene Krupa band in the Forties. At Jazz at the Philharmonic concerts, Eldridge was the spark plug, the man who could move the excitement level up several notches in his opening chorus. But there was an unhappy period when he felt that public acceptance of the beboppers was likely to leave him stranded, a jazz anachronism in a rapidly changing world.

An offer to tour Europe with Benny Goodman's sextet in the spring of 1950 seemed the perfect excuse to remove himself from the New York jazz scene long enough to take stock of his position. In fact, he did not return home with the Goodman group but stayed on in Paris until April 1951, making records and enjoying the adulation of French audiences. It was a break that restored his self-confidence, and his return to America was the beginning of a new and successful chapter to an already noteworthy career.

Norman Granz put him in the studio with a succession of similarly talented and individual players, such men as saxophonists Coleman Hawkins, Lester Young, Sonny Stitt, Stan Getz, and Benny Carter, pianists Oscar Peterson and Art Tatum, and drummer Buddy Rich. "He's purely my kind of musician," Granz told Leonard Feather. "I always want the guy who thinks he's a bitch. Coleman Hawkins does, but in a 'quiet contempt' sort of way. Roy has that extra ounce of competitiveness, and because he's an emotional guy, he rises to the heights. And he's completely honest, not only musically but as a person."

During the late Fifties Eldridge led his own small group and also worked as a single, appearing frequently at clubs such as the Cafe Bohemia in New York and the Blue Note in Philadelphia. This was the period when supper-club owners found that audiences were attracted to small units playing well-known songs in a comparatively subdued manner. The most successful group of its kind was trumpeter Jonah Jones's quartet, and this may well have been the original concept behind Swingin’ On the Town.

Eldridge uses a mute on nine of the twelve tunes, while drummer Eddie Locke uses brushes throughout. The rest of the group comprises British-born Ronnie Ball at the piano and Benny Moten (no relation to Bennie Moten, the Kansas City pianist-bandleader who once had Count Basie as a sideman) on bass. Locke was Eldridge's first-call drummer for more than twenty years, and the recording sessions from which these sides were made were his very first. Locke was also on hand for one of Eldridge's final dates, a concert at St. Peter's Church in New York City in May 1978. That concert, which also featured trombonist Vic Dickenson, was recorded and later issued as Roy Eldridge and Vic Dickenson With Eddie Locke and Friends.

In his youth, Eldridge had attacked every piece of music as a personal challenge: "I had to play everything fast and double fast. I couldn't stand still. Like a lot of youngsters today, all my ballads had to be double time. I was fresh. I was full of ideas. Augmented chords. Ninths.” When he made this quartet album, he was forty-nine years old, a mature and experienced player with an appreciation of melody. Some of his most attractive ballad playing will be found here, each note given its correct value, the trumpet tone as individual and expressive as ever.

He plays the Erroll Garner ballads "Crème de Menthe" (Garner's title for the instrumental that became better known as "Dreamy" once lyrics were added) and "Misty" unmuted, giving the listener the opportunity to enjoy that golden sound and perfect control. There are brass men who dislike playing in mute and some who have difficulty in controlling the power of their playing in such circumstances. But Eldridge was a master of mutes (one of his earliest was made from a tin can painted gold), and there are plenty of opportunities to hear his control, starting with the muted wah-wah playing on "Bossa Nova". 

There are many moments to cherish in this program. Eldridge commences with the verse on George and Ira Gershwin's "I've Got a Crush on You", played with the same delicacy that another trumpeter, Bobby Hackett, brought to the melody when he played on Frank Sinatra's memorable 1947 recording of the tune. "Honeysuckle Rose" was always an Eldridge favorite, and even in the context of this album he succeeds in building a three-chorus solo of strength before handing over to Ball, whose playing throughout is relaxed and tasteful. "When I Grow Too Old to Dream" observes the conventions of the "muted jazz" concept, but Eldridge finds it difficult to suppress his natural exuberance in the vamp coda.

Swingin' on the Town was to be Roy Eldridge's last album as leader for some time. A few months after the session took place, Norman Granz sold the Verve label, leaving Eldridge without a recording contract for a time. He continued to work regularly, appearing at jazz festivals in the United States and Europe until October 1980, when he suffered a heart attack. Despite this

setback he managed to make guest appearances as a vocalist; he died on February 26,1989, in a Long Island hospital.

The tributes were many and sincere, for Eldridge had been one of the most admired and loved of all jazz players. As one club owner remarked: "Some of the younger guys with reputations are children. Roy is a man."”

Alun Morgan

February 1999