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Victor Feldman: A Career Overview

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


[The editorial staff at JazzProfiles posted the following as a five-part feature in early 2009. Ever since that time, we’ve wondered how it might read as a single essay. With your kind indulgence, we thought we’d give it a try.]

Mentioning my name in the same context as that of Gene Lees, the late, esteemed Jazz writer, might be the height of presumption on my part, but in doing so in this instance, I mean it only as the basis for a speculative empathy that he and I might have in common.

Because of his close and enduring friendship with Bill Evans, the legendary Jazz pianist, many of us in the Jazz World waited patiently for what could only be termed the definitive work on Bill and his music as provided by Gene Lees, the cardinal writer on the subject of Jazz in the second half of the 20th century.

And yet, while there is an exquisite chapter by Gene about Bill entitled “The Poet” in his compilation, Meet Me at Jim and Andy’s, Mr. Lees never ventured forth with the long-awaited, full-length treatment on Evans.

Wth his passing in April, 2010, the reasons why Gene’s book on Bill Evans never materialized can only be surmised, but perhaps, and this is mere conjecture on my part, Gene was too close to his subject.

Also, he may have been overwhelmed by the immensity of dealing with the size of the footprint that Bill left on Jazz.  Or, it may be, again a supposition on my part, that the loss of his friend was still something that weighed heavily upon him making the task of writing objectively about Evans a difficult one.

If the latter was the case, then I know well the feeling as I have been stymied in publishing something – anything – about Victor Feldman, my friend and mentor, since his death in May, 1987.

And while I keep doing interviews with people who knew Victor and amassing information about him from a variety of sources, I just haven’t been able to organize, what has, by now, grown into a sizeable mass of information, and issue forth with a piece about this immensely talented musician and wonderful human being.

That is, until now.

Three [3] factors prompted me to at least start the process of talking about Victor and his music with this feature.

First, I came across this comment from Peter Keepnews in his 12/28/1997 New York Times review of Ted Gioia’s History of Jazz: [New York: Oxford University Press, 1997]:

“Those of us who have tried writing about Jazz know what a daunting challenge it can be to do it well. Expressing an opinion about a given musician or recording is easy; explaining what exactly it is that makes that musician or recording worth caring about is not.”

Second, I re-read the following qualification or caution from the author Philip Caputo who states:

“No writer ever truly succeeds. The disparity between the work conceived and the work completed is always too great and the writer merely achieves an acceptable level of failure.”

So having been reassured by the likes of Messer’s Keepnews and Caputo that what I have been attempting to do is difficult, but that I should do it anyway, my third motivation to finally write something about Victor Feldman came in the form of an e-mail from Mrs. Shelly Manne in which she asked: “Have you done that piece on Victor, yet?”

The Manne’s and the Feldman’s were great friends and out of respect for that friendship, and my own friendship with Victor, what follows is an initial piece about the advent of Victor Feldman on the American Jazz scene.

In looking back over all of the research that I have accumulated concerning Victor, it is amazing to note how many Jazz musicians held this quiet and unobtrusive man in such high esteem.  And, given such a collective high regard, one cannot help but be as puzzled as Mrs. Shelly Manne when she commented to me: “Why is it that no one ever talks about him? It’s such a shame. He was a terrific musician and Shelly had so much respect and admiration for him.”

So let’s rectify this glaring omission and talk about Victor Stanley Feldman, born in London, England, April 7, 1934, for as Joe Quinn commented in his liner notes to Vic Feldman on Vibes – Mode LP/V.S.O.P. #13 CD] :

“By any standard of comparison, Vic Feldman is an extraordinary musician.”

Victor Feldman was a prodigiously talented musician, arranger and composer whose time in the Jazz spotlight lasted only a relatively short while. He left it for a financially lucrative career in the recording studios and the world of popular music, including writing for Joni Mitchell and Steely Dan, primarily between the years 1965-85.

Because of his amazing displays of virtuosity on drums at a very young age he achieved early notoriety in his native England as “Kid Krupa.” Yet, after he left Woody Herman’s orchestra, and with the exception of a few gigs to help pay the rent while settling into Los Angeles in 1956, he would rarely played the instrument in public again, preferring instead piano and vibes.
Listening [and watching] Victor Feldman play drums was a jaw-dropping experience, especially if you were a drummer and knew how difficult it was to play at Victor’s very high level of preciseness, power and speed.  Stan Levey, Shelly Manne, Colin Bailey and John Guerin knew what very few others in the US Jazz world were even aware of and that was that Victor Feldman was one of the best drummers on the planet – bar none.

Ever the showman, Woody Herman knew what he had in Victor and would come to feature him nightly in an extended drum solo on “Mambo the Most.”

Thanks to a friend in New Zealand, who has a fantastic knowledge of Jazz in general and Woody Herman in particular, I was able to hear Victor play this feature on a 1956 radio broadcast by the band at the New Lagoon in Salt Lake City. I would venture to say that if you gave this track to 10 drummers as a “blindfold test” that 9 out of 10 would swear they were listening to one of Buddy Rich’s extended, solo masterpieces.
Unlike Rich, who had never studied formally, Victor had studied drums in London as a young lad, beginning at the age of six.  But like Rich, Victor had as Stan Levey observed in the March 20, 1958 issue of Downbeat, “… that God-given talent.”

According to a 1999 e-mail that I received from Mr. Lawrence Woolf, who went to school with both Victor and tenor saxophonist Tubby Hayes:

“We all attended school together in the North London suburb of Edgware. Victor was only a fair student. He was more interested in tapping on his desk and humming along. Sometimes he got ‘balled out’ over it by teachers and students alike!

His Uncle, Max Bacon, a standup comic and quite good drummer was teaching Victor to play drums which he took to ‘like water.’ Vic would talk and think about nothing else but ‘Being the best drummer in the world.’

To cut a long story short, he became a child drum prodigy and played the Music Halls across Englandunder the careful eye of his Uncle Max. Vic became a guest drummer with the Ted Heath and Ambrose orchestras and appeared on BBCradio. …

In my opinion Victor Feldman [rest in piece] was one of the most underestimated musician’s ever born.”

Victor’s drumming mates in England such as Allan Ganley and Tony Crombie, shown in this photograph taken while Victor was making one of his appearances at Ronnie Scott’s club at Number 39 Gerrard Street in London, knew of his protean prowess on the instrument, and another drummer, Ronnie Stephenson, who worked with Victor at Ronnie’s club in 1965 said of him: “He could just take your breath away with his combination of speed and power.  You just had to put it out of your mind to be able to play drums behind him.”

Victor’s voyage of discovery to the U.S.A. is explained by John Tynan in his article entitled A Long Way from Piccadillythat appeared in the June 6, 1963 edition of Downbeat.

During the interview with John that makes up most of the article, Victorrecounted thatit was during his tenure with Ronnie Scott’s band that he made the crucial decision to emigrate to the United States. “I remember Ronnie saying – and I respected him and still do – one day in a café, with a certain look on his face that I should go to America. The way he said it, he seemed so sure. I had been thinking of it in my mind, and it gave me added confidence.”

The year was 1953 and by then, Victor had become a multi-instrumentalist drummer, pianist vibist, having studied the latter in London with Carlo Krahmer, a well-known London mallet man.  He has also spent a bit of time studying piano as well as theory, composition and harmony at the London College of Music, beginning at the precocious age of 15.

In July, 1954, at the beginning of a tour of Europe, the Woody Herman Band shared a bill with Ronnie Scott’s group at the U.S. Air Force base at Scunthorpe, England. Gene Lees in his Leader of the Band: The Life of Woody Herman [New York: Oxford University Press, 1995] noted: “One of the members of the Scott group was Victor Feldman, a young virtuoso of drums, piano and vibes by whom Woody was impressed.” [p. 212].

Victor shared in the Tynan Downbeat article that while at Scunthorpe :

“’I got to know some of the Herman sideman including Al Porcino [lead trumpet], Chuck Flores [drummer], Bill Perkins [tenor sax], Nat Pierce [pianist] and Cy Touff [bass trumpet].’ Their brief encounter with the young Englishman was probably forgotten by most of them, but later, in New York, it was to be happily remembered.

In October, 1955, Feldman made the plunge and sailed on the French liner Liberte’ landing in New Yorkon October 25th. … Fate, as they say, took a hand in Feldman’s destiny. Woody Herman was in town and Feldman ran into Cy Touff who asked him if he was interested in joining the band.

Shortly thereafter, Cy and Nat Pierce took Victor to a band rehearsal where Woody offered him the vibes position in the band previously held by Red Norvo, Marjorie Hymans, Terry Gibbs and Milt Jackson. [Lees, p. 219]

Thus began another chapter in Victor’s “love-hate relationship” with going on the road for as he explained to Tynan:

“I didn’t want to go on the road. Even as great a feeling as it was – to go with Woody’s band – I just didn’t want to go on the road, because I know how my physical and mental capabilities work on the road. It’s a bit too rough for the kind of personality I am. But naturally I just couldn’t turn it down. … Woody was so nice and everything. He made me feel so relaxed.”

Before leaving with Woody, Victor had made a prior arrangement to record an album for Keynote Records and set about making arrangements for the date.  Bassist Bill Crow tells the tale of this ill-fated Feldman, Keystone recording session in his book From Birdland to Broadway [New York: Oxford University Press, 1992, pp. 119-120].

“One night [in 1955] a young man sat at the HickoryHouse bar listening and smiling as we played [the Marian McPartland Trio featuring Bill Crow on bass and Joe Morello on drums]. When our set was finished, he introduced himself as Victor Feldman. The talented English vibraphonist had just arrived in New York, and had come to meet Marian. He said he liked the way Joe and I played together.

‘I’m doing an album for Keynote,’ Victor told us, ‘and I’d like you guys to do it with me. I’ve already sort of promised it to Kenny Clarke, so I’ll have him do the first date and Joe the second. I’ve got Hank Jones on piano.

Both dates went beautifully. Victor had written some attractive tunes, and he and Hank hit it off together right away. We couldn’t have felt more comfortable if we’d been playing together for years. Victor was glad to have the recording finished before he left town to join Woody Herman’s band.

The next time I ran into Vic, he told a sad story. The producer at Keynote had decided to delay releasing the album, hoping Victor would become famous with Woody. But the next Keystone project ran over budget, and when he needed to raise some cash, the producer sold Victor’s master tapes to Teddy Reig at Roost Records. Vic came back to New York, discovered what happened, and called Reig to find out when he planned to release the album.

‘Just as soon as Keystone sends me the tape,’ said Reig.

Vic called Keystone to ask when this would take place, and was told the tape had already been sent. A search of both record companies offices failed to locate the tape, and as far as I know it was never found. It may still be lying in a storeroom somewhere, or it may have been destroyed.

Since Keystone announced the album when we did the date, it was listed in Down Beatin their “Things to Come” column, and that information found its way into the Bruyninckx discography, but now that Vic and Kenny are both gone, that music exists as a lovely resonance in the memories of Joe, Hank and myself.”
Kindly responding to an inquiry from me in March, 1997, bassist Bill Crow had this to say about Victor’s approach to Jazz:

“I just liked everything I heard him play, and I liked the physical feeling of playing with him. He generated a good strong swing and communicated his enthusiasm for music in a very generous and enjoyable way.  He chose good chord sequences, had a strong ear for the original melody, and knew that jazz is about having fun with music. I wish I’d had more chances to play with him.”

While on the Herman band, in addition to the players that he had met in London, also on Woody’s band were pianist Vince Guaraldi, tenor man Bob Hardaway and bassist Monty Budwig, all from California and all of whom would ultimately play a role in Victor’s decision to stay on the West Coast after his playing days with Woody’s band were over.

After nine months on the road, Woody disbanded and took a small group into Las Vegas and later into California.  Victor recalled: “I liked theWest Coast. Vince Guaraldi [who was from San Francisco] had been telling me about it and he said I would like it better out there. He was right. I feel there’s more of a compromise between the European way of life and the New York mad-house.”

When Woody’s small band disbanded, Victor returned to England for a short vacation, but by then his mind way made up and, although he came back to the states to do a second nine-month stint with Woody, he ultimately left the band and at the “ripe old age” of 23, opted to come to Los Angeles and take up residence in 1957.

As Tynan describes: “Before locating a cheap flat in Hollywood, Feldman stayed at the homes of Monty Budwig and Bob Hardaway. Then he began exploring the jazz scene.”

Victor went on to say: ‘I met Leroy Vinnegar and played with him. And I met Carl Perkins. Carl showed me a lot. I learned a lot just from watching him and going around to his house. He didn’t know the name of any chord, hardly; he didn’t know much more than what a C minor or a C major was, or a major or minor chord. But the way he voiced his chords – I never heard anything like it in my life.’”

Victor arranged four of the seven tunes on Leroy Walks! [Contemporary S-7542; OJCCD-160-2] and since the other three tunes on the album were “head” arrangements, to essentially arrange all the tunes and play on one’s very first recording in Los Angeles is a rather impressive way to make one’s mark in new, musical surroundings. Nat Hentoff concluded his liner notes comments about him by declaring: “He is a flowing swinger with a forcefully inventive conception.”

Victor also toured briefly with clarinetist Buddy De Franco’s quartet in 1957 [the gig that actually brought him to L.A.] and although they didn’t record together at that time, when in 1964 Buddy wanted to do an album playing primarily the bass clarinet for Vee Jay he asked Victor to fly into Chicago for the recording. The result was Blues Bag [Vee Jay VJS-2506] on which Victor plays piano and he and Buddy are joined by Victor Sproles on bass, Art Blakey on drums and, on two tracks, Lee Morgan on trumpet and Curtis Fuller on trombone.

Five of the seven compositions follow a standard blues pattern including Monk’s Straight, No Chaser, Coltrane’s Cousin Mary and Ornette Coleman’s Blues Connotation. The other two, Kushby Dizzy Gillespie and Rain Dance by Victor are according to Leonard Feather“unmistakably related to the blues if only by indirection.” Leonard commented further about Rain Dance:

 “This unusually attractive Victor Feldman composition is the only track in the album for which, in the ensemble passages only, De Franco reverts to soprano clarinet. Blended with Morgan’s trumpet and Fuller’s trombone, this gives the ensemble a highly engaging sound in Feldman’s ingenious voicings. The chorus is oddly constructed, consisting mainly of two 16-bar stanzas followed by a six-measure linking interlude. Morgan and Fuller are both featured in solos on the tune’s beguiling changes.”

However, it would be unfair to paint a picture of Victor landing in Los Angeles in 1957 and simply “taking it by storm” by launching into a recording career replete with arranging assignments while writing a host of original compositions. At this juncture, it might be helpful to point out that Victor had a substantial and significant career involving performing, writing and arranging in England before coming to the United States.

[As an aside, Victor’s rather extensive recording career in London before emigrating to the United States will be the subject of another Jazz Profiles feature at a later date].

Suite Sixteen: The Music of Victor Feldman [Contemporary C-3541; OJCCD-1768-2] contains a sampling of Victor’s work done in England in 1955 just before he immigrated to the United States.  Recorded with a host of fine British musicians including Jimmy Deuchar and Dizzy Reece [tp], Derek Humble [as], Tubby Hayes, Ronnie Scott [ts] and Tony Crombie or Phil Seamen [d], these recordings feature the music of Victor Feldman in Big Band, Septet and Quartet settings.

As Lester Koenig, Contemporary Records owner and the producer of this album commented in his liner notes: 

“The album is an authentic musical portrait of Victor Feldman at the peak of his career in England, and shows him to advantage as a performer on three instruments [drums, vibes and piano], composer, arranger and leader.”

As composed and arranged by Victor, the fiery and intricate big band tracks alone such as Cabaletto and Maenya are worth “the price of admission” for this album.

What becomes very obvious to the listener about “The Music of Victor Feldman” on Suite Sixteen and ultimately on all of his recordings is everything that is significant about it has to do with rhythm, or to paraphrase Bill Crow: “he generates a good strong swing and I liked the physical feeling of playing with him.”

The significance of rhythm in Jazz cannot be overemphasized.

As Wynton Marsalis stressed in his interview with Ben Sidran published in Talking Jazz: An Oral History in 43 Jazz Conversations [New York: Da Capo, 1995, p.344]:

“… harmonyis not the key to our musicHarmony is used in motion. And motion is rhythm. And rhythm is the most important aspect. I mean everything is important. But whenever you find a valid rhythmic innovation, the music changes. … You change the rhythm, you change the music.”

Perhaps it was the fact that he started in music as a drummer and continued on as a vibraphonist and ultimately as a pianist – two other percussive instruments -  but there was a distinct physicality to Victor’s music.  Victor’s orientation is always rhythmic first which perhaps also explains why drummers such as Shelly Manne, Stan Levey and Frank Butler loved to work with him.
1957 was a turning point in Victor’s career for a Victor explains it: “I was very fortunate in ending up at The Lighthouse in Hermosa Beach, CA.” [Tynan interview].

In a conversation I had with Howard Rumsey in 1999 at a Los Angeles Jazz Institute commemorating the 50th anniversary of Jazz at The Lighthouse, Howard remembers Victor approaching him about his need for a vibes player. Howard replied that “I could really use a piano player.”

At the same event, I asked drummer Stan Levey, who was a member of the Lighthouse All-Stars when Victor came on the band for his recollection of how it all began. Stan said that “When he auditioned for the job, he was barely able to gig as a Jazz pianist. He rented a piano and woodsheded  [practiced] for two weeks. When he came on the gig, his piano playing was right there.”

In the Tynan interview, Victor talked about his time at the club: “I ended up working at the Lighthouse for eighteen months. … The Lighthouse was what set me on my feet because it was a steady gig. Howard was very nice to me, and it was a ball playing with Rosolino and Levey and Conte. Bob Cooper, too. It was a very relaxed atmosphere.”

In a concerted effort to flunk out of high school, I started attending the Lighthouse regularly a short time after Victor joined the All-Stars, primarily on Sundays when they would play from 2 PM to 2 AM, but also on the occasional weeknight.

As an aspiring Jazz drummer, it was late on one of the sparsely attended weeknights that I summoned the courage to go up to Stan Levey, always an imposing figure, to ask him a question about some aspect of the mechanics of playing the instrument.

The band members usually congregated along the back wall of the club between sets.  When I approached Stan and asked my question he replied: “ you don’t wanna talk to me about that sh**; I’m self-taught. The guy you want to talk to is sitting over there [nodding toward Victor sitting alone at an adjoining table]. He even knows the names of all the drum rudiments!”

At the time, I had no idea that Victor played drums.  I soon found out as he thoroughly answered my question as well as demonstrating the answer. Shortly thereafter, Victor Feldman agreed to offer me lessons.

In an interview with he and fellow guitarist Pat Martino conducted by Jim Macnie for the March 1997 issue of Downbeat Les Paul commented: “We learn so much if we’re wise enough or lucky enough to listen to the right players.”  I certainly “got lucky” in meeting Victor when I did as he proved to be a kind and gentle mentor from whom “I learned so much.”

During his year-and-a-half stay at The Lighthouse, Victor began getting more and more calls for a variety of recording dates including the previously mentioned Vic Feldmanon Vibes [Mode LP 120; V.S.O.P. #13 CD], the first recording date under his own name since arriving in Los Angeles..
Significantly, this date would include Carl Perkins on piano, from whom Victor had learned so much about chord voicings [the method in which notes are played together in particular, vertical structures], in a rhythm section completed by Leroy Vinnegar on bass and Stan Levey on drums.

As his front-line mates Victor chose Frank Rosolino on trombone and Harold Land on tenor saxophone.  The group performs six tunes, four of which are Victor’s originals including his striking Evening in Paris, a tune that was to become a fixture in the Lighthouse All-Stars repertoire.

Victor preferred the hard driving and “harder” sound that Rosolino projected and he was absolutely enamored with the big, bluesy “Texas-tenor” style of Land.  In combination, Rosolino and Land produced what Leonard Feather described as “a more vigorous California sound.”

Interestingly, with the exception of Victor replacing Carl Perkins on piano, this same group would re-unite as a quintet a year later under Frank Rosolino’s leadership for an album that was eventually released under the title of Free For All [Specialty SP-2161; OJCCD-1763-2].

1958 opened with Victor going into a Contemporary Records studio along with Scott LaFaro on bass and Stan Levey on drums to record The Arrival of Victor Feldman [Contemporary S7549; OJCCD-268-2], a recording that was to become in many ways the most noteworthy of his career.

As Victor recounts in Nat Hentoff’s liner notes: “It was shortly after he began working at the Lighthouse that Victor, Scott LaFaro and Stan Levey started playing together, first at the club, and then “we felt so good we played on our own.”

As taken from my interview with him at the 50th Anniversary Lighthouse celebration, Stan Levey commented about this recording: “The group we had with Scotty was like a moment-in-time and the ‘Arrival album’ is a musical treasure. Victor was an unbelievable player in every way; just listen to him, he was perfection.”

Hentoff goes on to say in his liner notes: “The general consensus of appraisal among those American jazzmen who have heard him is that Victor’s future will be sizeable and rewarding.  It seems to me that … Victor has … [a] naturally organic conception, emotional resources, idiomatic heat and growing individuality.”

In their 6thEdition of The Penguin Guide to Jazz on CD, Richard Cook and Brian Morton offer this evaluation of the “Arrival” album:

“Arrival is a marvelous record, completed just after Victor had settled in Los Angeles. LaFaro’s role in extending the vocabulary of the piano trio is well-documented in his association with Bill Evans, but given how tragically foreshortened his career was , it’s surprising that these sides haven’t received more attention. As ever, the young bassist is firmed-toned, melodic and endlessly inventive, and the interplay with the piano is stunning; long, highly wrought lines round basic bop figuration. Levey’s accents are quietly insistent and the whole recording seems to have been miked very close, as was the practice at the time. “Serpent’s Tooth,’ ‘Satin Doll,’ and ‘There’s No Greater Love’ are the outstanding tracks. This should certainly be in the collection of anyone interested in the evolution of the piano trio in jazz ….”

Victor, Scotty and Stan were recorded by Howard Rumsey later in September, 1958 in a performance at The Lighthouse along with tenor saxophonist, Richie Kamuca. Consisting of two tracks – Sonny Rollins’ Paul’s Pal[misnamed It Could Happen to You on the record] and John Coltrane’s Bass Blues, -  these two tracks were issued along with three cuts by trumpeter Joe Gordon performing with Shelly Manne and His Men at the Lighthouse in 1960 as West Coast Days: Joe Gordon & Scott LaFaro [Fresh Sound FSCD-1030].  One can only hope that more of the music from this great trio will one day surface from The Lighthouse vault.
I recall Victor commenting about this trio in retrospect by saying: “Scotty and I were so young in those days and so caught up in the music that we had no idea of what we couldn’t do.  Stan [Levey] had such great time and laid it down so hard that it made it possible for Scotty to free up the time, something that he really went on to develop later with Bill Evans. But Stan and I were such straight-ahead players that we couldn’t wait for him to start playing in 4/4 and away from the freer feeling. He really set the instrument on a different course”

This recollection harkens back to Wynton Marsalis’ point: “Change the rhythm and you change the music.”

Howard Rumsey, The leader of the Lighthouse All-Stars and the bassist in the group described Scott LaFaro’s accomplishment this way: “His use of two base voices, a falsetto-like solo sound and a full-bodied, well-rounded walking tone timbre, made him an inspiration to most jazz players that heard him or followed him.” [quoted in the insert notes to West Coast Days: Joe Gordon & Scott LaFaro].

Unfortunately, a trio that Stan Levey described as “a moment in time” disbanded when Scotty left for New York in 1959 and Victor decided to move on to other things and to leave The Lighthouse All-Stars. As he told John Tynan, the reason for this decision was “because I felt I had been in one place too long; musically you can stay in one place just so long.”
However, Victor’s availability would prove portentous as it would make it possible for him to participate as a temporary replacement for pianist Russ Freeman in Shelly Manne’s group during its September, 1959 two week engagement at Guido Cacianti’s  Blackhawk at the corner of Turk & Hyde in San Francisco, CA.

One of my earliest impressions of Victor centered around how the All-Stars radiated a crackling, propulsive drive underscored by Stan Levey’s impeccable time coupled with Victor’s percussive and hard-driving piano “comping” [musician-speak for “accompaniment”]. This was a characteristic of Victor’s playing that always impressed me – his drive was formidable as can be heard in any variety of settings and I think it was largely responsible for transforming Shelly Manne’s group in the seminal sessions recorded and issued by Contemporary from the group’s Blackhawk appearances [Contemporary S7577-7580; OJCCD-656-660-2].

Let’s “talk” further about these classic recordings and Victor’s role in helping to make them so singular from the perspective of three authorities on West Coast Jazz: Ted Gioia, author of West Coast Jazz: Modern Jazz in California, 1945-1960 [New York: Oxford, 1992], Bob Gordon, author of Jazz West Coast: The Los Angeles Jazz Scene of the 1950s [London: Quartet, 1990], and Lester Koenig, the owner of Contemporary Records who produced these in-performance albums and wrote their liner notes.
As Gioia describes [pp.279-280]:

“The final newcomer [Shelly reorganized The Men in 1959 adding Joe Gordon on trumpet and Richie Kamuca on tenor sax] to the Manne group for the Blackhawk session was an unexpected last-minute substitution.  Manne regular pianist Russ Freeman had left on a road trip with Benny Goodman around the time of the San Franciscoengagement. Looking for a replacement on short notice, Manne settled on Victor Feldman.

More familiar to some listeners as a vibes player, Feldman made clear his piano credentials during the Blackhawk gig – his ensuing engagement with Cannonball Adderley is reported to be the result of the latter’s favorable response to the Manne recordings. …

Feldman … never gained the jazz reputation he deserved, although he eventually established himself as one of the premier studio musicians in Southern California…. His piano playing was anything but the limited ‘two-fingered’ approach of many doubling vibraphonists and instead revealed a rich harmonic texture, a strong percussive element, and a good sense of space and melodic development.”

Or as Bob Gordon shares [pp.206-207]:

“There was a bit of apprehension about Feldman, who was in effect learning the book on the job, but he fitted in from the start. … Cannonball Adderley was so impressed by Victor’s playing on the [Blackhawk] sides he hired Feldman for his own group.”

And lastly, Les Koenig’s insert note comments:

“Those who know Victor Feldman as a vibes player will be startled to discover that on the Blackhawk set he plays piano only. Whether he is comping for the horns, or soloing, his invention, drive, and basic jazz feeling put him in the front rank of today’s jazz pianists.”

I think the world of Russ Freeman, Shelly’s regular pianist and, having lived for a number of years within a 10 minute drive to Shelly’s Hollywood, CA club, The Manne Hole, I had the opportunity to hear Shelly with a variety of groups. 

Maybe it was because they were trying to keep warm during the damp and cold San Francisco nights, but rhythmically, none of Shelly’s quintets ever sounded as “heated,” and tenaciously tight [together] as the Blackhawk version. To my ears, the indisputable reason for this was the presence of Victor Feldman.  He makes Shelly play differently: more forcefully, with more imagination and more daring.  And these changes in Manne’s playing affect everyone in the group causing them to take more chances, play in a more physical manner and to create what Richard Cook and Brian Morton have called “One of the finest and swingingest mainstream recordings ever made.” [p. 957].

Victor could have that effect on people.  He played drums from the piano stool and booted the band along.

Some years later when I asked Shelly about these dates, he said: “Well, I can’t say it was like having another drummer on these sessions as we both know that he is another one and what a bad-a** drummer he can be.  The feeling is just different with Vic; it’s like looking into a musical mirror only your hearing it, not seeing it.”

I also asked Victor about my observation and he laughed and said” “You have to remember that I had only been playing piano on a regular basis for less than two years when I made the Blackhawk gig.  I didn’t have the facility yet so I would have to fall back on chorded rhythmic phrases, particularly at the end of a long solo. After a bit, I got the feeling that Shelly liked me to bring this into my solos so he could do some things behind it

But what I remember most about that gig was that everybody had a good time. We couldn’t wait for it to start each night.”

Victor Feldman – Part 2: Adderley, Feldman, Hayes & Jones [not a law firm]


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

as to the title of this piece, I thought about calling it “Part 2: The Cannonball Years,” but since Victor was only with Cannonball for less than a full year, I thought that might be overstating things a bit!

I lived in San Francisco for most of the decade of the 1990s. And it was there on  March 4, 1999, a typical, foggy San Francisco late afternoon, that I met with Orrin Keepnews, a hero of mine from my earliest days as a Jazz fan.

We got together in one of the city’s many restaurants serving Asian food, this one with the innocuous name of “The Beach House,” located next to the now defunct Coronet Theater near the corner of Geary and Arguello.

Orrin had very kindly consented to be interviewed about Victor Feldman, particularly about Victor’s time with Cannonball Adderley’s quintet and Victor’s association with Riverside Records which Orrin co-owned with Bill Grauer.

Although they have since become legendary, at the time, The Blackhawk gig [with which we closed Part 1] with Shelly’s group amounted to a couple of weeks of work for Victor plus some out-of-town expenses.

Upon returning to Los Angeles in late September, 1959, Victor had to find work for his trio with Bob Whitlock on bass and John Clauder on drums, who was soon replaced by Colin Bailey.

There was also the matter of what to do about an attractive woman named “Marilyn” [the former Marilyn McGrath] whom he had met during a local gig. Nine months after they met, they married in 1960.

As Victor recounted to John Tynan in his June 6, 1963Downbeat article:

“I decided all of a sudden that I’d like to take her to England. I’d saved some money and we were away for three months. While we were there, I played the Blue Note in Parisand appeared with Kenny Clarke on a DinahShoreTV special.

Cannonball had called me about a month before I went back to England. He called me to make a record with Ray Brown, Wes Montgomery, Louis Hayes and himself. [Cannonball Adderley and the Poll WinnersRiverside S-9355; LandmarkLCD-1304-2].
While we were in England, I got a cable from him with a definite offer as a pianist-vibist with his group.”

Let’s pick up my 1999 interview with Orrin Keepnews at the point of the Julian Cannonball Adderley “Poll Winners” album that was recorded in San Francisco in May, 1960.

According to Orrin, he and Cannonball had decided to use guitarist Wes Montgomery and bassist Ray Brown on the album and this led them to think further about “unusual instrumentation.”  Although there was some talk about Les McCann, the feeling was that he was primarily blues player, but more importantly, Cannonball just didn’t want to use a piano player.The rest of the conversation went as described by Orrin in the album’s liner notes:

“With all the established musicians (including the regular Adderley drummer, Louis Hayes) living fully up to expectations, the surprise element was provided by the then-unknown Victor Feldman.

In view of the unconventional feeling of guitar and bass, Cannon had wanted something less routine than just a piano player. West Coast friends recommended a highly skilled young L.A. studio vibraphonist, recently arrived from England; figuring that we only need him for coloration, we took a chance and invited him up [to San Francisco where the album was being recorded by Wally Heider at Fugazi Hall near NorthBeach].

At rehearsal, Victor sat down at the piano to demonstrate a couple of his compositions. I can still clearly visualize all of us standing there, open-mouthed and thunderstruck, as we listened to a totally unexpected swinging and funky playing of this very white young Britisher.

Finally one of us, struck by an apparent facial resemblance, expressed our mutual amazement. “How can the same man,” I asked, “look like Leonard Feather and sound like Wynton Kelly?”

As you will note, two of Feldman’s tunes [The Chant and Azul Serape] were inserted into the repertoire; and within just a couple of months he had been hired as the Adderley quintet’s regular pianist.”

As was the case at this time, all vibraharpists were quite unfairly cast in the shadow of Milt Jackson, and while, Milt is a super player, Victor’s vibes solo on Frank Loesser’s Never Will I Marry on the Poll Winnersis four choruses of the most sophisticated vibes playing your ever likely to hear.  Not only that, it doesn’t contain one Milt Jackson “lick” nor one repeated phrase.

In the flood of admiration for Milt Jackson’s playing as a vibist, most of it deserving but some of it simply fawning, by the New York-based Jazz writers, Victor’s development of his own, singular approach to playing the instrument was never given the attention it deserved.  Victor was always very respectful of Milt and his contributions, but what he plays during the Never Will I Marry improvisations are inventions that go well-beyond Jackson’s sometimes repetitive, blues-inflected phrasing.
Mike Hennessey in his insert notes to Dynavibes: The Jeff Hamilton Trio featuring Frits Landesbergen [Mons MR 874-794] comments that, Landesbergen, the excellent Dutch drummer who plays vibes on this album, “ … also has a high regard for the late Victor Feldman. He says: ‘Victor was a great, all-round musician who played piano, vibes and drums and who was a fine composer and arranger. I think his vibraphone playing was more advanced harmonically than most other players.”

Victor had one of the most astute harmonic minds in Jazz, a fact that would be exemplified in his ability to re-harmonize something as pedestrian as Basin Street Blues, as well as, to infuse interesting harmonies with advanced rhythmic structures to create tunes like Joshua and Seven Steps to Heaven.  

Returning to the Keepnews interview, Orrin implied that Victor's hiring by Cannonball validated him on the New York Jazz scene. For example, it made possible Victor’s own release on Riverside of Merry Olde Soul, as well as, his appearance on other Riverside album's such as those by James Clay and Sam Jones, who even named one of his Riverside dates after Victor's tune - "The Chant." On this album, Victor shared principal arranging responsibility with Jimmy Heath.

The driving force behind much of this activity was Cannonball who had become a kind of ex officio artists & repertoire man for Orrin at Cannonball. One of the reasons for Cannonball's status in this regard according to Orrin was that, unlike many musicians, "Cannonball was extremely articulate and therefore able to express his ideas very clearly. Cannonball's approval of Victor's playing and his work gained for him instant acceptance with me and some of the giants of the music including Miles Davis who had tremendous respect for Cannon."

Orrin further reflected that had Victor remained in the New York area, the natural course of events would have been such that he would have made a major mark on the Jazz scene. As it was, Miles Davis looked him up when he went to "the Coast" in 1963 and the result was the Seven Steps to Heaven album.

However, the rigors of traveling which impacted adversely on his recent marriage to Marilyn and the monetary lure of the Hollywood studios proved too great and he returned to Los Angeles in 1961.

Since we all live the consequences of our choices, instead of dwelling on “what-might-have-been,” let’s spend time on the recordings that Victor did make while with Cannonball, in concert with others and those he made as a leader as this is a wonderfully productive period in his career.

In their 1963 interview, Victor shared with John Tynan: “Actually, my first gig with Adderley’s band was the 1960 Monterey Jazz Festival [held in September of every year]. I remember, we played ‘Dis Here’ [Cannonball’s earliest “hit recording”] and I got lost on it.”

Ironically, when Victor began his recorded tenure with Cannonball the following month, it landed him right back at his old stomping grounds – The Lighthouse in Hermosa Beach, CA . As Orrin Keepnews commented his insert notes to The Cannonball Adderley Quintet at The Lighthouse [Riverside S-9344; Landmark LCD-1305-2]:

“This was Victor’s first recording with Cannonball’s quintet … and the zest he adds to an already highly-charged unit is certainly among the highlights here.”

This is not hyperbole on Orrin’s part as Victor’s presence is felt throughout this album be it in the form of the I-dare-you-not-to-tap-your-foot during his five solo choruses on Jimmy Heath’s blues tribute to bassist big brother, Percy, entitled Big P, or be it in the form of his intriguing original composition Exodus with its modal vamp and its circle of fifths bridge and which also has Julian saying “Yeah, Vic” to his brilliantly constructed solo on the tune, or be it in the form of his masterful comping on What is This Thing Called Love?, theevergreen that closes out the album [a classic example of Victor “drumming” from the piano chair].

And on this album, it’s easy to discern that one year and one month after the Blackhawk sessions that he recorded with Shelly Manne’s quintet, Victor’s piano chops had come a long way as the improvised lines just flow from his right hand. As is exemplified on Azul Serape, the other original by Victor that Cannonball included in this album, this time the block chord rhythmic riffs are interspersed throughout Vic’s solo and the “tag” that ends the tune instead of being relied on to complete a solo. Victor has more stamina and control while at the keyboard and there’s little doubt that both of these skills would continue to grow as a result of his time with Cannon.

While in town for The Lighthouse appearance, Victor participated on James Clay’s A Double Dose of Soul [Riverside RLP-9349; OJCCD-1790-2]. Recorded on October 11, 1960, it was part of the “Cannonball Adderley Presentation series” and as such was an example of what Orrin meant when he talked about the effects of Cannonball’s patronage on Victor’s career.

Vic, who always had a knack for writing tunes that were rhythmically and harmonically interesting to play on [and plenty of them, too] contributed New Delhiand Pavanne [a Jazz waltz] to the Clay session while playing vibes on these and an up tempo version of the standard I Remember You. On this latter track in particular, you can hear the continued maturity of his vibes playing, especially on the three choruses of four bar “trades” [back and forth solos between flute and vibes, each spanning four bars of the tune] with Clay’s flute following Gene Harris’ piano solo.  His vibes are marked by a clean and accurate attack and a series of interesting harmonic substitutions upon which he builds his improvisations. There is very little of the Milt Jackson blues inflected picks-ups or licks, nor anything that is reminiscent of the heavier, mallet attack of Lionel Hampton or Terry Gibbs in his style. Victor’s vibes “sing out” with notes that are sustained into overtones almost doing the impossible by giving the instrument a “vocal” quality.

Soon after their stint at The Lighthouse, Cannonball’s quintet embarked for a tour of Europe as the group was becoming something of a phenomenon in world-wide Jazz coteries, in no small part due to Riverside’s earlier albums featuring the group, most especially the In San Francisco album Riverside RLP-1157; OJCCD-035-2].

The band traveled as part of a Norman Granz organized Jazz at the Philharmonic package from which two albums were produced on Norman’s Pablo label.

Unfortunately, and perhaps due to contractual consideration, the music from the group’s JATP 1960 European appearances was not released until 25 years after it was recorded.

The first album is entitled What is This Thing Called Soul [Pablo Live 2308-238; OJCCD-801-2] and the tracks were recorded in performance in Paris, France and Göteborg and Stockholm, Sweden in November 1960.  The program on this recording is largely the same as the one the band played on the Riverside, Lighthouse album, but Victor’s The Chant is back and the group turns it into another “down-home-prayer-meeting.” Not surprisingly, Victor offers another soul-stirrin’-solo on his funky 16 bar blues which also includes an ingenious 8 bar bridge to form an ABA structure. His solo on this tune should erase any doubt about his ability to play the blues.

When the LP version was released in 1984, I distinctly remember that this was not a good period for the Feldman Family as Marilyn had been diagnosed with the disease that would claim her life the following year.

I brought the album over to his house and we had a laugh over the tempo for both the version of Jimmy Heath’s Big P and the standard What is This Thing Called Love? as they are reflective of a Jazz truism to wit: the more a group performs a tune, the faster it will play it.  Victor chuckled and said: “You should have heard ‘em by the end of the tour; I thought that Louis Hayes’s right arm was going to fall to the floor.”

Once again these tracks demonstrate what a complete pianist Victor was becoming and going on the band with Cannonball had so much to do with this for as Victor commented: “It was the best thing that could have happened to me because Julian set such a high standard and I wanted to do well to support the faith that he had in bringing me on the band. At first, I didn’t play vibes at all and this helped me in bringing my piano chops up. But you know how it is. There is no substitute for working regularly with a band like Cannonball’s and what it does for your playing.”

By any measurable standard, Victor’s piano playing has improved dramatically on these recordings. On both Azul Serape and What is Thing Called Love, Victor rolls out a much more complete piano technique replete with rapid-fire, single note phrasing, playing across bar lines and block chording that is willing interspersed throughout a solo instead of relied on to complete one.

Although Victor was gone by then, Norman Granz’s “Jazz at The Philharmonic” would issue more from Cannonball’s 1960 European tour with the 1997 release of The Cannonball Adderley Quintet: Paris-1960 [Pablo PACD-5303-2]. It contains what I consider to be one of the best solos by Victor ever recorded with Cannon’s group and if you don’t believe me just listen to Julian in the background during Victor’s six choruses on Nat Adderley’s Work Song, a 16-bar blues.

In his insert notes to the recording, Chris Sheridan, Cannonball’s biographer and the manager of a website devoted to Cannonball comments:

“In the rhythm section, British pianist/vibist Victor Feldman had joined a few months earlier, bringing an articulate single-noted and block-chording style that was closer to Wynton Kelly than his predecessor, Bobby Timmons. The Adderleys were particularly taken with his compositions, which, like the hot gospelling, ‘The Chant,’ fattened the band repertoire…. Remarking on his pianist’s Englishness, Mr. Adderley once observed: ‘He isn’t supposed to have this kind of soul because it’s the other kind of soul.’”

While with Cannonball and living in New York, Victor had the opportunity to record his own album on Riverside, the aforementioned Merry Olde Soul [Riverside RLP-9366; OJCCD-402-2] which was recorded in December, 1960 and January, 1961.
As Orrin Keepnews recalled: “The was no question of using Sam Jones and Louis Hayes on it as by now they had formed quite a rhythm section; I think I was the one who suggested Hank Jones on piano for one session to free up Vic to play vibes on three tracks.”

Ira Gitler was selected to provide the liner notes and he had this to say about some aspects of the recording:

“There are not many albums where all the tracks deserve some comment. Here, each one has something to offer and bears mention. Various influences on Feldman’s style are in evidence, yet because of his own strong personality, he does not emerge as a mere eclectic. There is a great difference between intelligent absorption and imitation.”

Although all of the nine tracks are the album show off various aspects of Victor’s developing style and technique, here are Ira’s comments about four of the tunes. I would only add that Victor’s vibes solo on The Man I Love is one for the ages – an absolute marvel of building tension and release brought about by a musician with an incredible sense of syncopated rhythm, a well-developed feeling for melody and an ever deepening knowledge of harmony.

“Victor opens on piano with ‘For Dancers Only,” a happy, swinging interpretation of the Sy Oliver tune immortalized by the old Jimmie Lunceford band. His chording seems to show a Red Garland influence. Sam Jones has a strong solo and the integration of the trio is perfect: they literally dance. ‘Lisa’ is a collaboration between Feldman and Torrie Zito; its minor changes cast a reflective but Victor’s touch here on vibes still swings. …
On ‘The Man I Love’ (the only no-piano vibes number), Feldman starts out with a light touch similar to his work on ‘Lisa.’ Then he intensifies into a more percussive attack that wails along Jacksonian lines, in a spirit that may put you in mind of Milt’s solo on Miles Davis’ famous version of the tune, but without copying Jackson. He builds and builds into highly-charged exchanges with Hayes before sliding into a lyrical tag.

‘Bloke’s Blues’ is a rolling line that I find somewhat reminiscent of Hampton Hawes. There is an easy natural swing and much rhythmic variety in Feldman’s single line. His feeling is never forced.”

“In this album, his first for ‘Riverside’ as a leader, the spotlight is really on Victor. His piano and vibes are both given wide exposure, and there is a substantial taste of his talents as a composer (of blues and ballads in particular). He proves more than equal to the task of filing a large amount of space with music that consistently sustains interest.”

Later in January 1961, participated in bassist Sam Jones’ big band session based around the Cannonball Adderley quintet of the time. The album took its name from Victor’s oft-played original The Chant [Riverside RLP-9358; OJCCD-1839] and to add honor upon distinction, Victor was asked by Sam Jones, the album’s principal, to prepare some of the arrangements along with Jimmy Heath! Victor shares piano duties on the album with Wynton Kelly and takes the solos on Benny Golson’s Blues on Down and Rudy Stephenson’s Off-Color.

While living in New York and working in Cannonball’s group,  a growing demand for Victor’s presence on albums such as this one was developing, but a few months into 1961 found Victor once again struggling with life on the road.  And to compound matters, Marilyn was pregnant.  After nine months with Cannonball, as Victor recounted to Tynan:

“I was getting that old feeling back again about being on the road, which I’d been on since I was 15. Although I was having a ball playing, there was this tug of war going on with me. Had I been single, I would have stayed maybe a little bit longer.”

Victor returned to Hollywood and experienced the “out-of-sight, out-of-mind’” dynamic as far as the contractors who hire musicians for studio gigs are concerned.

However, no sooner had he found some work in the studios and had his trio performing at The Scene on the Sunset Strip in Hollywood, than a call came in from Peggy Lee to join her for her first European tour.  Since the gig included six weeks in England before heading to the French Riviera for 10 days and Stan Levey on drums, Victor was back on the road again.

The beginning of 1962 found Victor back in the studios with a flood of calls from both Hank Mancini and Marty Paich, among others, and also increasing his activity with his trio including making two recordings during the year.
The first of these was The Jazz Version of Stop the World I Want to Get Off [World Pacific WP-1807]. As Victor told Howard Lucraft, who authored the liner notes:

“I’ve been approached about doing a show album many times. However, this is the first time I made one because this is the first show that has had tunes that make good jazz vehicles.

I tried to make the arrangements as interesting as I could without cluttering the three of us, so that we could relax in our improvising.”

Bob Whitlock was once again on bass because as Victor put it very directly: “I always have Bob with my trio; his greatest asset is his extremely broad knowledge of music.”

Somewhat of a surprise to some, although not to others who knew Victor’s preferences for hard-driving drummers, Lawrence Marable made the date on drums because according to Victor: “Lawrence is one of the finest drummers in the world. I love his time feeling. I love his solos. When he and I play together we reach terrific peaks of excitement. Lawrence has the greatest intuition.”

The nearest thing to a Philly Jo Jones style of drumming on the West Coast, Lawrence, much like Frank Butler [and, of course, Philly], really emphasized the snare drum in his solos.  Whether these were fours, eights or entire choruses, everything came off the snare and Lawrence could really get the thing pulsating and crackling, all of which must have resonated well with Victor’s sensibilities.  This approach to Jazz drums also explains why Victor was so partial to Colin Bailey who loved to put emphasis on the snare during his solos; Colin also has incredible snare to bass drum coordination.
As show tune recordings go, this is a remarkably good, musical album, no doubt because Victor always put so much thought into arrangements for his trio. The album has the added bonus of Victor playing vibes while accompanying himself on piano which he does via “over-dub.”  As Victor comments to Lucraft: “Actually, I like playing vibes this way best, for recording.”

Perhaps it is the presence of Marable, but Victor “comes out smoking” on this album and plays throughout with an air of assurance and forceful determination. You can tell that he has reached a point where what he’s hearing in his head can immediately be transported to his hands, especially on piano. Howard Lucraft expresses this point similarly:

“In the earlier days of his musical career in America, Feldman was, perforce, somewhat eclectic. Today, he has his own distinctive, driving, agile and assured style. His unique, contrasted chordal work and his compelling, chromatic phrases are arresting features.”

 

Victor altered the trio format [“I wanted to hear another voice”] for another of his 1962 recordings – A Taste of Honey and A Taste of Bossa Nova – [Infinity INX LP-5000] by adding tenor sax and flute to his basic trio [and also, Laurindo Almeida on guitar for the bossa nova tunes].

As the title indicates, this recording is an admixture of movie themes and songs associated with movies, although Victor manages to put in another version of his original – New Delhi.

Three different groups each make up four tracks and these include Buddy Collette [ts/fl], Victor [v/p], Leroy Vinnegar [b], Ron Jefferson [d]; Clifford Scott [ts/fl], Victor [v/p], Laurindo Almeida [g], Al McKibbon [b], Frank Guerrero [percussion]; Nino Tempo [ts], Victor [p], Bob Whitlock [b], Colin Bailey [d].

Although the twelve tracks averaging about three minutes each was primarily aimed at commercial radio play and  mass market distribution, there is some very good music on this recording including Buddy Colette’s take on Victor’s New Delhi, the bossa nova version of Anna from the movie The Rose Tattoo for which actress Anna Magnani won the Academy Award and the Nino Tempo version of Walk on the Wild Side with the Feldman-Whitlock-Bailey trio.

As someone who was an indirect beneficiary of the “overage,” I can personally testify to the fact that during 1962, Victor’s studio activity increased dramatically that is until, as Victor described it, “… the temptation to travel reappeared.”  This time it took the form of Benny Goodman’s tour of the Union of the SovietSocialistRepublics which commenced on May 28, 1962. According to Ross Firestone, Swing, Swing, Swing: The Life & Times of Benny Goodman [New York: Norton, 1993]:

“The rhythm section consisted of John Bunch on piano, Turk van Lake on guitar, Bill Crow on bass and Mel Lewis on drums. Teddy Wilson and the vibraphonist Victor Feldman were to be featured on the small group numbers.” [p.409].

Victor returned from the Goodman tour of the USSR, but this time he literally picked up where he left off in terms of studio work as there was so much of it and he was such an accomplished reader, both as a pianist/vibist and as an overall percussionist.  He was also dependable, prompt and courteous, not to mentioned very well-liked by the coterie of contractors and first-call studio players.

Also upon his return from the Soviet Union, Victor signed an exclusive recording contract with Fred Astaire’s Ava records.

The first project that Victor completed for the label was to record three “Jazz Impressions of … “ tracks with Bob Whitlock [b] and Colin Bailey [d] to augment the release of the original sound track by Mark Lawrence to the then highly acclaimed film – David & Lisa: An Unusual Love Story [Ava-AS-21].

But while at Ava records, Victor was at work preparing a real gem of a recording based on compositions that he and Leonard Feather had come across during his trip to Russia with the Goodman band.

Released in 1963, The Victor Feldman All-Stars Play Soviet Jazz Themes [Ava/As 19] is comprised of two recording sessions involving three Soviet Jazz originals, both involving the rhythm section of Bob Whitlock on bass and Frank Butler on drums. The first took place on October 26, 1962 with Victor on vibes, Nat Adderley on cornet, Harold Land on tenor saxophone and Joe Zawinul on piano and the second session was done on November 12, 1962 with Victor on piano and vibes, Herb Ellis on guitar, Carmel Jones on trumpet and Harold Land once again on tenor.

Here are Leonard Feather’s original liner notes that offer a perspective on both the Cold War politics of the time as well as on the Soviet Jazz musicians and their music which Victor represented on this recording.


“There has never been n album quite like this before in the annals of recorded jazz.

The very existence of Soviet jazz, of artists who could play or write it, was virtually unknown outside the USSRuntil 1959. That was the year when two intrepid Americans named Dwike Mitchell and Willie Ruff, in the guise of Yale choral group members, entered the Soviet Union and let it be bruited around that they were really jazz musicians. The resultant impromptu concerts led them to discover that a cadre of young musicians existed whose interest in the American jazz world, bolstered by Voice of Americabroadcasts, was as deep and intense as their feeling for the music.

Three years later, on a more official and far more broadly publicized basis, Benny Goodman's band, the first American jazz orchestra of modem times to play the Soviet Union (under U.S. State Department auspices) opened May 30, 1962, at the Central Army Sports Arena in Moscow. On this tour the brilliant and versatile Victor Feldman played vibraphone in the small combo numbers; and most valuably, during the six weeks of the tour, he gained a fairly broad picture of the musical life of the Russians, the Georgians and other citizens of this endless land.

I was lucky enough to be in Moscowfor the opening. and later to spend a little time in Leningrad. At a press conference I heard much talk of arranging for local jazzmen to sit in with Goodman and show him some of their music. The plans failed to materialize however, for B.G. never sought out these Soviet youths whose music amazed those of us who did get together with them. And aside from token gestures such as the use of a couple of Soviet pop songs, there was no acknowledgement in the band's program that such a phenomenon as Soviet jazz existed.

The aims of Victor Feldman's LP are, first, to compensate for this omission; second, to provide a program of modem jazz by superior soloists with plenty of blowing room; third, to point up the similarities, rather than the differences, that can be found in a comparison of jazz composition as it is conceived in Moscow, Tbilisi or Leningrad vis-À-vis New York, Chicago or Los Angeles.

Soon after arriving in Moscow, we found out that homegrown jazz, supposedly taboo in the USSR, not only wasn't underground or outlawed as had long been believed, but was actually flourishing on a modest scale. It even had young. growing outlets at a Moscow jazz Club, where students earnestly discuss the latest news about John Coltrane or Ornette Coleman, and at a couple of Youth Cafés, where music by the new Soviet jazz wave is often heard live.

Writing in Down Beat about a visit to the Café Aelita. I observed: "It is the closest Moscow comes to a night club … serves only wine, closes at 11 p.m., and is decorated in a style &at might be called Shoddy Modern, though radical by Moscow standards ... the shocker was the trumpet player, Andre Towmosian. who is 19 but looks 14, plays with the maturity of a long-schooled musician, though in jazz he is self-taught."

I learned that Towmosian was acclaimed in the fourth annual Jazz festival at Tartu, Estonia. (It was amazing enough to learn that there had been any Soviet jazz festival, let alone four.) He was also featured with his quartet at the Leningrad
University Jazz Festival; and one of the souvenirs I brought home
was a tape, given me in Leningrad, of Towmosian playing Ritual, the original heard in this album.

Also on tape were some of the compositions of Gennadi (Charlie) Golstain, the alto saxophonist and arranger whose apartment I visited in Leningrad. Though nicknamed for Charlie Parker, clearly he has at least two other idols, for side by
side on the wall of his living room I noticed adjacent photographs of two men: Nikolai Lenin and Julian (Cannonball) Adderley.

Golstain's tapes featured him with a combo similar to the Feldman group an these sides, but he works regularly with a large modern orchestra headed by Yusef Weinstain and writes most of the band's book. He is a soloist of considerable passion,
as yet incompletely disciplined and subject to multiple influences, but his dedication is beyond cavil and his writing shows an intelligent absorption of the right influences.

“Several of the fellows in Benny's band jammed a couple of times with Gennadi at our hotel, the Astoria in Leningrad," Victor recalls, "and some of us, including Phil Woods, played with him at the University., He was eager for knowledge and information, like so many of the musicians we met."

Goldstain is the composer of three of the lines in this set - Blue Church Blues, Madrigal, and Gennadi - as well as the arranger. or virtual re-composer, of the folk song Polyushko Polye.  (For those curious about the first title, it should be pointed out that the church Gennadi had in mind was not Russian Orthodox, but probably Southern Baptist.)

Also represented here is a young arranging student named  Givi Gachechiladze, the composer of "Vic." He lives in Kiev," says Victor, but he's studying at Tbilisi; and when we arrived at the airport there, he and a group of his friends were at the airport to meet us - with flowers. The next day he gave me this tune, dedicated to me and named for me.'

The rapport that grew between the Soviet musicians and the Goodman sidemen showed in microcosm the kind of amity that could exist on all social levels if meetings were possible between men and women of the two countries who have common interests. All of us who tasted the hospitality of these devoted jazz musicians and students were touched by their sincerity, their lack of political animosity (many seemed totally apolitical), and their obvious desire to discuss things shared rather than differences.

The young musicians like Towmosian, Golstain, Constantin Nosvo and Gachechiladze, none beyond their 20s and many in their teens. have not yet earned substantial recognition in their own country.  It is ironic that this is the first album featuring Soviet jazz compositions that has ever been recorded, not merely in the U.S.A., but anywhere in the world. For decades American jazz was at prophet un-honored at home; Europeans were he first to give it profound critical attention. Now, in a strange reversal, Americans are the first to draw attention to a set of swinging, unpretentious Soviet jazz pieces that are still waiting to be recorded on home ground.

The group selected for these two sessions is in itself further reflection of the "United Notions" character of jazz. Here are the works of writers in the Soviet Union, performed in America by a group under the leadership of Victor Stanley Feldman, who came to this country in 1955, at the age of 21, from his native London (the native city also of this writer, who helped organize the sessions); and on the tracks that feature Feldman's vines the piano is taken over by Joe Zawinul, a superb modern pianist who was born in Vienna and did not arrive here until 1 959, Zawinul works regularly with the sextet of Cannonball, whose brother Nat is heard on three tracks (Ritual, Madrigal, Blue Church Blues.)

Harold Land and Herb Ellis, both from Texas, and Carmell Jones of Kansas are well known to the Soviet insiders, as are drummer Frank Butlerfrom Kansas Cityand the Utah-born bassist Bob Whitlock

Certainly these sides, because of the historic precedent they set and because of the esteem in which Feldman and his colleagues are held in what used to be thought of as the borsch and balalaika belt, will be among the most desirable collectors'
items when the first copies reach the Soviet Union. For listeners in this country it is to be hoped that they will help reinforce a concept not of the jazz-as-propaganda-weapon cliché, but the unifying image of this music gathering strength and growing stature as part of a single world.”

It is a great disappointment to those who are familiar with the music on this album that it has never been issued as a commercial CD and, in general, received a wider recognition as the music on it is simply superb by any standard of comparison.

Victor Feldman – Part 3: Miles & Beyond



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

“His keyboard technique is above reproach and is matched by his brilliance on vibes and drums; his knowledge of rhythms and meters, and the possibilities inherent in combining melodic lines with percussion expressions, greatly expounds the sounds of any group within which he works.” [Philip Elwood, The San Francisco Examiner]

These eloquently phrased words of high praise for Victor Feldman were shared by no less a Jazz luminary than Miles Davis, who sought out Victor to perform and record with him during his April 1963 sojourn to the Left Coast.

Ironically, Victor closed his June 1963 Downbeat interview by sharing the following anecdote with John Tynan:

“The other day I was fortunate enough to record with Miles Davis. When I was 16, I went to Pariswith a friend of mine. Charlie Parker was supposed to play; he never did play there. But meanwhile, we’d walk along the Parisstreets and I’d be singing Miles Davis solos. We’d learnt them off the records. I never ever thought I would record with Miles.”

The details for Miles’ trip to California in 1963 are well-documented in a number of sources including Jack Chambers, Milestones 2: The Music and Times of Miles Davis Since 1960 [New York: Morrow, 1985, pp. 54-55].

It seems as though the first quarter of 1963 was A Time of Troubles for Miles when, for a variety of reasons, pianist Wynton Kelly and bassist Paul Chambers, and ultimately, drummer Jimmy Cobb, too, left Miles.  Miles claims these departures came about abruptly. They asserted that they gave him sufficient notice, but that he refused to accept the fact that they wanted to leave.

Whatever the actual reasons for this falling out are beyond the scope of this piece, but the fact of their departure meant that Miles had to hastily put together a rhythm section for upcoming appearances including those at the Jazz Workshop in San Francisco and the It Club in Los Angeles. Pianist Harold Mabern went on the band for a preceding date, but as the time for the Jazz Workshop gig was approaching, it was becoming apparent that things weren’t working between him and Miles.

Miles always had a tremendous respect for Cannonball Adderley and it was he who suggested to Miles that he might turn to Victor and see if he was available to help out during these West Coast gigs.

I recalling Victor sharing that when the call came in from Miles’ booking agent,  he was recording a Viceroy cigarette [do they still make these?] radio jungle [with lots of bombastic percussion], composed no less by Marty Paich, at the RCA sound studios on Sunset Boulevard in Hollywood.

During the rehearsal, someone from the recording engineer’s booth came down and passed Victor a message. He excused himself to make the call and he came back later with a “cat-that-swallowed-the-canary” look that had everyone curious.

With the expensive recording studio meter running, everyone had to wait until they were packing up before he told them the good news that Miles wanted him to come up to San Francisco for the Jazz Workshop gig.

The bad news was that Victor was on the Hollywood ABC TV staff orchestra at the time and was forced to tell Miles that he could arrange with the show’s contractor to get a few days off “… while you try to get someone else.”

As Victor recounted in an interview with Les Tomkins while in England in 1969:

“It was enjoyable, although I didn’t know any of the things we had to play. And Miles doesn’t tell you anything, which bugged me a bit. It’s inconsiderate but, on the other hand, maybe it was a compliment and he figured I could pick up very quick. Everyone seemed to be happy, anyhow. Then a few weeks later Miles came out to Los Angeles to do an album, and I was to be on it. Before the date I used to go up to his hotel room, and we’d come down into the lounge lobby, where there was a piano, and talk about various tunes.”

In what Jack Chambers refers to as “the Hollywoodballad sessions,” Victor [piano] would join with Frank Butler [drums] along with Miles, George Coleman [tenor sax] and Ron Carter on bass on April 16, 1963 at the Columbia Hollywood Studios to record four ballads: I Fall in Love Too Easily, Baby Won’t You Please Come Home, So Near So Far and Basin Street Blues.

Although Joshua and Seven Steps to Heaven, two originals by Victor were recorded the following day, Miles re-recorded them a month later as features for Herbie Hancock [piano] and Tony Williams [drums]. These two tunes plus three of the ballads were released as Seven Steps to Heaven [Columbia CL 2501; Columbia/Legacy CK 48827]. [Although re-united on the CD version, So Near So Far wasn’t originally issued until 1981 on Columbia KC2 36472.]

As a point in passing, it might be interesting to reflect that as the composer to Seven Steps to Heaven, Victor Feldman created the vehicle that introduced to the world the drumming brilliance of Tony Williams.

In the concluding paragraph to her article on the piano prodigy, Matt Savage, that appeared in the October 29, 2008 edition of The Wall Street Journal, Corina da Fonseca-Williams states that: “’Seven Steps to Heaven’ was a pivotal recording in the history of jazz… [and] the title tune is a piece that insists on the primacy of harmony.”

Although co-credited to Miles, I know for a fact that the true, primary and sole author of Seven Steps to Heaven and the advanced harmonies that it employs was Victor Feldman as I heard him play it many times in a variety of trio settings [including one with Frank Butler] before he recorded it with Miles.

Keeping the melody of Seven Steps to Heaven in mind, one could re-read the Philip Elwood quotation that opens this piece [repeated below] and easily come to the conclusion that Victor, not Miles, had the predilections of mind necessary to compose such a tune.

“His keyboard technique is above reproach and is matched by his brilliance on vibes and drums; his knowledge of rhythms and meters, and the possibilities inherent in combining melodic lines with percussion expressions, greatly expounds the sounds of any group within which he works.” [Philip Elwood, The San Francisco Examiner]

Joshua, however, may have been more of a joint effort as Miles describes in the following from the 1969 Tomkins interview:

“Miles said: ‘Write something.’ Just like that. So I went home, messed around, and wrote ‘Joshua.’ Actually, I think I finally finished that one day prior to the recording. In between, I’d go to the hotel and we’d take the tunes that we were going to do, he’d suggest certain changes and I’d say: ‘How can that be?” But sure enough, a lot of the time what he’d suggest would turn out fine. The only thing, he’d sort of put you in a frame of mind where you really didn’t know what you were doing; you were groping. I sensed that he was looking for something, but he didn’t know how to tell me what he wanted. The feeling he gave you of searching, this finally brought out the chord structure for the arrangement. We’d been experimenting with the tune and it was: ‘Not this way – no, that way,’ until we molded it into shape.”

Basin Street Blues, one of the tunes on Seven Steps to Heaven that author Jack Chambers categorizes as one of the “Hollywood ballads,” was a traditional Jazz, 16 bar blues that Victor had been intrigued by for years.  Once, when I asked him why he was so interested in the tune I remember him replying: “I just like the way it lays out [unfolds melodically] and it has such a lovely melody. I get picture in my mind of what jazz in the early days down in New Orleansmight have sounded like.”

When I first heard him “fooling around with it,” Victor played it in a slow, measured manner and as a solo piece.  He was also constantly taking the song’s rudimentary changes and re-harmonizing them in a manner that became increasingly stylish and more and more sophisticated over time.

It was this slow, refined version of Basin Street Blues which Victor introduced to Miles for the Seven Steps to Heaven album.  Although perhaps unaware of this background, Jack Chambers alludes to it in the following excerpt from Milestones 2: The Music and Times of Miles Davis Since 1960:

“’Basin Street Blues’ written by Spencer Williams … was part of the standard repertoire of New Orleans bands in the earliest days of jazz history and subsequently passed into the repertoires of revival bands. Traditionally, it was played as a medium-tempo paean to the city that the musicians had left behind them when they moved north along the Mississippi. …

Davis plays it as a kind of requiem, slow and mournful, emphasizing the elements of nostalgia which in traditional versions exists only as an undertone. His deliberate, wispy tone makes a striking reinterpretation of the content of the original song.” [p. 55]

Bill Milkowski made these comments about the playing of ‘Basin Street Blues’ in the insert notes to the Seven Steps to Heaven CD:

“Miles’ melancholy muted trumpet sets a dark tone on this rendition. The combination of his velvety smooth lines alongside Feldman’s gentle touch and sparse comping recalls the intimate mood that Miles and Bill Evans had conjured up on “Blue and Green’ and ‘Flamenco Sketches’ from ‘Kind of Blues.’”

Concluding about his association with Miles in the Les Tompkins interview Victor said:

“Miles Davis brought out my creativity.  Before working with him, I’d heard a lot of stories about him. But I never believe things people tell me about anybody like that.

… Everyone has a quality within themselves that’s beautiful: who are we to set up standards about how a person should act? I enjoyed playing with Miles and I enjoyed meeting him. He certainly seems to be very straightforward; he says what he wants to say. … That’s the way he plays – in a very honest way.  Whenever you play with him, you get a feeling of starting afresh, and wiping the cobwebs away. He creates an atmosphere round him that helps you steer clear of clichés.

In fact he gets on my nerves sometimes, in a way, because he gets hold of a piece and wants to change it around so completely that I think he takes it too far. Then, on the other hand, maybe it’s a good thing to do that – to really tread new ground.”

Although I have emphasized Victor’s relationship with Miles to underscore his status as a major Jazz player and to reflect on what might have been, the fact was that Victor was increasingly busy in his own right on the West Coast Jazz scene before and after his time with Miles.

He had made albums as a sideman with Frank Rosolino [Turn Me Loose!, Reprise R9-6016; Collectibles COL-CD-6159], Barney Kessel [Music from “Breakfast at Tiffany’s”; Reprise R9-6019; Collectibles COL-CD-2857 ], Curtis Amy [Way Down, PJ46; released as part of the 3 CD Mosaic Select set, MS-007], and Joe Maini, [Joe Maini Memorial [Fresh Sound FSR 408], all of which were released in late 1962 prior to his April 1963 dates with Miles.


Through a family connection, I had a brief involvement with Reprise Records during its early years. As a result, I was able to attend the November, 1961 Turn Me Loose! recording session that marked Frank Rosolino’s debut as a vocalist.

I remember Frank commenting that he was so pleased that Victor could make the date which also included Chuck Berghofer on bass and Irv Cotler on drums. Frank said of Victor.

“I worked with the man for about two years and he swung his a** off every night at the Lighthouse.  His comping keeps the time so alive. And his solos are always so driving and full of fresh ideas. Vic is one of the best kept secrets in LA.”

Curtis was so impressed with Victor’s work with Cannonball that he hired him for his Pacific Jazz Way Down session and featured his name on the album cover.

And, in May, 1963, the month after recording with Miles he was in the Columbia Hollywood studios recording with Paul Horn [Jazz Impressions of Cleopatra, Columbia CL2050] before commencing two albums with his own trio of Monty Budwig [bass] and Colin Bailey[drums] that were released on Vee Jay in 1964: Love Me With All Your Heart [VJ1096] and It’s a Wonderful World [VJS2507].

Bassist Chuck Israel, who played on the Paul Horn Cleopatra date with Victor along with Colin Bailey on drums to form the rhythm section wrote the following to me in a 1997 E-mail:

“Aside from this early association with Victor in LA, when we moved to San Francisco in 1981 (Margot was singing with the SF Opera) Victor had a number of performances for which he hired me. … He was a fine player and a good composer. … Victor was a gifted musician and could not do anything un-musical.”
Victor talked at length about his trio and his two Vee Jay recordings in an earlier interview that he gave to Les Tomkins that coincided with a February 1965 appearance at Ronnie Scott’s Club. He also had some deservedly complimentary things to say about his new “mates” in this same interview.

“I have a trio in the States consisting of Monty Budwig on bass and Colin Baileyon drums. Colin is from Swindon, England– a terrific drummer. What I’ve done is brought over music that we play. But we’ve played it for months and months. I’d never worked with Rick [Laird, bass] and Ronnie [Stephenson, drums] before and I think it’s marvelous the way they picked it up so quickly. Unbelievable, in a way. But naturally, Colin, Monty and I feel that the three of us have got kind of spoilt, because we’ve got such a good thing going. Which is inevitable, after the right combination of people have played together for a long time. We really seem to have empathy for each other’s playing….

We’ve recorded for Vee Jay, and I’m very excited about the album we did. Most of the tracks weren’t more than three or four minutes long. At one time, I never used to like making short jazz records and I still think doing so just for commercial reasons is a drag, actually. But, in another way, I find that to keep on playing a long solo, when you’ve said what you have to say – I don’t think that’s too good, either. In these albums I‘ve managed to stay away from that. I approached it from the standpoint so that we’d have some cohesion through the whole thing. To be honest about it – some of them were short because they could be made into singles, of course. But I felt it was as much of a challenge to condense what you have to say into capsule form. A few of them I didn’t allow to be cut down, because it would have lost the whole point of the piece.

I find the trio context very satisfying. I’m always looking for new tunes. I don’t find it easy finding tunes that I can mold to the way I want to play, but I’m sure there are a lot around that are suitable. The trouble is, I’ve never been one of those people – I don’t think I know the lyrics of one tune. I don’t know the authors of many tunes, I’m ashamed to say. Now it’s becoming annoying to me, because I think it would help to find new material if I knew more about what standard tunes have been written by various people. We have about 60 tunes that we play with the trio, and that’s quite a lot, really. But we need new things to rehearse. … You have to start hearing new phrases and playing in a different way.”
Leonard Feather, long a champion of Victor and his music, offered these thoughts about It’s a Wonderful World [Vee Jay VJS2507] in his liner notes to the album which was released in 1964:

“The maturing process in a musician is far easier to trace today than it was a few years ago and infinitely simpler than before the advent of LP records. Not only has the quantity of recorded output increased, but as a general rule the artist, at least if he is respected by the recording companies with whom he is associated, is granted a substantial measure of freedom in the selection and interpretation of his material.

Victor Feldman is a case in point. In the ten years since he arrived in this country, or more particularly in the eight years since he made his first album as a leader, his style both as a pianist and vibraharpist has been observable in a series of performances that offer a portrait in depth of his evolution during this period.

The setting selected by Victor for the present sides is the one that usually shows off a jazz pianist to fullest advantage, offering him as centerpiece of a trio in which bass and drums fulfill something more than a mere accompanist function. The material is a carefully selected and intelligently programmed series of standards and originals. …

In sum, these two sides offer a splendidly rounded picture of Victor Feldman as pianist, vibraharpist and combo leader. … It is Feldman music, and for anyone familiar with what these two words have meant in recent years that should be all the categorization required.”

As has been established throughout these pieces, Victor’s playing has always had a tremendous emotional impact on me. I view his solos as being beautifully crafted and usually expressed with a driving sense of swing; not that he couldn’t be lyrical as well. Usually his playing in almost any context was rhythmic and forceful or what Cook & Morton note as a “… characteristically percussive touch” in their 6th Edition of The Penguin Guide to Jazz on CD.

In this same work, these authors also put forth the following observation about Victor’s playing:

“It’s an interesting aspect of his solo work that its quality seems to be in inverse proportion to its length. Feldman was a master of compression who often lost his way beyond a couple of choruses.”

Needless to say, while I would agree with their contention that “… Feldman was a master of compression,” I take serious exception to the claim that “… he often lost his way” in longer solos [a contention for which Cook & Morton offer no examples]. 

There are many examples of miniature masterpieces in the form of shortened solos contained in the Feldman discography and since the “master of compression” point is not in dispute, I won’t belabor it here.

But I would like to underscore its significance with the following excerpts from Gene Lees’ interview with pianist Junior Mance that appeared in his Jazzletter [March, 1997, Vol. 16, No. 3, p. 7]. In an aside to his discussion about Mance’s time with Dizzy, Gene explained:

“Groups get hotter as the evening wears on, but Dizzy’s groups always ‘started’ hot. I once asked Dizzy how come; how did he do that. The group would swing on the first tune of the first set. I said, ‘What’s the secret?’  Dizzy said: ‘Play short tunes.’

Later in the interview with Gene, Junior comments:

“Dizzy never played more than three or four choruses; very condensed. A lot of older musicians, the old masters were the same way. … [Charlie Parker would] say, ‘Listen, if you can’t say it in three or four choruses, you’re not going to say it. Wait ‘till the next tune. … Lester Young said the same thing. Some cats would get to that fifth or sixth chorus, he’d say, ‘Save some ‘till later.’

One thing Dizzy told me when I first joined the group that really stuck with me, he said the sign of maturity in a musician was when you learned what not to play, what to leave out.”

Perhaps, Victor learned this lesson well early in his career?
Although not released until over 30 years later, the 1965 appearance at Ronnie Scott’s Club resulted in – Victor Feldman: His Own Sweet Way–  and this recording offers 11 excellent examples of Victor’s skill with extended solos.  And yet, even here, while the tunes may be longer in overall length and Victor may take longer solos, Victor shares the spotlight with the bassist and the drummer keeping the group ethos as paramount.

Ironically, in many ‘ways,’ this most comprehensive and expressive recording of Victor’s playing available was recorded by an amateur on a portable tape recorded! This recording is a fortunate audio documentary of The Return of the Prodigal Son – Indeed, All Hail the Conquering Hero!

What was commonplace to those of us who had occasion to hear Victor’s trio in various Los Angeles venues throughout the decade of the 1960s is captured on this recording made by combining performances that took place at Ronnie Scott’s on the evenings of February 8 and 10, 1965, respectively.  The eleven tracks come together to form an almost perfect 78 minute set. It’s all here. 

Victor’s original Azul Serape played as an up tempo cooker with a marvelous Latin lead-in involving four bar exchanges between Victor on piano and some expert drumming by Ronnie Stephenson.  The alternating two chord tag which takes the tune out builds into an excitement that is almost palpable before Victor intrudes to introduce Rick and Ronnie to the most appreciative audience that was fortuitously at Ronnie’s to hear this glorious music first-hand.

Another Feldman original – Too Blue – was for a time was Victor’s theme song. It offers an absolutely brilliant vibes solo based on eight superbly crafted blues-inflected choruses. And, following Rick Laird’s bass solo, Victor comes back with four more choruses before taking the tune out! He must have been in the mood to play the blues as he also contributes another original blues - Alley Blues – to the set.


A Fine Romance makes an appearance as do magnificent treatments of Autumn Leaves and Swinging on a Star, all unfurled by way of medium tempo, intricate arrangements that feature extensive solos by Victor who at times, alternates between piano and vibes during the same tune adding color and depth to these performances.

Dave Brubeck’s In Your Own Sweet Way is also on the bill and the trio joyously plays the heck out of it.  There’s even a “slow-roasted” rendition of Basin Street Blues on hand to close the set [although Victor can’t resist double-timing it in places].

The elaborate and extended solos by Victor on this album are the complete antithesis of the short track Vee Jay album that chronologically preceded it and are an example of a musician at the top of his form and who has more than adequately found his way through longer more elaborate musical formats.

Let’s close this segment on the career of Victor Feldman with excerpts from Les Tomkins liner notes to Victor Feldman: His Own Sweet Way.

“Although he was only to be seen at Ronnie Scott’s club for one week – his shortest showing yet – Victor Feldman made a greater impression than ever. There was a general acknowledgement that Victor is a great in his own right. New factors of the Feldman performance: the predominance of piano, the exclusive use of arrangements. Appreciation was also voiced for the overall bass/ drums integration of Rick Laird and Ronnie Stephenson.

Vic Ash enthused: "To me it's like a breath of fresh air, after some things I've heard recently-some good, some not so good. After this trip I'm even more convinced that Victor is one of the finest of all jazz musicians. At one time it was mostly his vibes that I listened to, but now I think his piano matches it easily. He's the complete musician - jazz wise and technically. And Rick and Ronnie have been giving him beautiful support."

Comparison between British and American environments was made by drummer Benny Goodman. "You can only get so much here. His approach has widened considerably since his exposure with people like Cannonball and Miles. He has greater confidence now. His music is much more academic-and I don't mean that in a derogatory sense. Everything is well set-out. He pays a close attention to detail without losing the basic swing. Being in the States has made him very conscious of the sound and the mechanics of the music. This trio sounds like it's been playing together for months-such close rapport. I experienced the high musical standard of his arranging when I did some TV with him. He really gets the best possible out of you. He's tremendous."

As a pianist Michael Garrick found many pleasing virtues in Victor's playing. "The thing that impresses me about him is his sheer professionalism. This is emphasised by the fact that he uses arrangements now. Rick and Ronnie worked in superbly with him, adding to the glitter and sheen of the whole presentation. Victor has become a 100 per cent showman. He knows exactly what he's going to do, where his climax is going to be placed. And he never puts a foot wrong. Someone like Sonny Rollins goes out on a limb, and perhaps tends to draw the audience after him more. In the case of Victor, it's as if an excellent, finished product is being demonstrated before our eyes. There's no risk of disorganisation. This probably comes from the vast amount of session work he does.

"I particularly liked his changing from 3/4 to 4/4 on” Fly Me To The Moon." And his arrangement of "SurreyWith The Fringe On Top" pleased me and involved me very much. I loved the way he used this repetitive melody line to present one or two rhythmic surprises. At the point of the harmony change towards the end of the tune, he extended the repetition of the main phrase about four bars, so that you were wondering when the final phrase was going to come. He cleverly built up your expectations, and fulfilled them at the last minute.

"'You hold your breath when he jumps from vibes to piano and comes in right on the beat. He creates the effect of there being two separate musicians on the stand. He has complete familiarity with both instruments. And he plays vibes quite differently from piano. The technique doesn't overlap.

Watching Victor, I can see the dualism of the professional musician on the one hand and the soulful jazzman on the other. The two sides seem to be pulling against one another. But this doesn't prevent him from providing peaks of excellence and engaging the attention of the audience.

To these expert comments I can only add that I’m very glad I was there to preserve some of these magic moments, that prove conclusively that Victor Feldman was an all-time great.” – Les Tomkins.


Victor Feldman – Part 4: The Artful Dodger, 1967-1977

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



During the decade in question, due the responsibilities of establishing myself in a career outside of music and because of the obligations of a growing family, I did not see Victor as often.

Fortunately for me, he did appear regularly with his quartet at Donte’s, a nightclub in North Hollywood which was a short drive from my home in nearby Burbank, CA. Whenever I could get away to hear a set, we usually visited for a time and he would sometimes “catch-me-up” on many of the things happening in his career.

For whatever the reason, around this time Victor became smitten with the phrase: “More work than you can shake a stick at.” When I or someone asked him “How Things Were Going” he would reply: “I’ve got more work than you can shake a stick at.” He would then chuckle to himself, or walk away chortling with a self-satisfied smile on his face.

He had even identified the etymological origin of the phrase as – “using a stick as a pointer while counting a herd of sheep or cattle” [to denote a lot or too many to count].

This expression couldn’t have been more appropriate because from 1967 to 1977, Victor went from performing around town with his trio and being a first-call session player to continuing in the latter capacity while also becoming a scion of jazz rock fusion in Los Angeles. Achieving such status resulted in him serving as a quasi musical director for pop and rock stars such as Joni Mitchell and Steely Dan [among others] and forming and performing in jazz-rock fusion groups like the L.A. Express and his own Generation Band.

Yet, although these jazz rock fusion activities made him very secure financially, Victor continued to also perform in purely Jazz settings throughout this period.

And it is these Jazz frameworks that form the basis for part 4 of this piece on Victor.

Tenor saxophonist Bill Perkins returned the favor of appearing on two tracks of Victor’s It’s a Wonderful World LP by having Vic play on his album Quietly There [Riverside RLP-3052; OJCCD—1776-2] which was released in 1967.

Morgan Ames has this to say about Victor’s performance in his liner notes to the LP:

“ … Vic Feldman plays so many instruments so well that it’s hard to keep up. … I marvel at the fragility he reaches on ballads, but like his companions, Vic swings hard when it’s time, his dynamic range equaling his versatility.”

Made up of exclusively of Johnny Mandel tunes, in addition to Victor on piano, vibes and organ[!], the group includes John Pisano [guitar], Red Mitchell [bass] and Larry Bunker [drums] with “Perk” playing both tenor and baritone sax, flute and bass clarinet.The album includes some of Mandel’s beautiful ballads like Emily, A Time for Love and Just a Child and wistful versions of bossa novas including The Shadow of Your Smile and Quietly There. The latter is from the 1966 Warner Brothers film Harper which starred Paul Newman. Perk and the group also play Sure As Your Born, the theme from Harper, as a medium tempo cooker and two other Mandel originals that have become Jazz classics – Keester Parade and Groover Wailin’.

When I brought up this recording with Bill Perkins while he was relaxing between sets at one of the many 4-day festival sponsored by the Los Angeles Jazz Institute, a look of surprise came over his face and he exclaimed:

“I really enjoyed making that album and what a band! I always liked John Pisano’s playing from when I first heard him with Chico Hamilton’s quintet. And could you find a better rhythm section than Red Mitchell on bass and Larry Bunker on drums? Like Victor, Larry never got the credit he deserved as a Jazz player – they were both such great all-around performers. And what can you say about Victor? You never had to worry when something came up on a date. He would go over to the piano and come up with two or three perfect solutions. He had such a great musical mind.”

As mentioned in my profile, both Victor and Larry Bunker were my mentors as well as my heroes.  And while I admired their versatility as complete percussionists, my admiration for them was particularly focused on their abilities with what Victor always referred to as “sit-down drumming.”

Victor played very little drums on the Los Angeles Jazz scene preferring instead vibes and especially piano. He explained that this was due to the melodic and harmonic limitations of “sit-down drumming.”

As a result, Victor rarely recorded on drums. However, an opportunity to do so presented itself in 1967 with Victor Feldman Plays Everything In Sight [Liberty-World Pacific PJ-10121].  Playing “everything else” tends to overshadow his drumming, but if one listens closely, one can hear a master “sit-down drummer” at work on this LP.
In a 1969 with Les Tomkins, Victor offered more background about this album which has never been released on CD:

“A few years ago I made another multi-dubbed album on Liberty; I once did that over here for Carlo Krahmer's Esquire label. This one was called "Victor Feldman Plays Everything In Sight." On most of the tracks I played the drums first. I used a metronome in my ear on the first tune I did; then after that I did without the metronome. I had to act it out in my mind, visualising what the end-product was going to be, and try and make it sound spontaneous, too. if I could. It was quite challenging and I was happy with some of it.

The record company talked me into doing tunes that I wasn't overjoyed about; but some of them surprised me, in that, in spite of that obstacle, I managed to make something happen with them. I get very annoyed, though, about that kind of thing. I don't think I'm an egomaniac, but I really like to do my own things the way I want to do them. I don't mind somebody making suggestions, but not to insist on you doing what they say. I understand, too, that they've got to try and sell the record. And if they sell records, then they can make more.

There are companies who do put money back from their record sales, and try to record same more artistic things. In other words, things that they don't necessarily think are going to sell a whole lot, but they put their creative energy behind it to try and sell it. To me this element seems to be sadly lacking in the record business. That's one thing in the last few years that’s been a bit disturbing, that record companies have seemed to be less and less inclined to put their profit to use in this way.

Now, I don't know every company; so I could be wrong about it. But I am doing sessions every day, and I see what's going on, the kind of thing they're recording, their attitude and everything. It's very pleasant working in the studios most of the time, but there does seem to be this obsession with the dollar, or the pound. I make a good living at it - so I don't wish to sound hypocritical, you know.

And Arnold Shaw offered these [at times, melodramatic] comments about the recording in his liner notes to Victor Feldman Plays Everything In Sight :

“Victor Feldman without a musical instrument is like an elephant without tusks, a lion without a roar, a fish without fins. Master of so many instruments it is difficult to keep track, he undertakes the more difficult feat in this debut LP on World Pacific by playing many of them simultaneously. Marvel at the musicianship of this one-man band, but savor with delight the feast of swinging and ear-tingling sounds it produces.

Although this is not Feldman’s first recording as a one-man-band – he made an LP for Esquire while he was still a British musician – it is his first release in the genre here. In response to questions regarding the mechanics of playing all the instruments himself he explained:

‘I start out by recording either the piano or the drum track first. I work from a sketch arrangement, adding other instruments as I go along [for the record, in addition to piano, vibes and drums, Victor also employs on the album: novachord, alto vibes, tympani, electric piano, electric fender bass piano, organ, marimba, xylophone, conga drum, tambourine, chocalho, jawbone, cowbells, triangle and squeak sticks].

Once the melodic and harmonic designs are clearly established, I bring in the Fender bass piano, which is so important to the rhythm. I introduce my third major instrument toward the end. Afterwards, I put in the decorative touches – like a punctuating triangle on ‘Have a Heart.’  It takes a minimum of four demanding hours in the studio to complete a tune.

The toughest part is getting back into the swing of a number each time around, not merely the problem of timekeeping but the vital matters of beat and pulse.

And don’t overlook the engineering problems involved. Dick Bock, who produced this LP, as well as the engineers[Lanky Linstrot & Dino Lappas], did a masterful job of balancing the various instruments and keeping the sound fresh and vibrant through the various stages of recording.”

While Victor is certainly correct about the unevenness of the music on the ten tracks that comprise the album, from a purely Jazz perspective, it does contain three outstanding performances: [1] By Myself – the only thing better than the rousing piano choruses on this track are the vibes solo choruses that follow them [2] Sure As Your Born – yet another version of Johnny Mandel’s then popular theme from the 1966 movie Harper which once again shows both Victor’s singularity and originality as a vibist, and [3] Have a Heart, played as a jazz waltz and featuring more of Victor’s characteristic rollicking and percussive piano work.

Also in 1967, British tenor saxophonist Tubby Hayes made his fourth appearance in the States, as part of the exchange scene with Ronnie’s Scott ‘s club [the “New Place” on 47 Firth Street]. As Tubby tells it in an interview with Les Tomkins:

“I was fortunate enough this time to get two weeks at Shelly Manne’s club, the Manne–Hole, in Los Angeles. I was also very fortunate to work with Victor Feldman’s trio. That was a most enjoyable experience. As you know, I’ve known Victor for about 15 years and worked with him in the past over here on several record dates and in the clubs. He has a very tightly–knit trio now, with Monty Budwig on bass and Colin Bailey on drums.

They’ve worked quite a bit together.  I took over some of my original material, plus a few of the arrangements of standards that I use with the quartet here. We also did some of the things Victor had written, mainly to feature him on vibes and me on flute, which made a contrast to  the tenor–and–three–rhythm type of thing.

I didn’t bother to play the vibes, because his playing is so tremendous that anything I did would have been quite superfluous.  From the musicianship point of view, it was wonderful to work with the trio. I wouldn’t say it was better than working  with Cedar Walton’s trio, which I did in New York last year, because that was fantastic, you know. This was a different sort of feel in a lot of ways, but equally as good.

Victor can hold his own anywhere, I think, on piano or vibes. And he’s brilliant when it comes to piano backing for a soloist. He thinks one step ahead of you all the time, without actually bugging you. Like, certain piano players I know think one step ahead of you, and they play what you’re going to play — and mess you up something horrible. Whereas, Victor will just suggest little things. And you find yourself doing things, not that you thought you couldn’t do, but that you’d never thought of doing.

It’s beautiful — gets you tingling all over.  He’s putting ideas into your head —without actually knocking on your head.  He’s always had that ability, but I’d sort of forgotten about it. Working with him every night, I found that, where I might  go into the same kind of thing two nights running, he’d switch me away from that and make me do something different.

On the opening night, George Shearing came down and sat in on piano. Victor went on the vibes and we played a couple  of tunes — ‘Soon’ and ‘Nardis,’  I think it was. I went all the way to Los Angeles, and I’m up on the bandstand with three Limeys and one American!

… The amount of jazz work there is for people like Victor and Colin Baileyis not so great, actually. Victor does tremendously in the studios.  The audiences in Shelly’s were great. You could hear a pin drop when I played a ballad, or when Victor was playing the vibes, something like that. They were a really appreciative audience, and I was told that they’re pretty discerning, too.”

Thanks to Chuck Niles, a Los Angeles based Jazz FM radio announcer and a huge fan of Tubby’s playing, I found out on one of his broadcasts that this gig was happening and I was fortunate to hear the group during Tubs’ stay at Shelly’s. You could tell just by their banter before and after tunes that Tubby and Victor were happy to be in one another’s company again, both musically and socially, with the result being music that was simply sublime.

Because of other studio commitments, Victor had to send a substitute to the first set of the gig on a few occasions [Mike Melvoin comes to mind], but he told me that “I almost got myself killed rushing to Shelly’s. I connected with Tubby during that gig in a way that I never had before during our days in London together. It was frightening how locked-in we were at times. We all had a ball.”

The Venezuela Joropo, Victor’s next recording in 1967 brings to mind once again Philip Elwood’s assessment of “… his knowledge of rhythms and meters, and the possibilities inherent in combining melodic lines with percussion expressions, greatly expounds the sounds of any group within which he works.”  Only someone with Victor’s bent-of-mind could even conceive of taking music such as this into a Jazz setting.

To digress from a moment, Latinsville, an album done much earlier in his career, was Victor’s first, major recorded statement of his affinity for various Latin jazz styles. And while it served as a precursor to The Venezuela Joropo it can also be considered a direct link to it from the standpoint of Victor’s lifelong fascination with different rhythms and his uncanny ability to place them successfully in a Jazz context.

Another influence that helped spawn the original 1958-59 recording project was the great admiration that Victor had for Cal Tjader, both as a vibist and as a fellow drummer, and the Latin Jazz music Cal was then performing with his quintet.

Pianist Vince Guaraldi was a member of Cal’s group at that time and he and Victor were great friends from their stint together on the Woody Herman band [Vince even replaced Victor with the Lighthouse All-Stars for a time before returning to his native San Francisco in 1960]. Vince and Victor had many conversations about Latin Jazz, often demonstrating certain figures or phrases while playing “montuno” 5-note rhythmic patterns using claves [two small wooden rods about 8 inches long and 1 inch in diameter; they are typically made of rosewood, ebony or genadillo].
Long deleted from the Contemporary Records LP catalogue, Latinsville’s welcomed reissue as a CD [Contemporary CCD-9005-2] also includes five tracks from the original project that were not on the LP version.

With the liner notes for Latinsville once again in the capable hands of Leonard Feather, here are some background thoughts and comments about Victor’s life-long interest in Latin American and Afro-Cuban beats and pulses:  

“A twofold process of cross-pollination led to the creation of the music for this album. Victor Feldman, a Londoner born in 1934, grew up during a period when virtually no live American jazz was to be heard in his country; his entire knowledge of this art form, during his childhood far more exclusively a U.S. product than today, was acquired through the study of records and association with older British jazzmen who had gained their knowledge in a similar manner. But soon after he had settled in Los Angeles, Feldman became crucially aware of the Latin American and Afro-Cuban rhythms that were considered at one time to be as alien to jazz as jazz itself had been to the British. That he absorbed the Latin idiom as swiftly and intelligently as he had acquired the sensibility for jazz is made clear in this, his first all-Latin session.

‘Of course, there was just a little of this kind of music around London when I was a kid,’ says Feldman. ‘When I was 15, I learned some African rhythms on a conga drum; my teacher was a drummer from Ghana, which was then called the Gold Coast.

When I came to California, I was very much impressed by Machito when I heard his band. He was singing riffs to the trumpet section or the reeds, more or less making up arrangements right on the bandstand, and this had some of the spontaneous spirit of jazz. And I heard Tito Puente and found his group very exciting from the rhythmic standpoint.’

Victor recalls the Gillespie orchestra of the late 1940s as a significant factor in his growing awareness of the new trend. ‘While I was in England I heard some records of the big band Dizzy had at that time-the first band, to my knowledge, that ever united modern jazz improvising and writing with Afro-Cuban rhythms. I suppose everyone familiar with the modern movement in jazz knows by now that a lot of jazz musicians recorded with Afro rhythm accompaniment from the late Forties, including, of course, Charlie Parker.’

For his own maiden venture in this challenging area, he says,’ I tried to blend straightforward arrangements in the Latin and Afro-Cuban vein with the improvisations of the jazz soloists, and it seems to me that Conte Candoli, Walter Benton, and Frank Rosolino play with the swinging pulsation that they normally would with regular piano-bass-and-drums rhythm. Vince Guaraldi and Andy Thomas also play beautiful solos which to me are very Latin in flavor. As for my own work-well, with the conga and the timbales and the bongos and bass patterns, I found myself playing in a different rhythmical groove.’ …

The cross-fertilization process is underlined by using themes of non-Latin origin. Most of the melodies originally were not even intended for incorporation with the Latin idiom, though the titles and lyrics logically indicated the type of treatment Feldman's arrangements give them here.”
[Incidentally, if you ever wondered what all the fuss was all aboutconcerning Scott LaFaro’s impact on Jazz bass prior to his time with the Bill Evans trio, treat yourself to the 5.34 minute up-tempo version of Poinciana available on the expanded LatinsvilleCD. I think it may answer any and all questions you may have on Scotty’s influence in transforming Jazz bass. Joining Scotty on this and four other “recently discovered” tracks that formed the initial concept for the album are Frank Rosolino, trombone, Walter Benton, tenor saxophone, Victor on piano and vibes and drummer Nick Martinis].

The seeds for what became The Venezuela Joropo [Liberty Pacific Jazz PJ-20128] must have been “germinating” in Victor’s mind for quite some time as he talked about his interest in this music during his 1965 interview with Les Tomkins:

“I've heard some music from Venezuela that I have some tapes of at home. Everything's in 6/4. There's a harp player, a maracas player, a guitar-or, actually, it's a quarto-and a gultarone on there, playing the bass notes. And it's the first time I've heard a harp player really swing. I've heard people try to play the harp in jazz, but it's syncopation, rather than swing. This guy's fantastic. There's a few of 'em in Venezuela. I can't recall his name; it's on the tip of my tongue.

The maracas player is also a marvelous musician. He makes fill-ins at the right time into the bridges, he can make trills on the maracas-all kinds of amazing things. And the sound these guys get with what they do! It really swings. I'm going to try and incorporate it into something I do on a record, and let it be sort of an influence. Te harmonic structure's so simple. There's 7th chords and major chords-but it's a matter of knowing how to improvise on that. Because when you've improvised on the chord structures that I commonly use-this is entirely different. So I'm working on it.”

With Marty Paich [with whom Victor studied arranging] contributing an arrangement of one of the tracks, there is some very beautiful music on The Venezuela Joropo and it is regrettable that it has never made it to CD.

On it, Victor, who plays vibes and/or marimba on all tracks, uses two bands: [1] Emil Richards [vibes/marimba], Bill Perkins [flute/alto flute], Dorothy Remson [harp], Al Hendrickson [guitar], Max Bennett [bass], Larry Bunker [timbales], and Milt Holland [maracas and percussion]; [2] Bill Perkins [flute/alto flute], Dennis Budimir [acoustic and electric guitars], Monty Budwig [bass] and Colin Bailey [drums].

Dr. Robert Garfias, then of the Archives of Ethnic Music and Dance of the University of Washington, Seattle, WA wrote the liner notes for the album. They tell a fascinating story of the serendipitous way in which the album came about and, since the album has never been issued in CD form, they are re-printed here in their entirety.

“Perhaps a little more than a year ago I received a phone call from Victor Feldman. He had by chance happened to hear in Los Angeles one of my radio programs dealing with the traditional and folk music of Venezuela and was anxious to hear more of this music, and to know something about it.  In this way a rather sporadic exchange of tapes, letters and phone calls was begun which at last resulted in the exciting music included on this LP.

Before this, Victor Feldman was known to me only as the very sensitive pianist who had played for a time with Miles Davis. I was honestly surprised at the thought that a musician in the main stream of jazz today might be attracted by the music of Venezuelaas a possible vehicle for his own expression.

Certainly there have been incursions of Latin-American music into jazz and popular music in the United States. The several waves of Cuban music and most recently the Sambas, Maracatus and Baiaos of Bossa Nova have each had strong and lasting effects.

But the music of Venezuelais somehow rather special. Being primarily an outgrowth of the old popular music of the Spanish Colonial period in Venezuela with little Afro-American influence, this music has not lent itself to the fervor or flashy intensity of the music of Cuba or Brazil.

There is certainly a high degree of rhythmic intensity in the music of Venezuela but its usual rhythms occur In groups of six beats with the characteristic groupings and alterations of 3-3 with 2-2-2, which link this music with other remnants of Spanish Colonial music, the Mariachi of Southwestern Mexico, the harp music of Vera Cruz, the popular songs and dances of Yucatan, Colombia, Peru, and Chile.

The typical Venezuelan ensemble of Spanish harp, cuatro (a small four-string guitar) and maracas, does not at first glance appear to lend itself to easy assimilation with jazz. It is a real tribute to the imagination and good taste of Victor Feldman that this first attempt should be musically such a success. He has given a beautiful sampling of his talents on this LP.

There are a few examples of resetting of traditional Venezuelan songs. The others are a mixture of standards from the jazzman's repertoire and original compositions showing varying degrees of Venezuelan influence. The result is not only a fascinating document of the meeting of two traditions but the entire LP as a unit is an excellent example of ‘musique a faire plaisir,’ music to give pleasure.

Although on first hearing the music recorded here goes smoothly and effortlessly by, careful listening reveals a wealth of musical subtleties and refinements. One of the highlights of the LP is an original by Victor Feldman, ‘Summer Island.’ The composition follows the now standard formal structure A A B A, but the orthodoxy ends there. While it is becoming increasingly common to hear jazz musicians play in asymmetrical rhythmic patterns and meters, this beautiful and light tune dances easily through some truly amazing changes. The four phases of the A section are in 11 beats (5 plus 6), 11 beats, ten beats (5 plus 5) and 11 beats which are repeated before coming to the B section which is set in a regular six beat meter. This is in turn followed by another statement of the A section. The rhythmic structure does not conveniently become regular to accommodate the solos, and Victor's vibes solo especially highlights the logic of this otherwise unconventional meter. One has only to listen to the beautiful ease of this evocative tune to realize that this is no mere exercise in esoterica.
Another adventure in irregular rhythms is the Marty Paich original ‘Caracas Nights.’ The piece is solidly set in a meter of five beats (3 plus 2), which is relieved only by a short section in six beats towards the end of the second section. A quiet kind of insistence is built up in the piece through the use of a repeated drone in the bass part which changes to a new tonality in the second section. Tight, sure and neatly structured solos by Victor and Dennis Budimir add another level of definition to the performance and are further highlighted by yet another change of tonality in the supporting bass part. Bill Perkins' solo bursts in at the section in six beats and brings with it the faint suggestions of the return to the composed melody and the close of the piece.

The third original composition on the record is another from the distinguished Victor Feldman pen. This one is entitled simply ‘Pavane,’ and although it bears little formal resemblance to the Renaissance or Baroque forms of the ancient dance of the peacock , it does suggest much of the graceful ease of the original. Set in an easy meter of six beats, ‘Pavane’ is perhaps structurally the simplest piece of the group and yet, for me, the most haunting and the one which remains longest in the memory, reappearing unexpectedly long after I have put the record away.  Bill Perkins' flute sings through the first statement of the melody, but even afterwards the same melody seems to be quietly winding its way on through Victor's and then Bill's improvised solos. Dennis Budimir's guitar solo then leads to the unobtrusive return of the melody that seems never to have ceased at all.

The two standards in the group, ‘Frenesi’ and ‘The Shadow of Your Smile,’ each receive very different treatment. ‘Frenesi’ is marvelously transformed by removing it
from its traditional Cuban Bolero rhythm of four beats to a Venezuelan flavored rhythm of six. One wonders if other well-worked Latin standards could appear so revitalized in a new setting. The transformation for ‘The Shadow of Your Smile’ is, at first hearing, less pronounced. However, the sure and steady bass line of Monty Budwig makes thorough use of the many possible permutations offered by the Venezuelan rhythm of six, albeit at something slower than the standard Venezuelan tempo. Over the quiet pulsations of the rhythm this now well-known melody moves steadily along without changing any of its essential character.

The four remaining pieces on this LP have the strongest Venezuelan flavor. ‘Obsession Waltz,’ a popular Venezuelan waltz, is set here in a slow yet undulating tempo of a romantic ballad rather than a tight cross-rhythmic six of the usual Venezuelan waltz. Although this popular song is not known widely outside of Venezuela, in this setting it seems difficult to believe that its origins are any different from those of ‘The Shadow of Your Smile.’ The melody is given rather straightforward treatment throughout, opening with an alto flute solo, followed by vibes and guitar solos - Victor's vibes solo being the only one to dramatically depart from the original melody.

‘Por El Camino Real’ and ‘El Gavilan’ are traditional Venezuelan dance tunes of the ‘Pasale’ and ‘Joropo’ type. ‘Por El Camino Real’ is an original composition by the famous Venezuelan harpist, Juan Vicente Torrealba. It follows the traditional rhythmic and melodic pattern of many Venezuelan songs. Its first section is in a minor key. The startling element in the tune occurs in the second section which in each statement begins with a measure of eight beats, in an otherwise strictly six beat meter. The change is quite refreshing and I suspect that it was exactly this that caught Victor’s imagination.

The piece opens with a statement of the melody on the vibes and bass done in the style of a semi-free introduction.  This soon leads to a soft-spoken version the Venezuelan ‘Pasaje’ rhythm supporting the rest of the performance. ‘El Gavilan’ is an old traditional ‘Joropo,’ the composer of which is no longer even known. The text to this song is one of those deceptively simple Spanish folk songs that may be filled with surprising double meanings, which may have been considered the height of spiciness a century ago. This song is given the most authentically Venezuelan treatment of any of the selections on the LP. The little ensemble of instruments that Victor has put together for this performance  gives an excellent idea of the fire and bite of a good Venezuelan trio.

Certainly the most amazing piece on the entire record is Victor Feldman's composition ‘Pasion.’ Although it is an original composition by Feldman it captures as much of the true flavor of Venezuelan music as can be heard in ‘El Gavilan.’ The performance retains the tight synchronized rhythmic quality of Venezuelan music throughout, but it is the natural ease and the strong Venezuelan flavor of the tune itself which make it practically impossible to distinguish from traditional Venezuelan music.

Whether or not Venezuelan music henceforth exerts a great wave of influence jazz does not detract in any way from the success and delightfulness of the musical experiments contained in this record.”

By the time of his 1969 return to England, a lot had happened in Victor’s life, including the fact that in addition to continuing with his standard Jazz trio consisting of Monty Budwig [bass] and Colin Bailey [drums], he had formed the new jazz rock fusion group that he had brought over with him for an engagement at Ronnie Scott’s club.


In his interview with Les Tomkins, Victor provided this personal and professional update:

Since my last playing visit back here in '65, I've been over for a holiday in '69, when I just did one little TV spot with Tony Kinsey. This time I brought my family again, and also played at Ronnie's with my regular group. My eldest boy is nine now [Joshua]; the other two are six and five [Jake and Trevor]. I have my nephew with me, a babysitter, and my wife, of course; there's seven of us altogether.

Only being here for a few days, I really come back as a tourist. I always have a good time when I come over; it doesn't seem to change that much. I'll tell you one thing, Ronnie's club is really great. You know, the acoustics and everything. We were all very excited about working there; it was a lot of fun.

Our tenor player, Tom Scott, is quite well-known, and is also an excellent writer. John Guerin, our drummer, was born in Hawaii, actually he moved to San Diego when he was very young. I first heard him with Buddy De Franco, and tried to encourage him to come to Los Angeles, because I loved playing with him right away.

Finally he did make the move, and now he's one of the most in-demand drummers in the city. He does all kinds of work, from rock things to jingles.

The most recent showcase for our bass player, Chuck Domanico, was a 'cello quartet album on A&M Records [issued on CD as Verve 6024-986-10626], with RogerKellaway - who is a brilliant, very creative musician.

It isn't four cellos, you understand; it's with Chuck, and Roger's playing piano, Emil Richards is on percussion instruments. The 'cello player is Edgar Lustgarten. Really a beautiful thing. Anyway, Chuck is very busy, because besides being a great musician, he's very distinctive and very telepathic. Actually, we feel that telepathy element with all of us, playing together.

We all do sessions most of the time; so we're a bit frustrated, due to not getting enough chances to play. However, we do get to work in clubs like Donte's. And just before we left we'd started at a little place called the Baked Potato, on Monday nights; we also played a weekend there. When we get back, we're hoping to do some concerts around. But we don't have to go on the road any more - I've had enough of that. If we can just work these kind of jobs in, well have more of a fulfilling life. Although we do get to play a variety of music in the studios-including. a lot that we don't like. In some of the idioms you can improvise to an extent; for instance, I play conga drums sometimes. I very rarely play piano on recordings over there, because I'm a little bit stubborn; I like to play my way.

I'm known as a general percussionist. The only thing I don't do is play sit-down drums too much any more; but I'm liable to start again, if I can get time to just get myself together with it for a few days, or weeks. So I play congas, tymps, and the whole family of percussion instruments.

Usually I play one or two tunes a set on vibes with the group. As we grow, IIIprobably play more. But I find the vibes a little bit limiting: I feel I can do more things on the piano, because of the very nature of the instrument. When I play vibes. I miss a piano player, or a chordal background, like a guitar or something. Thank goodness I've got Chuck, and it's fantastic with him and the drums-but that's it, you see. Eventually, I think, if we keep playing together, Tom might play some piano. That's the reason I don't play a lot of vibes, though; there's only certain things I can do to make it fill out.

I've always used the four mallets, but I'm doing more of it now. With this group I have to. Gary Burton's influenced me a lot. He's a tremendous innovator on the instrument - a virtuoso. I really admire what he does. I love Milt Jackson, too, you know. I'm not going to start making comparisons; they're each doing their own thing.

… As for the rock ingredient, personally I get a little bored with it; but maybe people get bored with what we do. For my taste, other idioms are more interesting; such as Bill Evans, Milt Jackson. And Brazilian music - I love it. I like variety; we try to play a few different things in contrast, from set to set.

Of course, some of the guys are genuinely into the rock thing; they like the rhythms. Although I know some drummers who don't like rock drumming. I've always found the most interesting aspect of rock music to be the drummer and the fender bass player-the bass drum thing, the independent rhythms that get going are good. I'm only sorry that they get hold of one kind of music and jam it down everybody's throat, and it becomes a conforming, tyrannical type of thing.

All kinds of music can be done well. It's just that there's certain types that, tonally, I get bored with very easily. I've listened to things that have been happening lately, and I admire the togetherness of it. It can be sort of anarchistic; they don't know where they're going, and yet they have a certain unity and a feeling that amazes me sometimes. So I don't put it down. Then I'm also aware that I don't get a chance to delve into listening to music as much as I might, because of my work schedule and my general mode of life. But I hope to be always striving to develop and improve myself.”
Fortunately, in 1973 Gerry Macdonald of Choice Records recorded the group for an LP issued as Your Smile [Choice CRS 1005; issued as a Japanese CD – ABCJ-149].

Leonard Feather once again sets the stage for us with these introductory comments from his liner notes:

“Victor Feldman’s return to center stage as a leader of his own recording group is a welcome and belated event. His success as a sideman, constantly in demand in the Hollywoodstudios during the past decade, has kept him too busy to bring to the public a reminder of the multiplicity and caliber of his individual talents.

Time and again his name has appeared on albums, usually in the role of percussionist. Because of the habit of typecasting so prevalent in the commercial music world, his achievements in that area have largely obscured other abilities that were more often in evidence during the first few years after he settled in California.

As this album [co-produced by LincolnMayorga] buoyantly demonstrates, Feldman is a superbly creative pianist, a greatly neglected vibraphonist (he won the Down Beat Critics’ Poll as New Star on vibes in 1958), a no less significantly a composer whose works, diversified though they are, have in common a consistent melodic creativity.”

As Leonardsummarized, it’s all here: a mature and forceful command of the piano, a style of playing vibes that had noticeably veered in Gary Burton’s four-mallet direction [not an easy thing to do], and a bevy of typically-Victor-fun-to-play-on compositions reflecting an admixture of bossa nova, rock and straight-ahead Jazz rhythms.

What jumps out at the listener on this recording is how in his prime Victor’s piano and vibes playing are on all eight tracks [the last four of which are recorded “live” at Donte’s]. His fast tempo piano playing on The Theme from I Love Lucy and blistering vibe playing on Seven Steps to Heaven are impressive for both their control and their expression of ideas. What he hears in his head he is able to instantly push out through his hands. And whatever he plays has that characteristically forceful and percussive swings that just rocks the house.

As drummer Johnny Guerin shared in one of the many conversations we had at the club during a set break:

“Victor will push you right out of the building, especially when he gets it going on piano. He digs the groove in so deep that it almost feels like a physical presence. Here’s this small, quiet guy who becomes an explosion of sound. And what ideas he has; constantly moving in and out of the time. His knowledge of rhythms is just incredible. Sometime when we are trading fours and eights, I like listening to his better than the ones I’m playing!”

In performance recordings are generally full of excitement and Your Smile doesn’t disappoint in this regard. Victor really turns it loose on piano on his originals - Brazilian Fire, Your Smile, Minor Catastrophe and Crazy Chicken which segues into a showcase for Johnny Guerin on Seven Steps to Heaven.

As Leonard Feather concludes in his liner notes: “We are indebted to Gerry Macdonald and Choice Records for bringing this truly exceptional album to the public.” 

In a similar vein, we are also indebted to Carl Jefferson, owner of Concord Records, for the 1977 recording and release of Victor Feldman: The Artful Dodger [CCD-4038] with which we will close part four of this piece.

At the urging of guitarist Herb Ellis, Concord signed Victor for this date which also included Chuck Domanico on bass [Monty Budwig is on two tracks] and Colin Bailey on drums. Trumpeter Jack Sheldon also makes an appearance singing and playing on one track.
To my ears, the two most memorable tracks on this CD are structured in a way that is very similar to Seven Steps to Heaven in the sense that they explore “… the possibilities inherent in combining melodic lines with percussion expressions.”

These two Feldman originals are Agitation and The Artful Dodger and Philip Elwood does an excellent job of detailing what makes up the complexities of both tunes in the following excerpts from his insert notes to the disc:

“’Agitation’ begins like it is a 21stcentury bebop anthem, tricky and complex. Oriental chords and pentatonic scales [Victor had a penchant for these major and minor 5 note scales] roam through stop-time, syncopated strains and Bailey has a field day, ultimately playing a solo that sounds like a duet with himself.”

“‘Artful Dodger,’ like ‘Agitation,’ is a Feldman tour de force special. Not just for him, of course, but for the trio. The stop-start rhythms, Feldman’s unison lines (both hands), Domanico’s gradual involvement with the melodic theme, Bailey’s impeccably tight drumming and cymbal work – and, finally, Feldman’s remarkable chorus. New themes come and go, block chording gives way to lightning-like zigs-zags of right hand. Quite a number.”

Quite a number, indeed; both Agitation and The Artful Dodger are an indication of two master drummers at work, except, in Victor’s case, he’s playing piano!  They are also an indication of the kind of cohesiveness and intuitive anticipation that can be developed between musicians after 15 years of playing together. Very few pianists and drummers could bring off the intricacy inherent in these two tunes.

Philip Elwood’s insert notes to this recording also provide an excellent way to conclude this segment on Victor’s career up to the year 1977:

“ Victor Feldman is a brilliant multi-instrumentalist. … Feldman, in a word, is phenomenal; and has been all his life, since from his 1940 stage debut to this trio recording no one has been in more areas of pop music than has he.

Listening to this recording the first impression is of Feldman’s remarkable strength, his forcefulness. And that doesn’t imply pounding or volume for its own sake. It does mean that Feldman has not only remarkable musical concepts but also the ability to play them with clarity and assertion.”

…. To be continued in Part 5: a  time of reunion with Woody Herman, Nat Adderley, & Shelly Manne and some new adventures with Art Pepper, Zoot Sims, Pepper Adams and a Generation Band.


Victor Feldman – Part 5: The Final Years, 1978-87

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


Looking back to 1978, it’s hard to believe that in less than 10 years, Victor would no longer be with us.

Woody Herman was never out of Victor’s musical life. His career in the States began when he joined Woody’s band and he often expressed his gratitude to the Old Man for making it all happen for him. Victor once shared with me:

“Right from the first, he made me feel at home on the band. I had many chances to solo on vibes and I even had a long drum feature which the brass players loved because it gave them a chance to rest their chops.

In those days, being an alumni of the Kenton or Herman band was helpful in being accepted on the West Coast scene because so many of the first call guys had come off those bands. It was like our time together at university.

Although I hardly knew him, I never recall anyone saying a bad word about Stan Kenton and the same holds true for the guys who played with Woody. We would do anything for him. I think the reason that they were able to hold a band together for a long time was that they were real “Men,” fatherly guys who took their obligations and responsibilities seriously.

So when Woody called, if I could make it, I always tried to return the favor. It all began with him: coming to the Coast, the Lighthouse gig, meeting [my wife] Marilyn, having my own bands, making my own records; none of this would have happened the same way without him. Ronnie Scott is another person I feel this way about. He changed my life, too, by urging me to go to the States.”

The first “call” came in 1959 when Woody was invited to perform at the Monterey Jazz Festival.  As Gene Lees explains in Leader of the Band: The Life of Woody Herman [New York: Oxford, 1995, p. 228]:

“For that 1959 festival, Woody put together a group of his veterans. By now his alumni association had grown so large that in New York and on the west coast, he could easily pull together a new band made of old members who already knew the book, or most of it. The band he assembled included: Zoot Sims, Bill Perkins, and Richie Kamuca, tenors; Don Lanphere, alto and tenor; Med Flory, baritone; Al Porcino, Bill Chase, Conte Candoli, and Ray Linn, trumpets; Urbie Green and Si Zentner among the trombones, Charlie Byrd, guitar; Victor Feldman, vibes; and the powerful Mel Lewis, drums The band played in a hot afternoon sun as civilian aircraft droned overhead; the U.S. Navy and Air Force had graciously routed their flights away from the festival. You can hear the annoying aircraft on the album derived from the concert.”

Fortunately, Atlantic Records recorded the band at the festival and issue an LP – Woody Herman’s Big New Herd at the Monterey Jazz Festival - [1328] which has since been re-issued on CD by Koch Jazz [KOCCD-8508].

Victor takes a funky vibes solo that opens Like Some Blues Man which might be aptly named, Like Some Very Slow Blues Man, and his introductory eight bars on piano sets a jaunty pace for the following tune – Skoobeedoobee; both of which are Ted Richards originals. [Incidentally, my sons assure me that the latter tune had absolutely no relationship to the yet-to-come TV cartoon series featuring the floppy-eared houndwith a similar, sounding name.]

For the record, Mel Lewis had never played with Woody’s band before this MJF appearance. Had he, there would have been talk about the Mel Lewis Herd in Jazz lore in addition to the references to those in the past headed by Davey Tough and Don Lamond  and those to be led by Jake Hanna and Ronnie Zito in the 1960s and the Jeff Hamilton Herd of the 1970s. Any Jazz drummer worth their salt would want to take a crack at driving this band.

For a confirmation of this assertion, all one need do is listen to the manner in which Mel puts the band through its paces on [Monterey] Apple Tree. Victor’s cookin’ on vibes gets so hot that you can hear Woody in the background giving him two additional choruses.

According to Ralph Gleason’s liner notes, Woody’s commented that “I wish I could take this band on the road.” Gleason went on to say that “Everyone agreed that it one of the greatest bands Woody had ever stood before.”

Given the mutual respect and affection that Woody and Victor had for each other, it was no surprise that when, in 1978, Woody decided to do an album featuring an extended piece by Chick Corea and the songs of Steely Dan’s Donald Fagen and Walter Becker that he would turn to Victor to arrange and play on one of the tunes.

The album is Chick, Donald, Walter & Woodrow [Century LP CR-1110; BBC Century CD CJ 830]. On it, Victor arranged  I’ve Got the News which features Tom Scott on tenor saxophone.

Also in 1978, Nat Adderley, another old friend, came calling with a request that Victor appear on his album for Galaxy Records, Orrin Keepnews new label, entitled A Little New York Midtown Music [Galaxy GXY-5120; issued on CD as Fantasy OJCCD 10082].

Joining Nat and Victor on this excursion into post modern, harp bop are Johnny Griffin on tenor sax, and the rhythm section of Ron Carter on bass and Roy McCurdy on drums.

Around the time of this recording, Victor had adopted “whip it up!” as a new, favorite expression at which he would snigger [“snuffle” might be a more apt description].  I have no idea as to its source, but he would just blurt it out as one word – “whipitup” – and laugh at the sound of the phrase for no apparent reason at all.

Nat wrote four of the seven tunes on the album and he asked Victor to bring up an original to the recording sessions which took place on September 17-18, 1978 at the Fantasy Studios in Berkeley, CA.

I’m sure that you wouldn’t be surprise to learn that the name Victor gave to the new chart he wrote for this date was – wait for it – Whipitup!

Like Seven Steps to Heaven, Agitation and The Artful Dodger, tunes by Victor whose melodies are framed over cleverly structuredrhythmic phrases, Whipitup is a wickedly fast drummer’s delight that employs an insistent rhythmic vamp over which is played a simple melody with intriguing changes.  Needless to say, given such a compositional “magic carpet, the likes of a Johnny Griffin who, at one time was labeled “the world’s fastest tenor player,” just flies on it.

1978 was another, very busy year in the recording studios for Victor. In addition to the projects with Woody Herman and Nat Adderley, he also made albums with flautist Hubert Laws, tenor saxophonist John Klemmer and flute and reed player Joe Farrell [about which, more later].

But the happiest occurrence for him that year was the call he received from Yupiteru Records, a subsidiary of a Japanese electronics firm by the same name whose owner was a huge Jazz fan.  He invited Victor to cut six tracks for a Jazz LP, the material and musicians for which were to be of his own choosing.

Released as Together Again [Yupiteru YJ25-7015], the LP reunited Victor, who playes piano exclusively, with Monty Budwig on bass and Shelly Manne on drums.
Victor’s playing on this recording is electric and electrifying, no doubt in part due to the presence of Monty and Shelly.  This LP gives us the a chance to hear a musician whose command of the piano now reflects a deep understanding of the instrument’s full range of melodic, harmonic and rhythmic possibilities. His three chorus improvisation on Bud Powell’s Budo [Hallucinations]  is comprised of Jazz inventions [particularly on the bridge] that are so perfectly original that Victor almost sounds as though he has devised a style that is closed to being sui generis.

Victor contributed two originals to the date – Money’s Blues [the man could write terrific Blues lines] and Down in Cancun[played as a bossa samba] – on which he spins out an intriguing series of choruses that reflect a Jazz pianist in his prime. He gets the piano rocking and rumbling on the Blues track which he closes out with some superb 12-bar exchanges with Shelly.

The strong sense of joy and good fun that emanates from Victor, Monty and Shelly making music on this recording extends through all of its tunes:  the beautifully rendered ballad Remind Me,What Kind of Fool Am I which is offered as a Jazz waltz, and a funky, medium tempo version of the Motown pop hit How Sweet It Is To Be Loved By You.

Perhaps one of the reasons for the incredible growth in Victor’s acoustic piano playing is that during the late 1970s and into the 1980s he was playing it fairly regularly at Pasquale’s, a Jazz club located in the Malibu Colony near his home.

The club’s appellation came from the Italian given name of bassist ‘Pat’ Senatore, who owned an operated it along with his wife Barbara.  Pat maintained a resident trio at the club that, in addition to Victor on piano, also featured from time-to-time, Alan Broadbent, Frank Collett and Roger Kellaway along with drummers including Peter Erskine, Roy McCurdy and Frankie Severino.

It was one thing for Victor to stop off at Donte’s Jazz club in North Hollywood if he was doing studio work in Hollywood or at Warner Brothers in Burbank or at Universal Studios in Universal City, CA [literally walking distance from Donte’s on Lankershim Blvd.].

However, anyone who knows anything about Los Angeles traffic knows that a commute from coastal Malibu through the canyons of the Santa MonicaMountains while next traversing the Simi and San FernandoValleys is at best – horrendous.

“Pasquale’s” located just up the Pacific Coast Highway [CA Highway 1] from Victor’s home was a welcome alternative for him and he was there often.

It was also to become the site of his next, significant Jazz recording, this one as part of a trio backing Joe Farrell on Farrell’s Inferno [Jazz a la Carte 004], an LP that has never been issued to disc.

On it, Joe plays flute, soprano and tenor saxophones. Joining Victor to form the rhythm section are bassist Bob Magnusson and drummer John Guerin.

Born Joe Firantello, Joe was a veteran of stratospheric trumpeter Maynard Ferguson’s big band [1960-61], a founding member of the Thad Lewis and Mel Lewis Orchestra [1966-69] and was a featured member of drummer Elvin Jones quartet from 1967-1970. As noted in the The New Grove Dictionary of Jazz [ed. by Barry Kernfeld, p.355] “… his modal style, which incorporated inflections of Latin Jazz, blended well with the approach of [Chick Corea’s] Return to Forever, a group he joined in 1971.”

His work with Return to Forever ultimately brought Joe to the West Coast where he became a session player after leaving Chick’s group.  Victor met Joe in the studios and worked regularly with him both in the quartet and in a 18-piece [largely rehearsal] band that Joe fronted.

Made up of performances recorded at Pasquale’s “… in the early 1980s,” the seven tracks on Farrell’s Inferno are an excellent indication of Farrell’s “ … adventurous modal approach and his interest in purse sound. … He was perhaps a better flautist than saxophonist, but his soprano work always had what one-time colleague Flora Purim described as a ‘singing’ quality that eliminates the horn’s often rather shrill character.” [Richard Cook & Brian Morton, The Penguin Guide to Jazz on CD, 6th Ed., p.497].

For the album, Farrell selected three standards and Victor contributed two originals, one of which – would you be surprised to learn was – Whipitup!  The other Feldman original – Let’s Go Dancing – a flute feature for Joe Farrell is wickedly fast bossa nova with a clever bridge that would be issued in 1982 as part of Victor’s jazz rock fusion album, Secret of the Andes.

Joe’s 18 piece band often rehearsed at Musicians’ Union Local 47 which maintained rooms for such purposes at it’s location on Vine Street in Hollywood, CA. For a time, Joe and I worked together in a professional organization associated with the union, the RMA [an organization of recording musicians] and the Los Angeles Symphony.

Quite coincidentally, a meeting of these entities was scheduled at the Union Hall just following a rehearsal by Joe’s band.  Since there time following the rehearsal and before the association meeting, Joe and I were chatting about the band when the conversation suddenly turned to Victor and Joe said: “You know he has the best musical mind of anyone I’ve ever worked with. He has a love for music that knows no bounds. And I can’t imagine him not swinging; even the slow stuff we play has a ‘pop’ to it when he’s on the band. Yet, if you passed him on the street, you’d think he was an accountant!”
After our brief time together with the professional association, I lost touch with Joe and later learned that things did not end well for him. He died in 1986 from something that has been killing Jazz musicians prematurely since time immemorial. As we shall see the timing of his death did nothing to lessen the burdens in Victor’s personal life in the mid-1980’s.

Next up for Victor was performing on 4 tracks [with featured solos on three of these] for Dark Orchid [Dark Orchid Jazz 601-04018] a 1981 big band LP by legendary composer-arranger Sammy Nestico who is probably best known for the many charts he wrote for the Count Basie band.

The album, whose line-up reads like a Who’s Who of musicians then active in the Hollywood studios, finds Victor in his element doing everything on these Nestico originals from playing unison lines on the Fender Rhodes with Bill Watrous’ whistling on This is Love [yes, whistling], to being the featured soloist on Willow Gold and Shoreline Drive [along with tenor saxophonist Pete Christlieb whose solo on this cut still leaves me with goose bumps].

The band, the compositions and arrangements and the ensemble and solo performances on Dark Orchid are the epitome of the musicianship to be found in Hollywood studios just prior to the take-over of much of this “World” by the Onslaught-of-the- Synthesizers by the end of the decade.

On September 27, 1981, Victor was part of a concert at UCLA’s Royce Hall that paired alto saxophonist Art Pepper and tenor saxophonist Zoot Sims for their first and only performance together. Along with Ray Brown on bass and Billy Higgins on drums and Barney Kessel on guitar, this concert was released as Art ‘N’ Zoot [Discovery DS-870; Pablo PACD-2310-957-2.


Michael Cuscuna, who was one of co-producer of the concert, which was part of a  three-part, nine-hour special developed by Tim Owens of National Public Radio entitled “Central Avenue Breakdown: A Portrait of a Jazz City … Los Angeles” had this to say about Victor in his insert notes:

Victor Feldman is a pianist, drummer, vibist, percussionist, composer and arranger … [whose] considerable skills made him very much in demand in Los Angelesstudios, often at the expense of his Jazz career. Despite tenures with Cannonball Adderley in 1960 and Miles Davis in 1963 and a scattering of recordings as a leader and sideman, his jazz artistry remains very underrated. His performances here should go a long way toward correcting that.

It’s hard to disagree with Michael’s assessment listening to Victor skip and romp his way all over the keyboard during his solo on Broadway, or as he sets the tone with an orchestral and flowing piano introduction to a bright tempo version of The Girl from Ipanema on which he takes three brilliant choruses between Zoot and Art’s solos or as he tears the place up with his “down and dirty” piano rumblings on Breakdown Blues.

To close out 1981, Victor embarked on a sentimental journey that reunited him with tenor saxophonist Spike Robinson for whom he had played drums thirty years earlier on Spike’s debut album on England’s Esquire label entitled The Guv’nor [Esq. S318].

Playing alto saxophone at that time, Robinson was an American who came to England as a result of a naval posting.  The reunion of sorts with Victor came about in December, 1981 when he along with Victor, Ray Brown on bass and Johnny Guerin on drums recorded eight songs by Harry Warren that was issued as Spike Robinson Plays the Music of Harry Warren [Discovery DS870].  In August, 1983, Robinson recorded 6 additional tuned by Warren with Pete Jolly, piano, John Leitham, bass and Paul Kreibich, drums for the CD version released on HEP CD2056.

With Warren’s wonderful melodies to improvise on and the likes of Ray Brown and Johnny Guerin backing you up, how can you go wrong? Victor certainly doesn’t and offers inspired solos This Heart of Mine, Chattanooga Choo Choo, and Lulu’s Back in Town, while offering Robinson his usual masterful accompaniment on all the tunes that make up this easy-to-listen-to, but not necessarily, easy-listening recording.

March, 1983 brought Victor into the company of Pepper Adams for the first time and happily this union was preserved on California Cookin’ [Interplay IPCD 8608]. They are joined on this recording by Ted Curson on trumpet, Bob Magnusson on bass and drummer Carl Burnett.  In his insert notes, Fred Norsworthy provides the following background for the recording:

This album was recorded during the 15th Annual OCC Jazz Festival hold In Costa Mesa, CA. The quintet was the opening act for the Bill Berry L.A.Big Band, with all members of the quintet also giving clinics and judging the College/High School Bands, which were competing during the daytime.

It Is worth noting that Pepper's original ‘Valse Celtique’ had their premier performance at this Festival. He was to record the tune at a later date, featuring Kenny Wheeler and Frank Foster on 2 different sessions. Pepper usually worked with pick-up groups during the later stages of his career, although he was a poll winning performer on the baritone, Popper never achieved the prominence that Garry Mulligan reached. Although both had their own original sound, with Pepper having the harder tone, despite his always being #2 in the polls, he was, to many, the number one baritone player, always exciting and creating original music.

This is also the first time that Pepper had worked with Victor Feldman. Ted Curson had worked with Pepper in Europeduring the seventies; both Magnusson and Burnett had worked with Pepper during one of his earlier Californiaappearances .... During the brief rehearsal time prior to the concert, Victor found some slight mistakes in Pepper's originals, which he corrected, much to Pepper's chagrin; otherwise Pepper was determined to avoid a jam session sound as an opening act. The opening number [‘Valse Celtique’] used the full quintet;  ‘Summertime’ followed as a feature for Ted Curson; Victor Feldman then offers a trio version of his original -  ‘Last Resort;’  Pepper is up next for his ballad feature, ‘Now In Our Lives; the full quintet returns for the theme, Sonny Rollins original ‘Oleo.’”

Victor turns in another of his patented, rhythmically action-packed solos on Last Resort, with its “Monkish” bridge that completely changes the feeling of the tune, but he is a tower of power when it comes time to solo on all of the other tunes. Through his comping, rhythmic riffing, and other subtle, musical devices, he does an especially fine job of serving as a group integrator to keep this essentially from sounding like just what it is – a pick-up session involving musicians who had had very little experience playing with one another before the concert.
“Pick-up session” would be the last phrase one could use to describe Victor’s next album released in May, 1983 as To Chopin with Love [Hindsight HCD-610] because the rehearsals to prepare it with numerous and arduous.  With the marvelous John Patitucci on bass and Victor’s son Trevor on drums here are Victor insert notes to explain how and why the album came about:

“Frederick Francois Chopin's music has been described by music historian James Huneker as too often bejeweled, far too lugubrious, too tropical, having the exotic savor of the heated conservatory not the fresh scent of the flowers grown out in the open. He said it was desperately sentimental, some of the compositions not altogether to the taste of the present generation and anemic in feeling. He stated that more vigor, a quickening of the time pulse and a less languishing touch would rescue them from lush sentimentality. Huneker went on to note that Chopin loved the night and it's starry mysteries and that his nocturnes are true night pieces, some wearing an agitated, remorseful countenance while others are like whisperings at dusk.

I only read these comments during the final stages of preparation for this album and was surprised to realize that I had similar reactions as a child upon hearing Chopin for the first time. I felt strangely melancholy yet deeply touched. In the course of my piano training I learned the B-flat Minor Waltz when I was ten. But then, I put Chopin (and the impressions I shared with Huneker) in the back of my mind and went on listening to Art Tatum, Benny Goodman, Duke Ellington and other great American jazz musicians on short wave radio - English weather permitting reception. Much to my mother's dismay the best broadcasts were at 5 A.M. I was working five nights a week until midnightwith Terry Thomas in a show at London's West Endand I was twelve years old. The sounds of American music had me captivated and I wasn't quite ready to deal with the genius of an older great composer - one from Poland - whose music I have since grown to love. With my interpretations I hope to share Chopin with an audience that otherwise might not be exposed to his music and at the same time bring some surprises, sunshine, and humor to those ears already familiar with it.

My first arrangement of a Chopin piece started before leaving Englandin 1955. I was playing the A-flat Major Waltz to improve my technique in my teens. At this time I was learning harmony from Charlie Parker, Al Haig and Dizzy Gillespie and found that Chopin's Waltz was really a chord progression like something Bird or Dizzy were basing their great be-bop lines on. Years later, in Los Angeles, when Lester Koenig of Contemporary Records asked me to make a trio album, I recorded the A-flat Major Waltz with Stan Levy and the late Scotty La Faro. I have included a new version of it on this album and it is dedicated to Scotty.

I wish to express my appreciation to Trevor Feldman, 17, for his musical maturity and ability to play with the sensitivity beyond his age so necessary for a drummer playing this type of music. My thanks to John Patitucci for all the rehearsals and such marvelous playing in which he brings a uniqueness to this instrument so often neglected by the present generation. And to Chopin, who must have loved improvisation because he loved freedom-which was as precious and precarious in his time in his homeland of Poland as it is today-with all due respect, my thanks and my love.”

As part of these same insert notes, Victor Jazz pianist “buddy” John Williams [who has since gone on to become a world famous composer of music for the movies and the conductor of the Boston Pops Orchestra] wrote the following tribute to Victor:

“I met Victor Feldman just after he arrived in this country from Englandsome twenty-five years ago. We were brought together by Henry Mancini, in whose orchestra we both played at that time.

Victor made an instant hit with all of his fellow musicians because he was so multifaceted, highly musical and always an inspiration to play with. He exuded a love of music that was projected and passed on to anyone who came in contact with him.

His love of the classics has always been evident in his music, and in his new album treats us to reminiscences of childhood Chopin studies. As always, his work, which continues to grow and grow, delights us.

John Williams, Boston, MAJune 9, 1983

During the recording sessions for the Chopin project, three of the trio’s warm-up tracks were saved and Hindsight Records released these as part of a compilation in 1998 under the title of Rio Nights [Hindsight HCD-615].  Included are two originals by Victor – Don’t Ask Oscar [a blues with a truly amazing bass solo by Patitucci] and You Gave Me the Runaround – and, perhaps fittingly a quarter of a century later, a reflective and introspective seven-and-a-half minute version of Basin Street Blues.


For a variety of reasons, The Blues, musically and emotionally, became a very large factor in Victor’s life as his beloved wife Marilyn died suddenly from a brain aneurysm. If you will recall, Joe Farrell also died in 1986 and, in September of that year, he would be further shattered by the news of his dear friend Shelly Manne’s sudden death from a heart attack.

Not too long after enduring all of these personal tragedies, Victor would be gone, too. He passed away on May 12, 1987 at the age of 53.

In the Producer’s Notes for his JVC compilation of recordings by Victor’s jazz rock Soft Shoulder and Generation Bands whose music – although excellent – falls outside the purely Jazz scope of this piece, Mike Brown had this to say about the significance of Victor Feldman and his legacy:

“WHEN WE THINK OF JAZZLEGENDS,THE NAMES THAT USUALLY COME TO MINDMOST QUICKLY AREARTISTS SUCH AS DIZZY GILLESPIE, MILES DAVIS, ELLA FITZGERALD, CHARLIE PARKER ….  ONENAME THAT IS RARELY HEARD IN THE CONTEXT OF THESE LEGENDS IS VICTOR FELDMAN. YET ANYONE FAMILIAR WITH HIS WORKWOULD NOT DENY HIS IMMENSE TALENT OR INDELIBLE INFLUENCE ON ANY ARTIST HE HASWORKED WITH. THIS REPUTATION SECURED VICTOR FELDMAN'S PLACEAS A MUSICIAN'S MUSICIAN ANDGAVE HIM THE OPPORTUNITYTO PUT HIS STAMP ON A NUMBER OF NOWCLASSIC RECORDINGS. HIS WORKWITH A VIRTUAL WHO'S WHO OF ARTISTS RANGING FROM, CANNONBALL ADDERLEY TO STEELY DAN MAKES HIM A TRUE'LEGEND.’”



Bob Cooper, who shared the bandstand with Victor at The Lighthouse Café in Hermosa Beach, CA, back when it all began for Victor had this to say after his death:

“Victor was all about music and although he had a lot of native ability he was constantly applying himself, always learning something new. He made himself into a phenomenal pianist; a guy who could play something that would really turn your head around.

It seemed like he was everywhere in the studios, but he always had something going on around town with his trio, over at Donte’s with Tom Scott or [tenor saxophonist] Ernie Watts or involved with some concert project.

He wasn’t an open man. He always seemed to be absorbed in his own thoughts. But if you asked him something or needed him for anything, he would stop whatever he was doing and help you right away.

He was very successful commercially; he took care of his family in style. There can be a lot of tension on a studio gig, but if he was on the date, his knowledge and ability was a real calming influence.

Victor was a real musical presence and I’ll miss him terribly.”

Bob wasn’t alone.


Books on Bud Powell: Bebop, Budism and the Beyond

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


“Why do I care when Powell was hospitalized or how his stay meshes with his performing and recording schedule? Not because of a morbid obsession with the apparently unknowable nature of his pathology, which I don't find all that meaningful in itself. My fascination is insep­arable from my interest in his art, and the mystery of how it wilted and blossomed, blossomed and wilted, for twenty years, never entirely dis­appearing, yet always averting the sustained brilliance that would have represented a complete fulfillment of its original promise. With Powell we are always listening beneath the surface for premonitions, disclo­sures, revelations, the deepest and most profane secrets. His disposition and technique obviously derive from different parts of his brain. Some­times the technique fails him, but the ideas and emotions are vividly specific; at other times, the fingers do his bidding precisely, but the bid­ding is mechanical and remote.”
- Gary Giddins, Bud Powell: Strictly Confidential, Visions of Jazz.

Wherever he went, Dizzy Gillespie was always teaching.

As one of the creators of Bebop, he taught many of the musicians on 52nd Street during its heyday in the 1940’s how to play it, either by musical notation and/or by anecdote.

And since he was there at its inception, he also offered those of us who were later followers of Bebop a historical perspective on other founders of this style of Jazz.

I remember Dizzy holding court during a set break at a club in Los Angeles with a bunch of young musicians when someone raised the question of the significance of pianist Bud Powell to bop.

At that time, Bud had pretty much faded from the Jazz scene in the US and was living in semi-retirement in Paris.

Dizzy got a serious look on his face and turned to the musician asking the question and said:  “See what happens when you have a genius mind for Bebop but don’t have to breathe through an instrument to play it?”

[Seemingly as though he had been there, too, when Dizzy made his comments about Bud, many years later, Bob Blumenthalwould write in his insert notes to the CD reissue of The Complete Blue Note and Roost Recordings: “Bebop is a language of long lines and intricate accents, so a pianist – whose phraselengths and rhythmic shifts are not determined by the need to breathe– is uniquely suited to enter into realms of eloquence within the vernacular. Powell was arguably the supreme bebopper.”]

I have no idea whether Diz was being intentionally abstruse when he made that comment, but as I would come to understand over the years, his remark was fraught with layers of meaning as regards Bud Powell the person and the music of Bud Powell, the pianist and composer.

One thing that I immediately comprehended from what Dizzy had to say about Bud was that Bud got Bebop from the mind to the hands as fast as anyone that ever played this style of Jazz.


When Bud was all there and together, he played Bebop piano with stunning speed and virtuosity. His improvisational ideas came so fast and furious that it was all I could do to complete one side of an LP at one sitting. I would listen to a few tracks and then take a break so I could absorb it all.

The significance of phrases like “being all there” and “the mind of Bud Powell” didn’t really have an impact on my early understanding of Bud mainly because I was not a devotee of his music.

While I listened to snippets of it, admired what I heard and was “amazed” by it, I really did not review it comprehensively until after I bought CD boxed sets of his Blue Note/Roost and Verve recordings when these were issued in the 1990’s.

And, as is often the case, the insert notes that accompanied these compilations afforded me the basis for a deeper appreciation and understanding of Bud’s music and the personal context in which it was created.

Bob Blumenthal’s writings that accompany the Blue Note/Roost set were very illuminating as were those by Peter Pullman who offered the commentary for the Verve set.

Peter Pullman’s notes also included a series of interviews with pianists who’s styles were heavily influenced by Bud including Toshiko Akiyoshi, Walter Bishop, Jr., Barry Harris and Marian McPartland and thoughts by other Jazz musicians and Jazz notables on Bud and his music such as Johnny Griffin, Max Roach, Jackie McLean and Ira Gitler.

The music and the commentaries on these boxed set enabled me to reach back in time and sample Bud’s music as it was being made as well as providing me with a broader context in which to understand Bud life.

So, too, have two recent books about Bud, one not surprisingly by Peter Pullman who has continued his research on Bud since the 1994 Verve annotations.

I found two brief reviews of Mr. Pullman’s book that I thought might be of interest.

The first is by Sebastian Scotney and it was posted to the London Jazz News blog.


© -Sebastian Scotney, copyright protected; all rights reserved.

Peter Pullman, Wail – The Life of Bud Powell

“From every page of Peter Pullman's in-depth biography of Bud Powell, the reader gains a sense of witnessing the work of a genius at close quarters. The book is a mesmerizing portrait of the elusiveness of a man who seldom had much to say for himself in words, but whose presence as a musician was unique and whose influence has been lasting and irreplaceable.

In a note inside the jacket of the book, Pullman gives the background to the book, and the briefest of impressions of quite how much hard graft has gone into it: “...In the nineties I was part of a team at Verve that produced, for issue on CD, that label's classic LP releases. A booklet that I wrote and edited, to accompany five CDs of Powell's music, netted me a Grammy nomination. I then looked to expand that work into a biography. The research ended up comprising thee hundred formal interviews and five hundred informal ones..."

This book, then, is the culmination of nearly two decades of painstaking work . When the going got tough,
Pullman just kept going. When the New York State Office of Mental Health declined to give details of Powell's psychiatric records from his time in mental institutions, Pullman didn't flinch. He took a legal challenge all the way to the state's Supreme Court to get hold of the documents, and won. He has also probed police and FBI records. And episode after episode in Powell's career is brought to life by the accounts of eye-witnesses. We get to know “the Stare” (invariably capitalized), the "laconic fragility" of a man whom Ellington, Parker, Max Roach, and many others explicitly recognized as a genius.

Pullman doesn't shy away from probing the complex issues around the music and the economics of it. Wherever he can, he likes to nail a question with a clear answer – he gives a particularly full account of how the New Yorkcabaret card affected musicians in general, and Bud Powell in particular.



The people around Powell, their motivations, the mixture of hero-worship, love, solicitousness, genuine concern for him, their desire to control him, to earn from him, to interact with him, all add up to an astonishingly rounded picture.
Pullman's restlessly questioning stance – where necessary - when interpreting their accounts, always deepens the perspective and the context. Detachment can be a good thing too. Pullman suggests that musicians seeking the inspiration they wanted and needed from him found it more comfortable at a safe remove : “His genius could be admired, and was often better appropriated, from a distance.”

The book gives lively accounts of recording sessions, accounts of how people reacted to hearing Powell play live. There are also the touching stories of what happened when Powell suddenly found himself back at the piano after a period of incarceration, and of those moments when drink or drugs took hold, and he fell apart musically.
Pullman also muses thoughtfully on the might-have-been, if Powell had not been condemned to spend time in mental institutions. Powell was a huge musician, but in his unpredictability he constantly gives tragic meaning to Cocteau's statement that “life is a horizontal fall.”

If the book had been taken under the wing of a publisher with more resources, it would have been a different but not necessarily a better book. The essence of this music is that it will find its way out, whether official channels give it permission or not; and in an analogous way, this necessary, deeply-lived book has emerged with all of the humanity it describes in both its subject and his music. A completist or a trainspotter might note the lack of a bibliography or a detailed chronology - although the latter is available on the book's website – www.wailthelifeofbudpowell.  

But that would be to miss the point, to ignore the sheer scale and richness of what actually is there. The book sometimes seems like an inexhaustible well of memories and research. One jazz writer told me that Pullman“may now have set the bar for a biography impossibly high for the rest of us.” That particular plaintive riff will surely be heard again.

The book is nominated for the Jazz Journalists Association award for Book of the Year later this month. Whether it wins or not,
Pullman's biography of Bud Powell deserves to be read, dipped into, lived with, by an audience well beyond jazz, as a vivid portrait of the man, the "artiste maudit", the unknowable genius, in full.”

[N.B.: Shall We Play That One Together? The Life and Art of Jazz Piano Legend Marian McPartland (St. Martin's Press), by Paul de Barros won the 2013 Jazz Journalist Book of the year award.]

And, not without a touch of irony, here are the very same Paul de Barros’ reviews of Mr. Pullman’s self-published work as well as another book on Bud by Guthrie P. Ramsey as published in the September 2013 edition of Downbeatmagazine.

Mr. de Barrows first reviews Guthrie P. Ramsey’s The Amazing Bud Powell: Black Genius, Jazz History and the Challenge of Bebop [University of California Press] under the collective title of Unlocking the Mysteries of Bud Powell’s Musical Genius.”


© -Paul de Barros/Downbeat, copyright protected; all rights reserved.

“Born in Harlem in 1924, Earl "Bud" Powell was a piano prodigy who turned from classical to jazz as a preteen, became Thelonious Monk's most treasured protégé in 1942 and the following year was helping to redefine modern jazz at Minton's. Yet Powell has been the least studied and most opaque of the bop pioneers, which makes Guthrie P. Ramsey's The Amazing Bud Powell: Black Genius, Jazz History, And The Challenge of Bebop (University Of California Press) and Peter Pullman's self-published Wail: The Life Of Bud Powellespecially welcome.

Ramsey, a music professor at the University of Pennsylvania, takes a Black Studies/New Jazz Studies approach, amplifying on his 1994 Ph.D. thesis about Powell. Ramsey offers not a biography but a theoretical rethinking of Pow­ell's life and work through a sociopolitical lens that takes in race, class, gender, the music in­dustry, criticism and black culture, explicitly re­jecting the "old musicology" notion that music exists in a timeless, universal place unattached to historical circumstance. In one of his most convincing chapters, he unpacks the received notion that bop was an anti-commercial "art music" that turned its back on vernacular black culture, pointing out that beboppers worked in a commercial milieu and never severed ties with blues and popular song form. Ramsey then brilliantly ties this nuanced view of bop's innova­tions to the whole notion of "genius" that attached to Powell, suggesting that the word was code for the (then-forbidden) assertion of black manhood.
Makes sense. Though sometimes Ramsey lets theory cloud the facts. To wit: though the notion of Powell's genius may have conveniently turned on falsely believing he waged an epic struggle against a stereotypically emasculating woman—namely, his caretaker in Europe, Altevia "Buttercup" Ed­wards—unfortunately, it wasn't false: Buttercup, at least to judge from the evidence Pullman has unearthed, did exploit (and drug) Powell.

In his penultimate chapter, Ramsey offers detailed parsings of various Powell solos, with the goal of showing that the importance of Pow­ell's music isn't, as we have read for years, how "advanced" his ideas were in relation to previous styles, but how they are "sonic symbols" repre­senting ideals of race advancement against social oppression. But Ramsey doesn't offer analyses that break much new ground. With its 16 musical examples and dense theoretical vocabulary, Ram­sey's book will not appeal to casual readers. But it is an important, thoughtful work for those wishing to probe beyond clichés.

Pullman, in his exhaustive biography, goes a long way toward exposing some of the most notorious of those clichés — particularly the 1945 beating so often used to "explain" the pianist's "madness" and the 1951 drug bust in which Monk was said to have taken the rap for Powell. Like an archaeologist cataloging shards, Pullman cobbles together a heartbreaking composite of a man who left few traces behind. A picture emerges of a pathologically introverted, angry, driven adoles­cent and sometimes eerily out of touch man who was obsessive about music but had no friends and was apparently unable to sustain any kind of normal personal relationship — despite fathering a child with his girlfriend, entering into a marriage of convenience and living for several sedated years with Edwards and for a few more under the wing of French graphic artist Francis Paudras.

Because he spent so many years in mental institutions (where he endured shock treatments), Powell missed crucial moments that might have elevated his reputation. Was Powell crazy? Or the victim of a malevolent, racist psychiatric establish­ment? Pullman won't offer a direct answer, but his evidence suggests that Powell suffered from what today would be diagnosed as autism: obsessive, drawn to repetition, unalert to social cues and pro­foundly childish. These symptoms were apparent long before he was struck with a police baton.

But Wail is far more than a myth-buster. Read­ing its vivid, detailed account of 52nd Street is like watching a movie. Though Pullman is not strong on musical detail, his accounts of the sessions are readable and sensible. While his obsession with other detail — not to mention an annoying fussiness about racial terminology and the use of the word "the" in front of proper nouns — cry out for an editor, his punctiliousness insures that Wail will serve as the standard reference for some time.”

In the following video tribute, Bud performs his original composition Tempus Fugit with Ray Brown on bass and Max Roach on drums. It was recorded in New York City in 1949.

Tad Shull - Deep Passion in the Land of the Jazz Tenor Saxophonist

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



My introduction to Tad Shull’s big, blustery and boisterous Jazz tenor saxophone sound came from two CD’s he made for Gerry Teekens’ Criss Cross Jazz in the early 1990’s.


When listening to Tad, legendary tenor players like Coleman Hawkins, Don Byas, Johnny Griffin, Eddie “Lockjaw” Davis and Lucky Thompson come to mind. Not bad company to be in, but make no mistake, Tad is his own man.


As Richard Cook and Brian Morton have remarked in The Penguin Guide to Jazz on CD, 6th Ed.: “Shull is a big-toned tenor specialist out of Norwalk, Connecticut. … Having taken the trouble to get himself a decent sound and to learn the changes inside out, he’s not afraid to tackle ungarnished D-flat blues. An unabashed traditionalist, there is plenty of evidence on his recordings that Shull keeps his ears open.”


Here’s more about Tad’s background from drummer Kenny Washington sleeve notes to Deep Passion: Tad Shull Quintet [Criss Cross 1047 CD].



In an era when it seems like all you have to do to record for a major label is to be 20 years old, wear an imported suit, look cute, and have an attitude, it is refreshing to see someone record who really deserves it.


I've played with just about every young 'star', and I've found that if you take them out of their world of vamps, and phrygian and mixolydian modes, and you stick a standard tune or the blues in front of them, you really hear that they sound like beginners. A young musician (who will remain nameless) was playing in an all-star concert with Dizzy Gillespie. Diz called Ellington's In a Mellow Tone, and this musician asked me to hum the melody to him! That was six years ago, and I wouldn't be surprised if he still didn't know it now.


The two main reasons for this are, one, that the record companies are snapping up these players before they get any experience. Between a musician's looks, personality, and record companies' marketing strategies, they turn a young jazz musician into a boy wonder (or, as I call them, boy blunders!). In short, the last thing on some of these record bigwigs' minds is the music. They themselves are not into the music, but only their ill-gotten gains. All this helps to lower the once very high standard of this music. The second reason is that the young musicians themselves have not taken the time to study the history of this music. The average tenor saxophonist today knows almost nothing before Sonny Rollins' Prestige recordings. There are a lot of transitional figures that were around before Rollins. Tad Shull is definitely someone who has taken the time out to check out all musical styles.


Tad was born in Norwalk. Connecticut on October 15,1955. At age 11 his music teachers gave him a saxophone, saying his ear wasn't good enough for any other instrument (imagine that!). Tad says, 'I pictured a sound like Don Byas', though I had yet to hear him, and that's why I stuck with it. A local musician played me Coleman Hawkins' Body and Soul, and some Duke Ellington, a few years later.'
At age 16, Tad studied with Dave Liebman, who was playing with Elvin Jones at the time. Liebman turned him on to the other big-toned tenors, like Eddie 'Lockjaw' Davis and Johnny Griffin.


Tad went on to study at the New England Conservatory of Music in Boston, where he studied the mechanics of jazz with two legendary figures, Jaki Byard, and Joe Allard. Tad says he owes his whole approach to the horn itself to Joe.


In 1978, he made the big move to New York City. Tad caught the tail end of the midtown jazz scene that was left from the 'forties, playing at Eddie Condon's and Jimmy Ryan's before they closed. He got a chance to work with masters like Roy Eldridge, Connie Kay, Eddie Locke and John Bunch. Tad looked especially to Roy and also Jimmy Rowles not only as musical influences, but for attitudes towards the jazz life in general.


In 1980, Tad toured the U.S. and Canada with the Smithsonian Jazz Repertory Ensemble, led by Bob Wilber. A year later, he joined the Widespread Depression Jazz Orchestra, where he has held that chair ever since. In addition to playing with WDJO, he has continued to lead his own groups.


I met Tad in 1985 after playing with the WDJO, and was completely knocked out
by his sound and knowledge of the music. What you should keep in mind while listening to him is that this young tenor titan has checked out all saxophone styles. You hear everything from Hawkins to Coltrane. Also, you can hear how Tad was especially intrigued by some angular, more harmonically daring tenor players. I'm speaking of tenor masters like Chu Berry, Don Byas, Lucky Thompson, Paul Gonsalves, and Lockjaw Davis. These players had a different way of approaching rhythm and harmony. You could never tell what they might play next. From listening to these masters, I can tell that Tad has the same kind of approach. The amazing thing about it is that although he has listened to these great men, he's his own man on the horn.


For years it bugged me that Tad wasn't better known. It also bugged me that he didn't have a date out under his own name. I talked to Gerry Teekens, the owner of Criss-Cross, and urged him to check him out. After hearing a demo by Tad, he was thoroughly convinced that Tad had something to say.


This brings us to Deep Passion, which is Tad's first as a leader. The title simply means the feelings that are conveyed when this man plays his horn. His big, round, smooth tone conveys beauty, intimacy and love at all tempos -- but especially the ballads.


The musicians at hand here [Tad, Kenny, Irwin Stokes on trumpet, Mike LeDonne, piano and Dennis Irwin on bass] should meet with any jazz chef's taste buds. Jazz is like making a sauce. If you don't have the right spices it won't have the right flavor. The spices here are right. We get together to simmer and cook a soulful, swingin' jazz sauce….”



Tad shred these thoughts on his approach to Jazz in the insert notes from his second Criss Cross CD In The Land of the Tenor [Criss Cross 1071 CD].


“The best writers on jazz understand that there is only so much words can add to the music itself.   Having to speak on my own playing carries added risks.   I could fall into congratulating myself, or fuss over pet details.   Now, owners of this brand new CD must want to know something about the background of the person they are listening to. The best approach might be to offer something about my attitude towards the tenor saxophone and what it's like to learn to play it.


In terms of musical apprenticeship, I went backwards in time. While I struggled to grab a piece of whatever incredible things my idols were able to do, a part of unraveling the mystery was to find out what each guy listened to when he was coming up — what made him tick.


When I started, Coltrane was not long gone, and like many other tenor players at the time I was caught up in the wave. But it didn't seem as though Coltrane himself, different as he was, could have just sprung up from out of nowhere. Over a period of years, it turned out, Coltrane led me to Lockjaw Davis and Johnny Griffin, then Gene Ammons and Sonny Stitt, and of course Charlie Parker. Bird himself could not have been Bird but for the rich musical culture he had been nurtured with since day one. So curiosity about Bird then meant checking out Lester Young, and then finally Coleman Hawkins, and Hawk-inspired players like Don Byas and Lucky Thompson.


The more I went back, the more I discovered that the styles of these older men following Hawk were even harder to "cop" than the ones who came later, who I
think relied more on set patterns. There was something "whole" and personal there. Technique they had aplenty. But so does everyone else. It struck me that these classic tenors made technique the servant of an almost vocal, speechlike expression. Every note molded tone, attack, harmony, you name it, into something complete. I think that kind of split-second control over every facet of music at once is what we mean by the term "melody"—and that's always personal.


Thinking about the personal approach of these past masters of the tenor gives me the moxie to keep going in the future. Jazz has already seen many, many tenor players come and go. I keep hearing more new ones that can really play every day. After so much tenor, why still more?  Maybe it's because, in this music where the performer is also the composer, it's an ideal medium for self-expression. The tonal range of the tenor provides a raw, unformed piece of plastic material for each soul to shape or imprint as he likes. The classic tenors showed that the possibilities just overflowed from the bell of the horn, and their descendants proved the source couldn't be drained (ever notice that even bad tenor players "sound like themselves"?). With a hundred years of jazz behind us, it's still hard to believe that newcomers can't add to the choruses already played.


Now that it comes to painting myself into this tableau of tenor history, the job gets tricky.   Naming some of my worthy forebears, and rhapsodizing about jazz individualism, I risk comparing myself with them.   In my case, their breathtaking originality or technical innovation may still be a distant goal. But with so many
tenors listen to, there is a point where you can't help doing things your own way. The problem, as I said up front, is to put into words what that "way" is.


You probably guessed I am not an avant-garde player.   Even though I have some idols who were born before World War I,  I don't see much need to hone safely to "the tradition." How about something in between "trad" and avant-garde, then, say straight ahead? But I think you will hear that I do not sound like other straight-ahead players.


In the end, I can tell you something about what I'm not. But if you want to know what I am, you will have to listen and judge for yourself.”


This video with give you a taste of the sound of Tad Shull’s tenor “in action.” The tune is Mike LeDonne’s Tadpoleon which he is joined by Irvin Stokes, trumpet, Mike on piano, bassist Dennis Irwin and drummer Kenny Washington.


A Portrait of Bud Powell: Dance of the Infidels" by Francis Paudras

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


"A heartfelt and deeply involving portrait. This often tragic tale, written with sincerity and affection, gives an inside look at an amazing musician, plumbing the depths of his life and music. Francis Paudras has captured the genius who was Bud Powell in this fascinating book, and Rubye Monet's translation has in no way diluted the beauty of his writing."
—Marian McPartland


"Francis Paudras is a hero who has dedicated his life to preserving the history of the great cultural figures of jazz through film, video, and radio performances; without his efforts many of the profound contributions of these artists would be lost. This book is a wonderful living document of his personal relationship with the genius Bud Powell, whose work will continue to shape jazz's legacy for generations to come."
—Herbie Hancock


“If I had to choose one single musician for his artistic integrity, for the incomparable originality of his creation and the grandeur of his work, it would be Bud Powell. He was in a class by himself.”
- Bill Evans


In terms of the style of Jazz referred to as Bebop, what Charlie Parker was to the saxophone, Dizzy Gillespie to the trumpet, Bud Powell (1924-1966) was to the piano: few Jazz pianists have ever rivaled his brilliance.


But the tragedy of his life is also exceptional in the annals of Jazz: he endured a brutal beating on the head by the police as a youth; electroshock therapy in psychiatric institutions; physical and mental abuse from people who fed him dangerous drugs to control him; malnutrition and tuberculosis; and, perhaps most painful of all, the indifference of his contemporaries to his talent.


Yet his musical intuition, helpless innocence, and humor made him an endearing and sympathetic character — especially to Francis Paudras, a young Jazz fan who met Powell in the late 1950s.


Paudras's generosity was boundless: he helped free Powell from unfavorable surroundings, gave him a home and a new life, encouraged him to create some of his finest music, and cared for him as if he were his child rather than his idol.


Paudras named his biography Dance of the Infidels after one of Bud’s more famous compositions. It is one of the more moving Jazz memoirs — and served as the basis for Bertrand Tavernier's film'Round Midnight, starring Dexter Gordon. Here, for the first time in English, is a portrait of a friendship as surprising and heartbreaking as Bud Powell's timeless music.


The context for a full appreciation of what Francis Paudras has accomplished with heartfelt tribute to Bud Powell with his biography Dance of the Infidels  can best be explained in this excerpt from a 1964 interview that pianist Bill Evans gave to Randi Hultin in Oslo, Norway.


“Of all the musicians I ever loved—Bird and Stan Getz and Miles and lots of others that no one even knows I listened to—it was Bud who influenced me the most.


I was fifteen when I first heard Dexter's recordings with Bud. Then came Bird and Dizzy and the big bands ... they all influenced me, but Bud more than anyone else.


He was so expressive, such emotion flowed out of him! There are different kinds of emotion: there is the easy, superficial kind, and there is another kind, that doesn't make you laugh or cry, that doesn't make you feel anything but a sense of sheer perfection. That's what I felt with Bud.


It's a feeling we sometimes get from Beethoven.... It's not that it's beautiful in the sense of pretty or brilliant, it's something else, something much deeper. When people talk about the giants— Bird, Bud, Dizzy, and Miles—I think they underestimate Bud. They're always putting him down, saying he was this or that. ... But I never felt that way about him.”


Paudras’ biography makes Bud human and takes away the mythical and monstrous overtones that are all too often used to categorize and dismiss his greatness.


Earl 'Bud' Powell was the greatest of the pure bebop pianists. His flowing, linear style, underpinned by a spare left-hand comping which had its roots in the solidity of stride piano, but translated into the angular asymmetric accents of bebop, established the dominant approach of the period, and his influence can be felt in almost all pianists active in that idiom, with the exception of the man who was very much Powell's early mentor, Thelonious Monk. While he was a brilliant musician, however, Powell was a deeply unstable character who spent much of his adult life either incarcerated in institutions or on heavy medication, which proved almost as damaging as his illness.


How and why this book came about is very directly explained in the following Introduction by Mr. Paudras who is very candid in his disdain for those who went out of their way to hurt Bud and to take advantage of him during his all-too-brief life.


“INTRODUCTION
Everybody wants to be in the image of God. That's why I play jazz.
- JOHN LEWIS


Before I could write this book there were such obstacles to overcome that at times I was afraid I would never do it. To begin with, there was something almost indecent in talking about Bud. How would I ever find the right words to express the intensity of my feelings, both for him as a person and for his music? I dreaded that my judgments might be deemed too absolute, my enthusiasm too excessive, and my deep emotions nothing more than blind passion. But now these fears have dissipated, leaving in their place only a serene determination.


The words that follow come straight from the heart. But they are also the fruit of a conscious decision: to stick as close as possible to my personal reflections, the thoughts I have hitherto kept entirely to myself. Rather than an anecdotal account, this book is an outgrowth of a long meditation beginning in 1956, the year I saw Bud for the first time.


I make no claim to reveal all the facets of Bud's interior world. The complexity of his genius is such that his personality, however likable and endearing, will probably always remain shrouded in mystery. Yet how dreadful it would be to let his vast contributions fall into oblivion.
If this great exponent of black American culture inspired me, a white European, to devote a book to his work, it is simply because I think his music is of universal scope. The work of Bud Powell is not only a message of love of a black artist for black people, it is also a message of great beauty, hope, and peace for all the peoples of the world.


My utter certainty of this has provided the impetus to take on the task, all the more so as Bud Powell's life and work seem thus far to have inspired no more from commentators than shopworn anecdotes and trivia. My passion springs not from some romantic infatuation, but from thirty consecutive years of deep and painstaking study of his music, a body of work I consider one of the most compelling in the history of music.


I should also add that I am quite aware of how most American jazz writers regard European amateurs, It has been said repeatedly that we have a romanticized vision of jazz and a false idea of the jazz world.


Such comments and criticisms have in no way made me want to modify my own point of view. The French may have less first-hand knowledge than those Americans who lived through these musical events, but apparently all of their combined knowledge has not enabled the American writers to produce the kinds of genuine studies that we, such true lovers of jazz, so yearn for.


Furthermore, after a lifetime devoted to this music, I still believe it's no accident that so many of the great American musicians found their ultimate consecration in France or elsewhere in Europe, where many of them came to spend their lives. From my own experience and that of other well-placed observers, I can affirm that they found our vision and ideas, not to mention our welcome, to their liking.


Many musicians felt out of place as the United States became increasingly commercial. A society where the opportunistic pursuit of immediate profits outweighed all other considerations was completely ill-suited to their artistic demands. Musicians like Billie Holiday, Lester Young, Kenny Clarke, Thelonious Monk, Fats Navarro, Charlie Parker, Bud Powell, and Bill Evans, to mention only a few, never totally accepted integration into a system that was antithetical to their personal artistic endeavors.


In their categorical refusal to compromise, they were following in the footsteps of the classical masters of the old world. It is easy to see how they might be more at home with Europe and its romantic spirit. Many American musicians have felt a deep nostalgia for the roots of a certain European music. Thelonious Monk, for example, once said in an interview, "We loved Ravel, Stravinsky, Debussy, Prokofiev, Schoenberg, so I guess we had to be influenced by them." If Africa is largely responsible for the rhythms and the pulse of jazz, its structure, melodies, and harmonic conceptions more often than not hark back to earlier European creators. During a lecture in Houston, Texas in April 1928, Maurice Ravel said, 'American folklore? But just what is your folklore? Indian melodies? Are they American? Negro spirituals? Blues? Are they what is meant by American?"


Ravel seems not to rule out the development of a new European school that would be the continuation of classical music. He probably never imagined that the only ones to lay claim to the advances of the great classicists would be the American school represented by Art Tatum, Charlie Parker, Bud Powell, Bill Evans, and the like. After Frederic Chopin, Claude Debussy, Gabriel Faure, Maurice Ravel, and Lili Boulanger, after Richard Wagner, Alexander Scriabin, and Sergei Rachmaninoff, Europe was seeking the continuity of its romantic impulse. We were to find it in the American music called jazz, the classical music of tomorrow.


Readers of this book will soon become aware of a gulf between reality and fiction, between the facts about the period when Bud lived with me and the accounts of other writers who took it upon themselves to recount this period of time. The discrepancies are so glaring as to cast doubt on these writers' reliability in other matters and to make one realize how cautious one must be when reading their accounts of his earlier life as well. They could very easily have checked their facts by asking those directly concerned, but of course it's simpler to repeat whatever gossip comes quickly and easily to mind. In so doing, they kept alive a legend that did only harm to Bud. None of them ever bothered to take a long, hard look at his music, which is the only subject really worth our interest.


If I sometimes seem less than charitable to certain persons, I make no apologies. My only aim is to do justice to a man who, in his lifetime, was rarely treated with any of the consideration he deserved. All I care about today is to show as best I can the arbitrary quirks of misfortune and the downright ill-will he came up against time after time throughout his tragic life. In the conspiracy of silence that always surrounded Bud, there were many who shamelessly and constantly took advantage of him.


Last of all, I gladly omit those musicians who pillaged and parodied him, and the others—those who deliberately deserted his work and today feign ignorance of his very name, the better to claim the fatherhood of musical forms of which he was the true innovator.”




The Shark’s Pretty Teeth: Pops on Mack The Knife

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


The following by Terry Teachout appeared in the July 28, 2017 edition of the Wall Street Journal.

How Louis Armstrong turned a song about the vicious exploits of a murderer in 18th-century London into a jazz hit.


“For all the enduring success of their other collaborations, Bertolt Brecht and Kurt Weill are both best remembered for “Die Dreigroschenoper” (“The Threepenny Opera”), their caustically witty 1928 adaptation of John Gay’s 1728 “Beggar’s Opera,” which portrayed low life in 18th-century London. But it was not until 1955 that the American public at large first heard any part of “The Threepenny Opera”—and it was Louis Armstrong, the most important figure in the history of jazz, who introduced them to it.

In September of that year, Armstrong and His All Stars recorded “Mack the Knife,” Marc Blitzstein’s English-language version of “Die Moritat von Mackie Messer,” a “murder ballad” about the vicious exploits of the show’s principal character that was the most popular number in “The Threepenny Opera.” Armstrong’s deliciously swinging cover version became a hit single, one of a handful of small-group jazz recordings ever to do so, and he would perform it the world over until he died in 1971.

Armstrong was introduced to “Mack the Knife” by George Avakian, his producer at Columbia Records. Mr. Avakian, who was determined to put his beloved Satchmo back on the pop charts, had recently seen the 1954 off-Broadway revival of “The Threepenny Opera.” While the original 1933 Broadway production had closed after just 12 performances, this small-scale staging, newly translated by Blitzstein, the author of “The Cradle Will Rock,” became a sleeper hit, ultimately running for six years. Mr. Avakian came home certain that “Mack the Knife” had the makings of a hit single, but he was unable to persuade any of Columbia’s other artists to play his hunch. Dave Brubeck, Erroll Garner and Gerry Mulligan all turned him down flat, finding the simple tune to be too repetitious.

It was Turk Murphy, a San Francisco trombonist, who suggested that the song might suit Armstrong. Murphy wrote and recorded a combo arrangement that Mr. Avakian brought to the trumpeter, who agreed on the spot to record it. His attraction to “Mack the Knife” was easy to understand. Not only was Weill’s riff-like melody instantly appealing, but Blitzstein’s rendering of Brecht’s lyric, an acid-etched portrait of a switchblade-wielding street thug, was no less immediately memorable: “Just a jack-knife has Macheath, dear / And he keeps it out of sight.” Armstrong found the song richly evocative of his New Orleans childhood, laughing out loud as he listened to the demo. “Oh, I’m going to love doing this!” he told Mr. Avakian. “I knew cats like this in New Orleans. Every one of them, they’d stick a knife into you without blinking an eye!”

Murphy’s arrangement was a spare sketch well suited to the talents of the All Stars, the instrumental combo that accompanied Armstrong. “Dig, man, there goes Mack the Knife!” the trumpeter rasped genially by way of introduction. Arvell Shaw and Barrett Deems laid down a springy, pulsing two-beat accompaniment on bass and drums over which Billy Kyle, the All Stars’ pianist, strewed Basie-like twinkles. A muted Armstrong played the penny-plain melody, with the clarinetist Edmond Hall and the trombonist Trummy Young riffing softly behind him. Then he put down his horn and told the tale of the bloodthirsty Macheath with a glee that had nothing whatsoever to do with the grim lyric, translating it into New Orleans-flavored Satchmo-ese: “Oh, the shark has pretty teeth, dear / And he shows them a-poi-ly white.” Armstrong also overdubbed a trumpet obbligato behind his vocal. At the end he pulled out his mute, shouted “Take it, Satch,” and led the band through a rocking out-chorus.

The results were irresistible, and no one tried to resist them. Released as fast as Mr. Avakian could slap it onto vinyl, “Mack the Knife” rose to No. 20 on Billboard’s pop chart. Though Bobby Darin’s cover version, cut three years later, sold even better, it was Armstrong who turned “Mack the Knife” into a jazz and pop standard that has since been recorded by such artists as Tony Bennett, Ella Fitzgerald, Bill Haley and the Comets, Peggy Lee, Sonny Rollins and Frank Sinatra. But Armstrong’s version remains sui generis, a quintessential example of his fabled ability to take unlikely sounding songs and make them his own.

In 2015 “Mack the Knife” was made part of the Library of Congress’ National Recording Registry, a roster of “culturally, historically or aesthetically significant” audio recordings “of enduring importance to American culture.” The other recordings enshrined in the registry range from Judy Garland’s “Over the Rainbow” to Martin Luther King Jr's “I Have a Dream” speech. Satchmo would have been proud.

—Mr. Teachout, the Journal’s drama critic, is the author of “Pops: A Life of Louis Armstrong” and “Satchmo at the Waldorf,” a play about Armstrong. This essay, commissioned by the Library of Congress for the National Recording Registry, was adapted from “Pops.”


Pat Martino: First Impressions

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


“The guitar has its own mystique. The most ancient of instruments, it is the most pervasive in contemporary music. Those who mastered its mysteries have discovered unlimited application for the guitar’s acoustic and electric personalities.”
- Gary Giddins

“[Pat Martino]… is a guitarist who can rework simple material into sustained improvisations of elegant and accessible fire; even when he plays licks, they sound plausibly exciting.

Although seldom recognized as an influence, he has been a distinctive and resourceful figure in Jazz guitar for many years, and his fine technique and determination have inspired many players.”
- Richard Cook and Brian Morton, The Penguin Guide to Jazz on CD, 6th Ed.

“Pat Martino plays more than just notes. He plays his personality, his insights. Of Pat it can be honestly stated that his style is immediately recognizable.”
- Kent Hazen



There’s a modern adage which states: “You never get a second chance to make a first impression.”

When it came to the impression he made on Les Paul, a superb technical player and one of creators of the modern electric guitar sound, if would seem that Pat Martino didn’t need a second chance:

“Some years ago I was playing an engagement in Atlantic City and a young lad, accompanied by his parents, came backstage to meet me and request my autograph. When the lad said he was learn­ing guitar I handed him mine and asked that he play something. Well, what came out of that guitar was unbelievable. "Learning," he said!!! The thought that entered my mind at the time was that perhaps I should take lessons from him ... his dexterity and cleanliness were amazing and his picking style was absolutely unique. He held his pick as one would hold a demitasse. Pinky extended, very polite.

The politeness disappeared when pick met string as what hap­pened then was not timid but very definite. As is obvious, I was very impressed and the memory of this lad stuck with me. Although I lost track of him I figured that sooner or later I was bound to hear of him again. All that talent was not to be buried in obscurity.

Several years later I began hearing reports of a young guitarist playing in the New York area who was really scaring other musicians with his ability and musicianship. I tracked him down to a club in Harlem, and aside from the fact that the reports of his being a great guitarist were not exaggerated, I found that this was the same lad who had visited me in Atlantic City.

Now grown up, and with the extra years of practice and experience, he had grown into a musical giant. His name was Pat Martino. (As a side-note, a prominent guitarist told me recently that on his first visit to New York he had gone to the Harlem club where Pat was appearing. His thought at the time was that if Pat represented the type of competition he faced — and Pat not even well known — how was he to surpass or even equal that as well asenduring the other obstacles facing a proposed career in music.) …

Listen to … [his] music and be your own judge but it you happen to a guitarist don't be discouraged. Don't slash your wrists and pray for a decent burial; just practice a lot and perhaps someday someone (possibly Pat) will be writing liner notes for you.” [Les Paul, June, 1970, liner notes to Desperado, Prestige PR 7795; OJCCD 397]




Pat made a similar, first impression on Dan Morgenstern, a Jazz literary luminary who just recently retired as the Director of the Institute for Jazz Studies at RutgersUniversity:

“Pat Martino is a bad cat. ...

He is an orig­inal, his own man, and his abilities are extraordinary from both a strictly playing and general musical stand­point: great speed; marvelous articulation no matter how fast the fingers fly; an ear for harmony that feeds ideas to those fingers at a speed to match; a sense of form that imposes order on all that facility; a singing tone, and tremendous swing …. [Insert notes to Pat Martino Live, Muse 5026]

Or how about the impression Pat made on the distinguished Jazz author and critic, Gary Giddins.

“[The late Jazz trumpeter and bandleader] Red Rodney once described artistic progress like this: ‘You go along and then all of a sudden, bump, you rise to another plateau, and you work real hard and then, bump, you rise to another one.’

Pat Martino’s talent rises to a new plateau regularly and thanks to his prolific recording career, those bumps have been captured on an imposing series of discs. His records are not only consistent; they evolve one to the next. …

Perhaps the first thing one responds to in Pat’s music is commitment. He plays like he means it.

One aspect of his style consists of multi-noted patterns, plucked with tremendous facility (and time) over the harmonic contour. The notes are never throwaways; the patterns take on their own mesmerizing force, serving to advance the pieces as judiciously as the melodic variations of which Pat is a master. ….

Pat has very clearly honed his immense technique closely to what he most personally wants to express. His music is private, but richly communicative; it commands attention with its integrity – it does not call attention to itself with excessive volume or gimmicks.

Pat Martino doesn’t have time to jive, he’s a musician.” [Liner notes to Pat Martino/Consciousness Muse LP 5039; paragraphing modified]


And Mark Gardner, the accomplished Jazz author and journalist, was also duly impressed by his first experience with Pat when he wrote these comments and observations about he and his music in the liner notes to Pat Martino: Strings! [Prestige 7547]:

“Since Charlie Christian first plugged in his amplifier and revo­lutionized jazz guitar in the late 1930s each subsequent decade has witnessed the emergence of a handful of new string stylists. Barney Kessel, Jimmy Raney, Billy Bauer, Chuck Wayne and Oscar Moore were the dominant voices of the 'forties.

And in the 'fifties Tal Farlow really came into his own to be followed by Jim Hall, Kenny Burrell, Johnny Smith and Wes Montgomery. The 'sixties in turn have produced Grant Green, Bola Sete, Gabor Szabo, George Ben­son and now Pat Martino.

To bracket Martino with the foregoing list of great jazz plectrists warrants some weighty evidence in his favor. After all he is only twenty-three years old and the enclosed sides are the first real jazz sides to be released under his leader­ship. Which is precisely where the proof of my assertion lies— within this album.

It is quite plainly demonstrated on all five tracks that Pat Martino has already conceived a style of his own. To ar­rive at a personal mode of expression so young requires more than heavy chops and good taste, it calls for imagination, the sifting of one's emotional and intellectual resources into an abstract form with discipline. The guitarist has passed through this inner process of self-realization which is essential for every artist before he can begin to create works of lasting importance. Pat is not a 'natural talent' because no such thing exists. He has had to work and work hard to get where he is.

As alto saxophonist Sonny Criss remarked recently, 'A lot of people say that Bird was a born genius. That's wrong. He wasn't born with anything except the ability to breathe. Unless you really apply yourself nothing's ever going to happen.'

What has happened to Martino, a young man with an exciting future ahead, is the result of the sort of application Sonny spoke of.”

Here’s a video tribute to Pat on which he plays his original composition Willow accompanied by Eddie Green on electric piano, Tyrone brown on bass and Sherman Ferguson on drums. If you haven’t heard Pat play guitar before, perhaps your first impression will match that of Les Paul, Gary Giddins, Dan Morgenstern,  and Mark Gardner. If so, you’d be in very good company, indeed.

Rob McConnell and The Boss Brass

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


At one time or another many, if not most, Jazz musicians want to try their hand at playing in a big band.

When you are in one that clicks, there’s nothing in the world like it.

The surge of energy and rhythmic propulsion generated by a powerful big band leaves you giddy with excitement.

Navigating your way through a big band arrangement with fifteen or so companion musicians creates a sense of deep satisfaction that comes from successfully meeting a difficult challenge.

The art of individualism, which is so much a part of Jazz, gets put aside and is replaced by the teamwork and shared cooperation of playing in an ensemble setting.

When it all comes together you feel like you’re in love; overwhelmed by something bigger than you that you don’t understand.

You gotta pay attention; you gotta concentrate and you gotta do your best, otherwise it’s a train wreck.

So much goes into it:

- great charts [arrangements]
- great section leaders
- great soloists
- a great rhythm section
- and most of all, a great leader who melds it all together.

Enter Rob McConnell, who for over thirty years led a band based in Toronto, Canada which he called from its inception “The Boss Brass” [“boss” being slang for “incredible,” “awesome,” and “very cool”].

Rob passed away on May 1, 2010. The following memorial post and podcast was broadcast on Jazz.fm in Toronto, Canada. It was produced by Geoff Siskend with Jessica Humphries and Ross Porter as executive producers. Ross Porter also hosted the program for which financial support was provided by The Department of Canadian Heritage and the Canadian Culture Online Program.

You can also hear the documentary Rob McConnell: The Boss of the Boss Brass online at the Canadian Jazz Archive:

© -George Siskend, Jessica Humphries, Ross Porter, Jazz FM 91 and The Canadian Jazz Archives, copyright protected; all rights reserved.

Rob McConnell: The Boss of the Boss Brass

“For close to 30 years Rob McConnell’s ‘Boss Brass’ reigned over the Big Band scene with its driving power, clever arrangements and the raw talent of its roster of A-list players. In recognition of his accomplishments, McConnell has received more Grammy awards than Bryan Adams, Neil Young and Leonard Cohen put together. Crusty, comical, and opinionated, McConnell is tough on musicians and, as the boss, doesn’t settle for anything less than perfection.

Transcript of the audio documentary

Ross Porter: To me, Rob McConnell is one of the larger than life figures in Canadian Jazz. He is crusty, comical, and a musical triple treat. Because not only is he a gifted valve trombonist, he is also an incredibly talented composer and arranger. His band, The Boss Brass, received great international acclaim during its near 30-year reign. His arrangements have set the bar for big band music around the world. He has won more Grammy Awards than Bryan Adams, Neil Young, and Leonard Cowen combined. He has a reputation for excellence and an absolute demand for perfection.

I’m Ross Porter and welcome to the documentary, ‘Rob McConnell: The Boss of the Boss Brass.’

I recently had the opportunity to sit down with Rob McConnell in a studio in Toronto to talk about his life, his work, and his music.

Ross Porter: The music that you hear in your head, does it sound the same way after the musicians have played it?

Rob McConnell: Well, it’s usually better than I had hoped for because of the sparkling and eager and talented musicians I’ve had in any of my bands. I find that the musicians bring so much eagerness and talent to the floor that in under any circumstance they lift me up.

Ross Porter: A list of the players who’ve worked with Rob McConnell reads like a who’s who of the Canadian Jazz scene. Players such as Ed Bickert, Mo Kaufman, Don Thompson, Guido Basso, Terry Clarke, Rick Wilkins, and Ian McDougall. Rob may be admired throughout the jazz world for his playing ability and composing, but it’s his gift as a big band arranger that has really set him apart.

Jack Batten (former jazz critic for the Globe and Mail): The whole world should know about Rob McConnell, but not even all of Canada knows Rob McConnell, but that’s the nature of jazz, I guess. I mean, anybody, anywhere in the world who knows about big band music, in any country, knows about Rob McConnell.

Alex Dean (Boss Brass saxophonist): I think Rob is an individual voice, a true artistic individual voice in the world of jazz music. And I mean, in the world. I don’t think he’s doing anything that’s like, “Oh man, this is all brand new!” “This is the new thing.” In fact Rob would probably happy if you said, “Oh this is the old thing.” You know. His writing is incredible and his influence. I mean, he has influenced all other writing. The way he voices. The way he harmonizes. The way he puts unisons together. I guess the thing now is that people lift Rob’s stuff and use it. And they don’t even know.


Ian McDougall (lead trombone player for The Boss Brass): You know when went to an LA for the first time Rob was honored by the LA people and all the big people there. They just said, “Rob, you’ve actually done something that’s changed the way we think about rearranging for the big band.” It was the best damn band in the world.

Ross Porter: This giant of jazz was born in London, Ontario on Valentine’s day 1935. The son of a traveling salesman, Rob’s family was uprooted to Toronto to follow his father’s career when Rob was just 11 years old. And it was in Toronto that Rob was first introduced to the instrument that would become his musical forte and define his style as a composer, the trombone.

Rob McConnell: I started out singing, you know, as a soprano in church, stuff like that, but I was soon singing tenors so I was singing harmony parts. And then when I started to play in grade 9 at NorthernVocational School here, I really wanted to play the trumpet because my brother played the trumpet. But when they got to McConnell MCC, they didn’t have any trumpets left. So he said, “All we have is a trombone. And I said, well, it’s down an octave, but I’ll give it a try.”

Ross Porter: So in the 50s, what kinds of bands were you playing with?

Rob McConnell: Well, you know, I started in high school and I quit high school in grade 10, my second year of grade 10, I’m ashamed to say, and I went west. Go west young man, you know, whatever that is, and worked on an oil rig for about seven months, way up north of everything. And then I came back to Edmonton and I had cash money. So I went in the most famous music store in Edmonton and I bought a brand new trombone and put the cash on the counter in sight of those in the store, $250 or so. And so then I started practicing and I started playing around Edmonton, you know, like club dates and, oh you know, the odd Bar Mitzvah or whatever, you know, just kind of crappy jobs.

Ross Porter: Deciding that it was time for him to come home to Toronto and to get serious about his career. Rob piled into an old beat up car with no muffler and headed east. Joining him on the journey were brothers Don and Lloyd Thompson and Winnipeg piano player Bob Erlendson.

Rob McConnell: We were completely flat, busted broke by the time we got around Winnipeg. At that time we were siphoning gas so we could make a day’s drive.

Ross Porter: Siphoning gas from other people’s cars?

Rob McConnell: Yes, yeah. Usually used car lots or, you know. It would be at night, you know, in the dark. We got here and that was kind of, okay, now I’m home, now I‘m going to start trying to get some work here.

Ross Porter: It was the 1950s and the Toronto music scene was very much alive. Seedy rock and roll clubs littered the Young Street strip popping out the hits of the day to a well liquored crowd. Rob found himself stringing together a living by finding work playing in many of these clubs including one of the rowdiest, the Zanzibar Tavern.

Rob McConnell: Women take their clothes off there, now.  I think I haven’t been in there in a while – I don’t really want to see it again. I sang and played the piano and the trombone and we sang songs of the day, you know, mostly early rock and roll.

Ross Porter: And what was that like?

Rob McConnell: Well it’s long hours, low pay, and I was studying with Gordon Delmont then and I had to get my lessons done and stuff like that. I wasn’t a very good student.

Ross Porter: What was the clientele like back then?

Rob McConnell: Oh, a bunch of drunks, you know. A lot of them were kind of gangsters. One night, I knew all their names and they’d buy me a beer, you know, they were all friendly. They’d have this kind of crap game that was based in going into the washroom of places all. You know bars; and it was a set up.

Ross Porter: In the early 60s Rob left Canada briefly for New York where he spent time playing and touring with Maynard Ferguson. He returned to Toronto a short time later when he joint Phil Nimmons in his big band Nimmons ‘n Nine plus Six.

Phil Nimmons: What happened with the band, it was originally like, Nimmons ‘n Nine and we added six brass and of course, Rob was one of the trombone players that was added to the band that time. Rob was always a very vital individual and you could sense the sort of leadership qualities at that time and a tremendous sense of conviction about what he wanted to see happen. You know, and so, it was a great asset, both musically and more than that, we’ve been very close friends ever since then.

Ross Porter: He was still part of the Nimmons group when the idea struck him to form a big band of his own, a band that would define him for years to come. It was the beginning of The Boss Brass.

[Music]


Ross Porter: Did The Boss Brass come together by design? Or out of evolution?

Rob McConnell: Well, it was designed, Pat Williams did a gig. Pat Williams, the arranger, who lived in New York, he did an album of pop tunes with a New York studio band and it was very good. I forget what it was called, but I went with that idea to Lyman Potts at the Canadian Talent Library was just part of CFRB at the time.

Ross Porter: Formed in 1962, the Canadian Talent Library was conceived by Lyman Potts as a way of producing commercially viable music for air play on Canadian Radio Stations. A concept for which Rob’s initial idea for The Boss Brass fit perfectly.

[Music]

Guido Basso (founding member of The Boss Brass): Rob came up with this idea that he wanted to form a band without saxes and just have brass instruments, French horns, and trumpets and trombones, and percussion and rhythm section, which he did. And recorded some cover songs from the Hit Parade and like ‘Mrs. Robinson’ and ‘God Didn’t Make The Little Green Apples’, you know, and it became a big hit and people loved it. So then he got the band a gig at a place called The Savarin here in Toronto, which was a huge lounge, very, very large and with a nice stage on it. So we’d play there regularly and one night, Jerry Toff, Mo Kaufman, and Phil Nimmons, they led a whole bunch of saxophone players into the club with placards saying, unfair to saxophone players, you know. Boss Brass should have saxes and they came in during a ballad. We were playing something very, I think it was a guitar solo with Ed Bickert. It’s very quiet and all of a sudden these guys come in making all these rackets with their placards and the press was there of course, they took shots of that because they were told that they were going to do this. It was in the paper the next day and Rob decided right there and then. “Okay, enough of this, let’s have a real jazz band.”

Rob McConnell: I went from four horns to two. Fired one of the guitar players. No fender base. Add five saxophones, who all play woodwinds. The very first chart I did was Body and Soul, which was about 10 minutes long and then continued on, you know. I think that record, which was for a Toronto company.

Ross Porter: The Attic.

Rob McConnell: Yeah. People didn’t like the fact that the one, on Attic was called, “The Jazz Album.” Like they thought, well, you think you’ve heard jazz, well this is the jazz album. Well it wasn’t meant like that it was a poor title choice for me and because it wasn’t meant like that. It was just, finally we’re able to do a jazz album.
Ross Porter: From the 1976 Boss Brass released, The Jazz Album. Here’s ‘Body and Soul’.

[Music]

Jack Batten (former Globe and Mail jazz critic): The first time I heard the band. It was a thrill to hear them. The amazing thing is that Rob built it into something huge and wonderful. It was just a great band.

Rick Wilkins (tenor saxophonist and arranger): Rob was very into the music and he must’ve spent his countless hours writing all this music to get it right because when you show up and you rehearse it, you don’t want anything to be wrong. And he definitely knew kind of what he wanted in music and rehearsed the band that way. And he didn’t tolerate any kind of lack in musicianship; he always wanted your best efforts in trying to get it right. If you weren’t in your best effort, you’d get cussed out pretty badly and if you did it more than a few times, there’d be a new guy in the chair there. That’s how it went, you know.

Alex Dean (Boss Brass saxophonist): Well I just think that, you know, he’s gregarious. He enjoys a drink every now and then. He gets angry when things aren’t the way they’re supposed to be, when the music and himself and more likely the band and us are treated a certain way that he feels is not right, he is more than willing to raise his voice about it and let you know and also if you don’t give him exactly what he wants, he is more than willing to tell you in a loud and clear voice.
Ross Porter: The honor of playing with Rob McConnell and the Boss Brass attracted the best and most experienced musicians in the business and topping off this elite group of players was one of the most successful jazz musicians this country has ever produced, Mo Kaufman.

Mo Kaufman: There’s nothing like sitting, playing lead alto with some of the best musicians in the country and some of the best arrangements ever written. There’s a few of us guys of the same age ilk, we call ourselves the older boys, but because a lot of the younger guys in that band, when I say younger, I’m talking guys that are like in their 30s and 40s and guys like Rob, Guido Basso and myself and Rick Wilkins are sort of the older part of that band and we know each other as friends as well as musicians. And when you say the wit that Rob has, we can like crack each other up at any given time. He is a consummate musician. I respect him very much.

Arnie Chycoski (lead trumpet player): Mo is, I always consider him like a senior person. Mo was maybe 10 years older than him and yet he would rip into Mo. Mo, what are you doing? You know, like that. Treating him like little kids then. So, once you could realize that, that was part of the bear, you know, he was great. Just don’t argue with him.

[Music]

Ross Porter: The process of finding musicians to play your music. Walk me through that.

Rob McConnell: Well, you know when I was younger. I will probably be considered kind of a tough band leader. You know, come on boys, you know. I mean I was impatient and kind of strict, I think. I mean I always liked having laughs and good breaks and, let’s all go for a drink and, you know, things like that. I never treated anyone badly.


Ian McDougall (lead trombonist for the Boss Brass): You know, if you’re talking about an art, artist and art, you’re doing it because you want it to be the best it can be. And it became the best it could be and they said it was the best thing in the world. Best thing of its kind in the world at that time. So, is that worth it? Sure it’s worth it. You know, he was striving for perfection and we’re doing it and once in a while we’re not. You know, when you’re tired or something and he would lose it and we would lose it and in particular Guido would lose it and then these guys would come screaming at each other and then they kiss and make up afterwards, you know. Not literally kiss and make up, you know what I mean.

Guido Basso (flugelhorn and trumpet): The only time that I’ve had a problem is if he insulted somebody in the audience, that would embarrass me. There were times when I had to do my big feature number, ‘Portrait of Jenny’ and the introduction starts very quietly with woodwinds and flutes. So, it starts and one table would be acting up. So he stops, cuts the band off and tells the people to keep quiet. “Shut up!” and then he brings the band in again from the top and again, people are not responding. So, two or three false starts like that and then the people would get quiet. He’d tell them to shut up or get out! So they would. They would eventually just remain silent and on with his work. Those were difficult moments. Yeah! They were.

Ross Porter: Here’s The Boss Brass featuring Guido Basso on flugelhorn with Portrait of Jenny.

[Music]

I’m Ross Porter. You’re listening to a documentary: ‘Rob McConnell: The boss of The Boss Brass.’

Ross Porter: The 1970s were glory days for Rob McConnell and the A list of players who made up the Boss Brass. In Toronto work for musicians was both plentiful and profitable. At night the clubs were hoping with the sound of jazz echoing out onto the streets and during the daylight hours there were plenty of studio gigs to choose from. Everything from session work on albums to performing jingles for commercials to providing music scores for television and radio.

Rob McConnell: If you go, go back and get my book in 1972 and just show it to you, there is not a day when there isn’t three, four jobs on it.

Ross Porter: You’re talking about the Bob McLean show and.

Rob McConnell: That, which was 5 shows a week. At the same time we were doing Juliet Show, which was 5 a week, too. At the same time we’re doing a radio show from The Colonnade, which was five a week. Wayne and Schuster, I did Wayne and Schuster for 35 years. You know, I mean and then jingles and records and the Boss Brass. All of that went on at the same time.

Ross Porter: And was that good work? Was it satisfying to do?

Rob McConnell: No, we’d be bitching all the time about it. I mean I would be. It was trash generally.

Ian McDougall: Well sometimes Rob and I got, we were catalysts actually. We would spur each other on to do bad, be bad boys. It’s usually because we’ve been, you know, loaded with a couple of extra drinks or something like that, but you know, we have a good time together Rob and I. We would do the Bobby Benton Show and pre-record it and we got there to do the miming for the show, first of all we didn’t mime it. Rob and I had a case between us and we would be playing cribbage as the show was going on and they would give us shit for it, and certainly the leader wasn’t too thrilled with it, but Rob and I didn’t seem to give a shit so we did it anyway.

Guido Basso: He’s a guy who has taught bartenders all over the world how to make a Martini properly. You know, he goes to the bar and he says, I want a Martini, but I want to make it. I will come in there, let me get over this bar. Where’s the door? You know, he goes and helps himself to all the ingredients and shows the bartender how to make a proper Martini. I think it’s hell of a lot of gin and very little Vermouth and an olive and a twist, but it’s never the right combination, when other people make it. So, he has to make his own Martini and if he doesn’t like it then he’s the only one to blame.

Ross Porter: As the number of albums that The Boss Brass put out grew, so did the band’s stature and reputation. Each new release introduced new listeners to The Boss Brass and gained them an increasingly large fan based stemming from countries all around the world.

Ian McDougall: By popular demand we wound up going to Vegas. We did the Monterey Jazz Festival. We did the Playboy Jazz Festival at the Hollywood Bowl and we played in a few clubs in California, jazz clubs. And it’s amazing what a compliment to Rob for, when you look at the people sitting in the club and you’ve got Nelson Riddle, Hank Mancini sitting there, all the guys from the Tonight Show Band. Doc Severinson of that band. Composers. Woody Herman also. You know, we did two shows, you do the first show and go outside because the club was smoky and it’s not a very large club. So you go outside for a breath of fresh air and you see these big-named band leaders and musicians lined up for the second show because they’d throw everybody out at the end of the show and then if you want to catch the second one you have to pay another cover charge, you know. So, I would say that, that was probably one of the only, as far as I know, the only jazz band that became a name band all over the world. It’s quite an accomplishment. Yeah, it is. It looks good on Rob.


Ross Porter: And the awards piled up including Grammy’s and Juno’s.

Rob McConnell: I’ve given them all away.

Ross Porter: Have you?

Rob McConnell: Yeah.

Ross Porter: Where did they go?

Rob McConnell: Don’t tell Juno. Well, grandchildren. I have seven grandchildren. So I gave them all away and then all except the youngest, I guess. Then I had a couple of kids that lived across the street from me in Peterborough that helped me with various things, the pool and all the garden, cleaning up leaves and stuff like that. So I gave them each one and I put a new label on it. So I said, “To the world’s best neighbors,” and gave them both one.

Ross Porter: And how many Grammy’s?

Rob McConnell: Three.

Ross Porter: And where are they?

Rob McConnell: I have one. I don’t know where the other two went. Probably with my two daughters. I was nominated for 17 Grammys and I won three in three different categories.

Ross Porter: For your work with the Boss Brass?

Rob McConnell: Yep.

Ross Porter: So, world-class band. That kind of recognition from the industry.

Rob McConnell: Yeah, I don’t think anybody can top 17 nominations and three wins in three different categories. Best Band. Best arrangement. Best arrangement accompanying a vocal.

Alex Dean: That’s pretty amazing. When you think about it, three Grammys. I don’t think anybody in Canada knows that Rob has got three Grammys. I’d be surprised. You know. I don’t know if the awards mean that much to Rob. Maybe they mean more now that he is older and he’s starting to slow down. Maybe mean a little bit more, but at the time he would get the award, but, you know, I think at one point, it was Toshiko Akiyoshi got an award for a Grammy or something and then she went and made the speech and she said, “This is very nice, but what I really need is a job.”

Well, I think that’s sort of a way Rob looked at the awards, you know. It’s very nice to get these awards and stuff, but what I really need is a gig. I really need to be touring and working with this band and I need to do it. It doesn’t have to be easy. I just need to do that and, people always give you these awards and that’s great, but really we’re musicians. We just want to play. I mean, that’s what we want to do, we want to play. We want to hang out. We want a couple of pops. We want to play some hard music and make it sound good. Sit in the bus. That’s what we want to do. It’s fun, you know, and I think that’s what Rob is about to a certain degree.

And I think, to a certain degree he is an anti kind of guy in a way because on the one hand he doesn’t necessarily get a lot of the respect that he deserves possibly because he’s a cantankerous individual and on the other hand, complains a little bit that, you know, it would be nice if he got paid a little bit or got the respect that he deserve, you know, it’s kind of like six to one that have this to the other. I think he would be happy if, you know, if his big band records and his quintet records and his trio records had sold billions and billions and everybody was happy and he was touring all the time, but he never got an award. I think he’d be happier with that.

Ross Porter: One of Rob’s Grammy awards recognized a very special collaboration in his career. It was an award for one of the two studio albums that the Boss Brass recorded with a man they called, the Velvet Fog, Mel Torme’.

Rob McConnell: He was damn musical. He had a great ear. He very seldom made a mistake. There was a couple of charts that I can’t sing and I wrote them.

Ross Porter: By the time of their first collaboration Mel was a seasoned veteran with a reputation for sharing many of the same traits as Rob, both were seen as opinionated and wouldn’t settle for anything short of perfection. For the guys in The Boss Brass. The bets were in. They were all curious to see how two of the most temperamental musicians in the music business were going to get along when challenged with working together in the high pressure environment of a recording studio.


Rob McConnell: We had a really funny chart. I was quite sure it would be okay, but I was worried that Mel might not like it. He liked the tune. And we had a certain amount of trouble with people high up in the company that, there are three guys on the record company and an engineer, none of them from Toronto and none of them had been at any other dates I’ve done. We worked on it quite hard. We did I think two takes and we’re going for take three the suit people in the booth are asking about, is that note right and I had to go in give them a little talk into and I said, “Now, here’s the situation you guys.” I said, “I‘m the band leader and I’m the arranger. It’s Mel Torme’s record and he’s the engineer. I don’t want anybody else to have any opinion or open his mouth about the music. That’s all been decided a long time ago and has taken a long time. And getting a take on this Goddamn thing is taking a long time too and I’m not pleased about that, but I’m certainly not pleased when you’re giving advice. So, button up.”

So that was our little meeting and then I came back and the band all heard me and so then, Mel was standing right near me. He said, “You know, what is bothering me about this chart and the band?” You know, so like this and I‘m saying, so I’m standing there and the booth is listening too and they’re hoping that he doesn’t like it and he says, I said, “No what is it Mel?” And he says, “I’m starting to like it.”

Ross Porter: From the 1995 album, ‘Velvet and Brass’. Here is Mel Torme singing the Grammy Award winning Rob McConnell arrangement, ‘I Get A Kick Out Of You.’

[Music]

I’m Ross Porter and you’re listening to Canada’s premier jazz station Jazz FM 91. You’re listening to a documentary: ‘Rob McConnell: The boss of The Boss Brass.’
Ross Porter: For 32 years the Boss Brass towered over the big band scene. They recorded dozens of albums, which earned them both critical praise and countless awards and throughout this amazing run it was Rob McConnell who stood at the center of it all and kept The Boss Brass moving.

So, 32 years. What kept you doing it?

Rob McConnell: Well I had work most of the time and my late wife Margaret said in 2000, you know, she said, Rob you got to start addressing this problem here. If you have a band that only works three times in a year, you don’t have a band do you? You have three gigs for a big band.

Ross Porter: How long had you kicked it around before you announced that it was over.

Rob McConnell: Not long Ross. Our last gig is in 2000. I had already started writing in 1998 for the 10-piece band. So, my wife’s and my discussions about, do you have a band if you only work three times in one year, which was the year 2000 and I said no and the first thing I have to do is write for a band that’s half that size because I can’t make any money myself and I can’t pay the guys in the band. You know, it’s just what bands are left now that are playing around? Not much. Like it’s a big enough insult to pay Guido Basso and Mel Kaufman and Ed Bicker and Terry Clark and Don Thompson and all these all stars of Canadian music, $250 for a concert and I’ll take the same. I’ll take $250 too. It’s just not enough. You can’t do it for that. You know what I’m saying. And it’s too much money. It’s almost $5,000, you know, by the time you – and nobody will pay you $5,000. So, I’ll do it with 10 people. I still want $5,000.


Guido Basso: Rob formed a tentet and I was in the tentet with the other boys and that was fun for a while and I think at the moment the tentet is dormant. Rob is getting himself together again because he has not been well and I certainly hope that the sun shines on him again.

Rob McConnell: I had some trouble with my balance and stuff this summer, well this year.

And then I had a fall down at the Rex one night and so I missed the second night. I fell down and was taken to the hospital and musician humor is that one by one every guy in the band wanted to call me and say how good it sounded without me. So, okay, they played my book and he said, boy it was really good the second night without you, you know. It’s too bad you couldn’t have heard it.

Ross Porter: What have you learned about yourself over the last few months?

Rob McConnell: Well, nothing much I haven’t changed anything. I take a lot more drugs and I’ve seen, I’m on doctor number 13 I think now. So, I’m hopeful. I have got McConnell heart disease, grandfather’s, father, elder brother, me, my younger brother. My younger brother has five stents. So it’s just, you know, welcome to the club.

Ross Porter: How has all of this changed your outlook? Or has it changed your outlook on life?

Rob McConnell: Well it has a little bit. I haven’t been playing. It got so, well I don’t want to talk about it anymore, but I only have three arteries left, like two are closed, but they are not important, but it can’t get down to just one.

Ross Porter: Rob’s trombone has been sitting quiet since his heart troubles began, but the illness hasn’t dampened Rob’s spirit or his love for the music, even as just a listener and fan.

Rob McConnell: I have an iPod now and it has really revitalized my listening to music. Two years ago my first wife died, Margaret, and Jean Purling of the Singers Unlimited and Helen came to our, we didn’t have a real funeral. We had a reception in my son’s house and I had listened to the iPod on his veranda the last visit I had at his place in MarinCounty.

Well, he brought the iPod that I had listened to at his house because he bought a better one and he’s programmed everything so I‘ve got an iPod, a 25 gigabyte iPod with 4,000 tunes on it of everything you can imagine. Some classical music a lot of piano players, some Singers Unlimited, some Hi Lo’s, some Rob McConnell, Ian McDougall. And if you just put them on random play you don’t even remember the last time you heard it, you know, because they just go back like, while they are unplugged. They go back to random.

Yeah, I could never find anything I wanted if I had it with me now I’d want you to hear something and of course it would take me about nine hours to find it, but it’s just so little trouble. There’s always beautiful music, Bob McFerrin and oh gosh they are just swooning some things. It exhausts me actually. And the girl I live with. She can tell when I’ve been listening. You know, if she’s in another room or comes home from work or whatever, she says “Did you have a nice afternoon with the iPod?” Because I sing.


Ross Porter: Rob’s influence as a big band arranger will live on for many years. His international acclaim and stature has earned him a proud place in the history of jazz. His strong sense of determination helped push himself as well as the musicians around him to extraordinary heights through his desire for excellence and his stubbornness to settle for nothing less. He was able to achieve something that was and will continue to be truly magnificent.

One last thing before we wrap it up. It’s a quote, ‘When I’m [Rob McConnell] asked ‘What do you really want to do?’ Well, I really want to be in charge.’

Rob McConnell: I remember saying that. I forget where, but that’s why being the band leader is best for me. I’m not really a good side man because I’m trying to change things for somebody else because I think they’re not doing the right thing. You know, I think I was a pain for several band leaders that I played for. I think

Guido Basso once said that he played lead trumpet from the fifth chair: “I’m playing fifth trumpet, but I’m telling all the other trumpets how to play”. So that’s what I do in a band of my own. So the best idea is to get your band and you can tell them what do.

And you have to be a writer really, you can’t have a band and just ask people to write for you. You have to pay them. The only reason I did it because I didn’t have to pay me, you know. I used all my money, I have no money. I used all the money I made from studio work in those busy times. I used it running my band and at a loss, you know, it’s expensive, but I had a lot of fun.

[Music]

You’ve been listening to ‘Rob McConnell: The boss of the Boss Brass,’ an original documentary on Jazz FM 91.”

Here’s a video tribute to Rob and The Boss Brass that uses as its audio track one of Rob’s arrangement in which he combines Horace Silver’s Peace into a medley with trumpeter Blue Mitchell’s Blue Silver.

The soloists are Kevin Turcotte and Steve McDade on trumpet and Ted Warren on drums. Listen to how Rob takes Blue Mitchell’s improvisations from the Horace Silver quintet recording and orchestrates them as a shout chorus beginning at 7:22 minutes.

As Rob explained: “Blue’s original choruses are hard enough to play when you can practice them, let alone create them instantly on a record date, as Blue did … whew!”

Terry Clarke, the first drummer with The Boss Brass, said to me recently: “Rob McConnell was some kind of big band arranger; they don’t come any better.”

I’m sure going to miss Rob McConnell.

He was a boss arranger.




Grant Green: The Complete Quartets with Sonny Clark

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


I know I’ve shared this view before, but it bears repeating. Over the years, my enjoyment of Jazz has been considerably enhanced by the wise and thoughtful liner notes that graced the back of LPs or by the more recent insert notes that can be found in CD jewel cover booklets.

Initially, these liner notes made up for the dearth of books as a source of knowledge on the subject of Jazz when I first began listening to the music in the 1950s. Holding the jacket cover in hand while listening to the album, my eyes poured over what Ira Gitler or Nat Hentoff or Leonard Feather, to name only a few of my early “mentors,” had to say about the music that was filling my ears and my heart with pleasure.

Since I was also a student of the music for the purpose of wanting to become a Jazz musician myself during those early days, I was especially intrigued by writers that explained song structures, chord sequences and, especially, anything to do with rhythmic patterns or time signatures since these were particularly important to an aspiring, young Jazz drummer.

It is safe to say that I owe an immense debt of gratitude to Leonard Feather, Ted Gioia, Bill Kirchner, Doug Ramsey, Whitney Balliett, Jack Tracy, Gary Giddins and others for helping me to learn and to appreciate more about the music that I have been in love with since I first heard it over 50 years ago.

And because my appreciation of Jazz benefited so greatly from the information and knowledge that I gleaned from the writers of the annotations, comments and explanations that appear on album covers and CD booklets, I have decided to repay the favor with the inclusion of and reliance on these materials in many of the pieces that are prepared for Jazz Profiles.

So when, to my immense delight, I found that the insert notes to the Grant Green: Complete Quartets with Sonny Clark [Blue Note CDP 7243 8 57194 2 4] had not one, but three different sets of insert notes, and that these were by the likes of Ben Sidran, Michael Cuscuna and Bob Porter, the decision to prepare a piece using their remarks on this recording became axiomatic.

As a point in passing, for reasons explained in these notes, Grant Green recorded so often and produced such an abundance of riches for Blue Note that these sides with Sonny Clark were not issued until 1979 – 1980, when most of the music on this 2 CD set was released as three, separate LP’s.

First up are Ben Sidran’s notes to that portion of these tracks that comprised the 1980 Blue Note album Nigeria [LT 1032].

“TIME passes. What was fresh and important recedes under the collected weight of new fresh and important stuff. Enough time has passed since this collection was recorded that a lot of people reading these notes and hearing this music weren't even born on that winter day in 1962 when Grant Green went into the studio.

Back in 1962, Grant's guitar voice was one of the sparkling new additions to a musical universe that seemed to be expanding exponentially. It's hard to imagine-or even to remember- just how explosive the jazz scene was then, particularly in light of the mechanical music which has flourished these last ten years. One indication of the scene then might be the wealth of previously unreleased material, such as this record which is only now showing up in the stores. When Grant came to New York, he walked on to a stage crowded with stars. And he shone with the best of them.

He didn't blaze a trail to the city. He followed a more comfortable path, arriving to join Lou Donaldson's band in 1960. Some compared his hollow-bodied guitar style to that of the earliest pioneer, Charlie Christian. One also hears touches of that other great popularizer, Les Paul. For while Grant was not a radical player, he excelled at the basics and subtleties: he could swing like crazy and he played the prettiest phrases. Grant Green made esoteric music easy for the average listener to get to, just as jazz singers have done for years. Grant Green was a popularizer and a singer on his instrument.

Perhaps the greatest testament to his musical gift was that at a time when the guitar had fallen out of favor, suddenly, Grant Green could be heard everywhere, recording with several of the finest rhythm sections in New York. Within a year of his arrival in the city, he recorded three albums as a leader, featuring a rhythm section of Sonny Clark on piano. Sam Jones on bass and Louis Hayes on drums. Those albums, "Gooden's Corner,"'Oleo,” and "Born To be Blue," have only recently been released on Blue Note in Japan. This album, "Nigeria," falls in the middle of that period of time and has Art Blakey in place of Louis Hayes. It is the only time that Blakey and Green ever recorded together.
Grant was a simple, elegant stylist. When he played a melody, with that kind of dressed-up strut, it was a reminder of just how classy bebop could sound. His interpretation of the title track "Airegin" (ingeniously encoded backwards to ward off the uninitiated) is no exception. It is interesting to note that in the early sixties, Grant performed and recorded an unusually large number of Sonny Rollins tunes, including "Solid '""Oleo ""Sonnymoon For Two," and, of course, "Airegin." After Grant states the head Sonny Clark hits one of his patented full keyboard slides and then strolls for a chorus while Blakey gets the groove settled Yawn. Sonny 's solo is a swinging compliment to Grant's, ignoring Green’s reference to 'When Lights Are Low" and turning the spotlight full up on the flowing snakes that were his specialty. Sonny, who had worked with both Rollins and singer Dinah Washington during the late fifties, is able to play both sides of the street here; he acts as the ideal accompanist to Grant's vocalized guitar work.

For my money, the highlight of the album is the stylized arrangement of "It Ain't Necessarily So." Blakey puts down a 12/8 Latin feel, and Grant plays the head in a totally unexpected series of phrases, altering the original melody to such an extent that he might well have called the song "So It Ain't Necessarily" and taken the publishing for himself. But it is the endlessly good groove that is the star of the cut. Interspersed with Blakey's press rolls, this fat-back groove - like those Art played on innumerable Jimmy Smith jam session dates - gets Grant all the way up on his toes. His tone is singing six different ways to Christmas, until he finally gets Blakey singing, for it is the drummer you hear shouting “whoa!” and grunting in response to Grant's precise preaching. By the time Sonny's solo arrives, Blakey is putting as much vocal into the overhead mikes as the cymbal. Clark seems to goad him on, and finally, when he’s taken is ninth chorus and seems read to turn it back to Grant, Blakey won’t let him go. You can hear Art laughing and shouting to Sonny, "No, go ahead, go ahead.” And go ahead he does, until Blakey finally turns him loose with an escalating series of strokes. As the song fades behind that Latin feel, I'm ready to do it all over.
Side two sounds as if it will open with Miles Davis'"Four" but after the classic bebop introduction, the song abruptly half-steps into a very polite "I Concentrate On You." The tension between the tip-toe lounge groove and the powerhouse bebop minds that are playing it is never really resolved, and that is part of the charm of the piece. Grant is so sweet when he plays the melody, but his choruses become bittersweet fast, and soon, he's skipping down some dark memory lane, concentrating hard on some private "you." The song goes out with a vamp reminiscent of a neither the introduction nor the song itself; altogether, a very curious arrangement.

"The Things We Did Lost Summer" also opens with a rather bizarre waltz section, but then settles down into a very delicate ballad. The attitude Grant maintains playing the melody - particularly the little chromatic insertion he uses at the end of the first bridge - is a lovely balance of the benign and the mischievous. This is Grant's power, as a soloist or stating a theme, and it is something great jazz singers like Johnny Hartman are also known for: there is no better way to grab a listener than to lull him into bliss and then grab him by what Lord Buckley used to call 'your most delicate gear."

The record closes with a flag-waver, 'The Song Is You," in which we are reassured that straight ahead is the direction to go. Blakey is once again singing in his mikes, and Sam Jones, God bless him, is walking and shaking his head, There are few things in life more pleasant than walking along with Sam Jones shaking your head.
Down home. Just folks. Kind of corny at times, but very hip. Grant Green was a perfect candidate for what today is called "cross-over hype," but back then was probably not called anything at all. Perhaps it was only natural that record companies would try to make Grant Green into a commercial product, a sow's ear out of a silk purse, as it were. I don't know how or why he turned from the hard, low life grooves he used to spark, towards the cocktail lounge which surely sealed his obscurity by the time he died in early 1979. Often, commercial pressures overwhelm players. After all, they are only musicians,, not lawyers and accountants that's why we buy records. If lawyers and accountants made records, nobody would buy them. At least, that used to be true, and it may be part of the reason why Grant didn't make a major mark on the music scene during the lost years of his life.

I, for one, kept looking for him around every corner, particularly as various guitar players, like Gabor Szabo, or George Benson, or even Eric Gale, would pop into prominence. I kept waiting for Grant to make his move. Unfortunately, his best recorded moves are those from more than fifteen years ago, when he truly was a fresh and important face on what may be the wildest contemporary jazz scene we'll ever know.”

-BEN SIDRAN 1980, original liner notes from "Nigeria”

And here are Michael Cuscuna’s comments from the 1980 Japanese Blue Note release – Gooden’s Corner.
“THE tragedy of Grant Green's death in early 1979 was compounded by the fact that his recorded output for the last decade or more of his life was, for the most part, commercial, uncreative and lacking in individuality. He deserved better, but the economics of keeping a bond working and holding down a record contract forced him into situations far below his talent.

Fortunately, Blue Note thoroughly documented his artistry on a number of sessions under Grant's leadership in the early sixties. Moreover, he was the resident guitarist for Blue Note's stable of premier organists such as Jimmy Smith, John Patton and Larry Young and participated in dates by Lee Morgan, Horace Parlan, Don Wilkerson, Lou Donaldson and others.

Unknown outside of his hometown St. Louis except through his Delmark recordings with tenor saxophonist Jimmy Forrest, Grant was brought to the label and to New York in 1960 by Lou Donaldson. Blue Note always operated on a family basis, developing an impressive, cross-fertilizing repertory group of musicians. Grant was quickly and fully instated in mid 1960.

Green represented not only a fresh, vibrant new voice on an instrument that had become rather sleepy in style in the fifties, but he was also a major link with the all too often neglected pioneer of the hollow body electric guitar in jazz, Charlie Christian. Grant executed bright, clean lines that never fully abandoned the melody, emphasized concise, linear, single note improvisations and possessed a unique rhythmic momentum that remains unmatched. He absorbed Christian, then bypassed such heroes of the day as Tal Farlow, Kenny Burrell and Wes Montgomery and moved directly to the formation of his own identity.

This album "Gooden's Corner", recorded on December 23, 1961, features a beautifully compatible quartet of Grant, pianist Sonny Clark', bassist Sam Jones and drummer Louis Hayes. Ike Quebec joined the group for one tune 'Count Every Star", which was then extracted and used on Quebec's album “Blue And Sentimental” (Blue Note BST 94098). The rest of the session, previously unissued and without Quebec, is presented here in its entirety.

This particular quartet had a run of sessions for Blue Note under Grant's name, all they all remain unissued. On January 13, 1962, the band with Art Blakey subbing for Hayes recorded. On January 31 the quartet with Hayes back again recorded yet another album. And finally on March 1, 1962, the same group, this time with Quebec playing throughout the session, made yet another album's worth of material. Why these dates were never issued will never be known. Most likely, it is because Grant, like other Blue Note artists, recorded prolifically during these years, and there was just no way to get everything released.
As this set bears out, the Green-Clark-Jones-Hayes combination is completely compatible and comfortable. Each man has an easy, natural sense of swinging that interlocks perfectly with his fellow musicians.

Sam Jones has been previously present on a handful of Blue Note dates, led for the most part by another guitarist Kenny Burrell. Louis Hayes was a familiar face at the label through his long term membership in Horace Silver's quintet and his frequent sideman appearances with Curtis Fuller and other Blue Note artists. From the fall of 1959 well into the mid sixties, Jones and Hayes were the pivot of Cannonball Adderley's successful band. They had been together in that capacity for more than two years when this album was recorded, and their empathy is clearly evident.

Although none of the Green dates with Sonny Clark at the piano have ever been issued, their pairing was a natural. Both men possessed the ability to swing hard in an effortless, instinctive manner. Clark is his usual brilliant self here, adding richly to the group texture and urging Grant on with some inspired comping. His solo work is typically two-handed, cooking and always interesting.
It is a testament to Grant Green that he can breath such life into On Green Dolphin Street and What is This Thing Called Love as well as the overdone Henry Mancini hit of the day Moon River. He swings on What Is This Thing ... like no one else on his instrument could. And Moon River is a perfect example of his ability to construct a solo using the tune's melody as the substance of his variations. His rhythmic sense is best illustrated on Shadrack.

Grant contributes two originals, Gooden's Corner and Two For One. Gooden's Corner is a solid blues, given an irresistible performance by the entire group. Two For One, not to be confused with the Sonny Clark tune of the same name, is based on Miles Davis' modal So What, but after the theme, Grant breaks into some straight ahead playing.

This album is a lovely freeze frame in the career of one of the foremost guitarists of modern jazz, a man whom we lost to the commercial world in the late sixties and whom we lost forever in 1979.

-MICHAEL CUSCUNA 1979, original liner notes from "Gooden’s Corner"

We close this piece with Bob Porter’s 1980 original liner notes from Oleo.

“THE business of jazz is extremely difficult to describe to someone not involved in it. Most fans are aware of the qualities that make a great jazz musician: an individual sound; the ability to improvise melodically ("telling a story," in Lester Young's phrase); to swing, etc. There are any number of great jazz musicians who may be deficient in one of these areas, but generally they make up for it by doing one of the other things much better than other players. Yet in all this discussion, there has been no mention of playing melody. Name me a great jazzman who couldn't take a melody and make it uniquely his own.

Grant Green was widely known for his ability to play melodies. It didn't really matter what kind of melodies because Grant could do Latin tunes (see Blue Note 84111 - The Latin Bit); Gospel songs (Blue Note 84132 -Feelin' The Spirit); Western melodies (Blue Note 84310- Goin' West) as well as standards, blues, or jazz tunes. he had a great guitar sound and knew instinctively how to make melodies come alive.

Grant really arrived in 1961. He had made records in 1959 with his hometown friend, Jimmy Forrest, for Delmark and the following year he recorded with organist Sam Lazar, another St. Louis musician, for Argo. but when Lou Donaldson heard him playing in East St. Louis, he convinced Grant and clubowner Leo Gooden to come to New York and talk with Alfred Lion of Blue Note. From 1961 through 1965, Grant Green made more Blue Note lps as leader and sideman than anyone else. Clearly, he was a favorite, not only of Lion, but of Ike Quebec who did much of the A and R work for Blue Note until his death in 1963.

Considering Grant's versatility, it is not unusual that Blue Note used him in a variety of contexts: Herbie Hancock, Lee Morgan, John Patton, Lou Donaldson, Ike Quebec.

At a time when Down Beat was still giving New Star awards, Grant won in 1962. but critical raves have never helped in earning a living. Grant worked often with Jack McDuff during those early years, and was really scuffling for money. In addition to everything else, Grant had a narcotics habit. Now it may be hard to understand in the jazz world of 1979 when musicians, have generally learned to avoid the excesses of heroin and get their business together, but jazz players were very low in the economic strata of the early 60s, and one consistent source of revenue was the record company. It seems likely that Blue Note recorded Grant frequently during those years because he was always drawing money from Blue Note. Grant did at least six LP sessions under his won leadership for Blue Note in 1961. The furious recording pace continued right into 1965, and try as they might, Blue Note could never issue the LPs as fast as Grant could record them!

In a sense, Grant's situation and that of Sonny Clark were similar. They had the identical problems and each was a Blue Note favorite.
The initial pairing of these two talents came just before Christmas, 1961, and resulted in the album, Gooden's Corner. Sam Jones and Louis Hayes were still members of Cannonball Adderley's band at the time, and their appearance together is another reminder of Blue Note's care in assembling rhythm sections. Alfred Lion's choice of bass and drums almost always reflected an ability to play together in support of the leader, rather than to demonstrate individual brilliance.

The tunes played here are not unusual for Grant, although it should be noted that he had an attraction for Sonny Rollins lines. He also recorded "Solid' and "Sonnymoon For Two" during this period. A later version of 'My Favorite Things" was issued on the Matador album.

Grant never does get the tricky theme of "Oleo" exactly right, but it doesn't deter him from fashioning a solo of lightening-like inventiveness. Sonny Clark has always been considered a disciple of Bud Powell and perhaps the chief reason for that is the dynamic flow of his ideas. When playing standards, he sometimes would adopt a lighter touch (reminding one of Hank Jones in his delicacy), but his work throughout this session is in the cooking Powell mode.

If Grant has problems with "Oleo", he has none with "Tune Up." The melody, introduced and long-credited to Miles Davis, was actually written by saxophonist-bluesman Eddie "Cleanhead" Vinson, who gave the tune to Davis during a period when he – Vinson - was not recording. Virtually the some thing happened with another Vinson compositions, "Four."

Green was always at home with the blues and "Hip Funk" is his adoption of the classic form that was definitely hip (meaning fashionable) for 1962. Sonny Clark was also a blues master as his work ably demonstrates.
Hearing the music on this album (and Gooden's Corner) makes one immediately interested in hearing more. Alas, there is no more by the quartet, but a bit more than a month later, these same four players joined forces with Ike Quebec for an album that will be forthcoming on Blue Note [Blue and Sentimental].

Between 1965 and 1968, Green was still active as a performer, but his recorded appearances were few. When he returned to Blue Note in 1969, he had rid himself of the narcotics problem, but had acquired a new attitude toward music. The huge success of Wes Montgomery, Kenny Burrell, and George Benson was very much on his mind. He considered himself the musical equal of all of them, yet he was the only one not to have made a significant commercial breakthrough.

His repertoire tended more toward rhythm & blues during his late Blue Note period. He would use repetitive vamps rather than chord changes as harmonic underpinning and his attention to phrasing melodies (always an outstanding feature of his work) become even more pronounced. And the commercial break happened for him! From 1969 to mid-1974, his Blue Note LPs were consistent best sellers and he was a popular attraction at clubs across the USA. He split with Blue Note shortly thereafter and made an LP for Kudu and another for Versatile.

Grant spent much of 1978 in the hospital with a variety of ailments, and he was not a well man when released in December, 1978. His doctors advised him to rest, but there were expenses to meet, so he went back on the road almost immediately. He died of a heart attack on January 31, 1979 - seventeen years to the day of this recording.

During 1969 and 1970 when I was producing records for Prestige, I got to know Grant Green well. He played on albums with Rusty Bryant, Don Patterson, Charles Kynard, and Houston Person which I supervised. I used to marvel at the ease with which this man with enormous hands could make that guitar sing. At one session, during a break, he treated everyone to a solo rendition of "Oleo" which was stunning. After his death, I thought many times of how his career would be judged by historians, since so much of his later recordings were in a commercial vein. But with albums such as Matador, Gooden's Corner, and now Oleo, his stature is assured. Without question, Grant Green was one of the major artists on the guitar during his lifetime. His friend, Lou Donaldson, put it best when he said:

"All the top guitarists who came later - like George Benson and Pat Martino - they've got some of Grant's stuff."

BOB PORTER 1980, original liner notes from “Oleo"




Go Slow - The Life of Julie London by Michael Owen

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


"Beautifully crafted and stunningly researched, this entertaining biography of Julie London reminds us of why she matters, now and for always. It is a great read!"
— Michael Feinstein, singer and entertainer


"Go Slow offers us a long-awaited, highly detailed look at a neglected jazz and
pop singer who has always been worthy of greater recognition and attention.
The author provides lots of new information and historical context, while, to
his credit, resisting the temptation to make outrageous claims for his subject.
I learned a lot that I didn't know and it made me want to hear more."
-Will Friedwald, author of Stardust Melodies and Sinatra! The Song Is You


"Michael Owen tells the unique story of a singular talent and reluctant
celebrity with dispassionate appreciation, weaving personal life and
professional history into the tale of a woman who was steadfast in her
personal passions and career path without the ego and ambition that drives
so many other singers and actors. Neither sycophant nor assassin, Owen
deftly chronicles Julie London's life with both empathy and objectivity."
— Michael Cuscuna record producer, writer, and discographer


"Go Slow is a sensitive, informative biography, inviting the reader to
discover Julie London's unique and solitary contribution to the history
of American music. With an ear for tone and an eye for story, Michael
Owen leads us seamlessly through a life fashioned for style, revealing
an instinctive range where just enough sound can occupy a space,
exploiting every lyrical nuance along the way.


"As Go Slow discloses, through years of struggle and turmoil, an irony
was born that would further distill some of Julie's finest work as an interpreter of popular song. Esteemed jazz vocalists and musicians loved
and respected her. A generous spirit to her family and friends,Julie
London was one grand dame and there will never be anyone like her.


Thanks to Michael Owen, we begin to understand why."
— Kevin Tighe, actor, Emergency!


In his essay for the July 31, 2017 edition of The Wall Street Journal entitled The Versatile Robert Mitchum, Peter Tonguette shares that:


“Filmmaker Peter Bogdanovich once asserted that movie stars were not far removed from the gods and goddesses of Greek mythology. “They were no longer actors playing parts,” Bogdanovich wrote in his 2004 book Who the Hell’s in It, because all their roles merged into one definitive character, one special folk hero, similar to but not necessarily identical with the original mortal.”


Stars usually displayed a finite series of easily identifiable attributes — not unlike Greek deities who stood for particular virtues or vices. Think of Cary Grant’s breezy poise or Jimmy Stewart’s sputtering sincerity, qualities that neither performer deviated from too often.”


If we expand Bogdanovich’s analogy to include the late actress and song stylist, Julie London, then perhaps the best mythological comparisons would be with the Greek Goddesses Aphrodite [Venus] and Erato.


Aphrodite (/æfrəˈdaɪti/ ( listen) af-rə-DY-tee; Greek: Ἀφροδίτη Aphrodite) is the Greek goddess of love, beauty, pleasure, and procreation. She is identified with the planet Venus; her Roman equivalent is the goddess Venus. Erato was one of the nine Mousai (Muses), the goddesses of music, song and dance.and love and erotic poetry [later adopted by the Romans as part of their Pantheon of Gods].


But such comparisons would perpetuate the unfortunate fact that, all too often in her career, Julie London was perceived as an object of eroticism and as a chanteuse, a songstress often referred to as a “torch singer,” to the point that when she wasn’t being cast in movies and television roles that capitalized on her beautiful face, shapely figure and sultry voice she was posing provocatively on LP covers for albums filled with songs for young lovers to do what young lovers long to do.


But that was the image.


The reality of who Julie London was is much deeper than these facile and superficial portrayals.


Now, thanks to Michael Owen’s well-researched and explorative biography, we begin to see a what a skilled, multi-talented entertainer Julie London was and to understand that the key to Julie’s legacy was her versatility.


One of the central facts that Michael’s book brings home is how hard Julie worked to make a career in show business. From his detailed descriptions, the reader gains an appreciation of the long hours spent in rehearsals, travels, waiting on movie sets from sunup to sundown, studying scripts, learning dance steps, practicing lyrics, dealing with agents, brokers and a host of other “intermediaries,” all of this, particularly in Julie’s case, while trying to maintain some semblance of a normal family and home life.


Michael’s sensitive and insightful biography of Julie certainly takes the glamor off an ostensibly glamorous life.


Throughout her career, Julie struggled to overcome issues of confidence, anxiety, low self-esteem, insecurity, chronic shyness and a dread of performing in public.


But despite these severe emotional and psychological “demons,” Julie got there: she realized her professional and personal goals by not giving up on herself and by benefitting immensely from the love and adoration of her soulmate, pianist and songwriter, Bobby Troup.


Through Michael’s skillful storytelling, readers are treated to an intimate look at what went into developing the creative life that was Julie London, the entertainer, while also being allow access to the family and home life that completed her as a human being.


Sadly, all too often, show business people during this era led personal lives that were ongoing disasters that ended badly.


But this was not the case with Julie and Michael’s description about her qualities of character help us see and appreciate the heartwarming story of how Julie and Bobby were able to make show business a means-to-an-end toward balancing creative expression with the satisfaction of a happy home life.


So if you want to read a biography about a centered, mid-level celebrity who loved show business and left it, so to speak, for the satisfaction of deep personal and familial love and a life in tune with her inner needs, then you’ll find Michael Owen’s Go Slow: The Life of Julie London to be a deeply gratifying book.


Michael closes the book with this all-encompassing perspective on Julie and her career:


“Julie London could have been a star for the ages, one who was remembered as that rare thing: a performer who successfully crossed and recrossed the barriers between acting and singing. That sort of success did not come. Her innate reluctance to exert herself as an actress—to stretch beyond her limitations—and, some would say, her lack of ability, meant that she remained a middle-level star. Clearly, she wanted to work as little as possible and therefore was largely content to leave her career up to the whims of chance. By her own definition, Julie London was happy to be known as a wife, a mother, or a friend rather than as a singer, an actress, or a celebrity.


But did she ever look back and wonder how she had been able to find her place in the sun? Did she ever think about what her life would have been like had she made even a few different decisions? Probably. Yet there is little doubt that Julie London would surely have dismissed any extended praise of her work as a singer or actress with a deep shrug of the shoulders, a long drag on her cigarette, a sip of her vodka and orange juice, and a well-placed expletive.


For all her success as an interpreter of lyrics, in the end a snatch of dialogue from her 1956 movie The Girl Can't Help It may shine a light onto the woman behind the facade and help us understand why she was not reluctant to slip away from fame into a self-imposed obscurity. "If a girl's gonna make it big in show business," talent agent Tom Miller says as he recalls his reluctant star, "she's got to be vitally interested in it." A teenaged Gayle Peck may have vowed to become a star one day, yet it was the older and wiser Julie London who had the final words on her career. "You gotta have the ego for it. And I never really did."”


The Chicago Review Press’ Caitlin Eck, Publicity Manager, and Ashley Alfirevic, Publicity Associate, sent along the following media release which contains more details about the book and you can find order information about the book’s various formats by going here.


Following the Chicago Review Press media release you’ll find a video montage set to Julie performing Free and Easy on a the Stars of Jazz TV program that Bobby Troup hosted.  Free and Easy might have served as an alternate title for Michael’s book about Julie.


Dazzling new biography—Go Slow: The Life of Julie London—explores a storied and sultry career in music, film
and television


“CHICAGO—Julie London was a pop-jazz singer and actress during the height of glamour in Hollywood. Her smoky voice, cool sexuality and self-confident demeanor captivated audiences around the world. The mysterious bombshell persona often concealed a shy and rather introverted manner that remained at her core no matter how many performances she gave. Ironically, it was this lifelong fear of singing to anyone but herself that helped to create the iconic breathy sound for which she became known.


Go Slow: The Life of Julie London (Chicago Review Press; July 1, 2017) by Michael Owen explores the struggles, heartache and overwhelming loss of identity that consumed Julie's youthful start, as well as the many leaps of faith she took in order find joy in the world of entertainment. The book follows Julie London's life and career through its many stages: her transformation from 1940s movie starlet to the coolly defiant singer of the classic torch ballad "Cry Me a River" of the 1950s, and her journey from Las Vegas hotel entertainer during the rock 'n' roll revolution of the 1960s to the no-nonsense nurse she portrayed in the 1970s hit television series Emergency!


A self-proclaimed wallflower, Julie London had little interest in fame. Hollywood scouts were taken by her stunning and curvaceous appearance and she signed a studio contract when she was 16. Her early career stumbled from roles in one unsuccessful movie after another, and over time, the allure of acting began to wane. Marriage to actor Jack Webb turned sour, and the stress of divorce, raising her children, and incessant gossip left Julie adrift. Struggling to find herself, her life was changed when she took the advice of her new sweetheart, songwriter Bobby Troup, to try singing. The unexpected #1 success of her first album—and its hit single, "Cry Me a River," which spent 20 weeks in the Billboard charts—reignited the interest of the movie studio executives who had previously consigned her to the shelves.


Through photos, film stills, thoughtfully collected interviews and exclusive archival materials, Go Slow: The Life of Julie London offers an intimate look at Julie London's memorable public career and the sharp contrasts of her private life.


Michael Owen is a writer, archivist, and researcher. A historian of popular music and culture, he is the Consulting Archivist to the estate of the songwriter Ira Gershwin, for which he is currently completing a scholarly, annotated book of Ira Gershwin's 1928 travel journal as part of the Gershwin Critical Edition project. He lives in the San Francisco Bay Area with his wife and their cat.


Go Slow: The Life of Julie London
By Michael Owen    Chicago Review Press    Distributed by IPG    Music/Biography ISBN: 9781613738573    336 pages    6x9   19 color photos, 36 b/w photos   Cloth    $29.99 ($39.99)”



"Grazie!" - Marco, Enzo, Lorenzo and Matteo

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


By way of background Marco Pacassoni graduated cum laude from the Conservatorio Statale di Musica "Gioachino Rossini" a music conservatory in Pesaro, Italy and with the same distinction in Professional Music from the Berklee College of Music in Boston, MA


In the broadest sense of the term, Marco is a percussionist with a particular emphasis on mallets.


He has studied with Gary Burton, Ed Saindon, Victor Mendoza, Daniele Di Gregorio, Eguie Castrillo, John Ramsey, Steve Wilkes.


In 2005 Marco won the award of the best Italian Jazz talent at "Chicco Bettinardi Competition" organized by Piacenza Jazz Festival.


Marco has been played with Michel Camilo, Alex Acuna, Horacio "el negro" Hernandez, Steve Smith, John Beck, Amik Guerra, Trent Austin, Italuba, Gerrison Fewell, Chihiro Yamanaka, Partido Latino, Bungaro, Malika Ayane, Raphael Gualazzi, Luca Barbarossa, Francesco Cafiso, Massimo Manzi, Marco Volpe, Massimo Moriconi, Filippo Lattanzi, Daniele Di Gregorio, Alessandro Ristori, Paolo Belli, Luca Colombo, Cesare Chiodo and many others...


Marco is on the percussion faculty at Liceo Musicale Rinaldini in Ancona and at Urbino University which provides for “Italian Semesters” for students from University of Texas, San Antonio.


Marco has taught Master Classes of Vibraphone at prestigious american colleges such as Oberlin Conservatory (Ohio), University of Minneapolis (Minnesota), Eastman School of Music (Rochester), Columbus University (Ohio), Cleveland University (Ohio). In 2014 Marco’s book on harmony and composition book was published by Rodaviva Edizioni.


Marco leads his own quartet whose members are Enzo Bocciero, piano and keyboards, Lorenzo De Angeli, semi-acoustic bass and Matteo Pantaleoni, drums.


They have released a number of CDs the most recent of which is entitled Grazie [2016]. You can located order information about Grazie and the group’s other CDs via this website: www.marcopacassoni.com. Some of the Marco Pacassoni Quartet’s earlier CDs are also available through Amazon.


Grazie is comprised of ten original tracks: five by Marco and five that were penned by Enzo Bocciero, who also wrote the insert notes for the disc. The recording is an homage to Marco’s late father and is intended as an appreciation for his father’s efforts to assist him with a career in music.
In many ways the music on this CD is exactly the way you would expect to hear Jazz at the outset of the 21st century. Even the fact that the musicians who made this music are based in Italy is not surprising because of Jazz’s international expansion since its inception a hundred years ago.
The music on Grazie is contemporary and very reflective of the one world influences made possible today by social networking and the instant connectivity of the digital transmission of information brought about by the world wide web.


Marco, Enzo, Lorenzo and Matteo have taken the Jazz influences from the music’s 20th century forms and combined it with how they hear the music today. Compositional structure and the basic forms of melody, harmony and rhythm remain essentially the same but the musicians have added their own textures and their own unique styles of improvisation.


Modal Jazz, irregular tempos, “complex rhythmic-harmonic weaves,” counter-melodies, riffs, and a host of other elements common to modern or mainstream Jazz are applied to new stylistic influences to create wholly different sonorities.


So while you know upon listening that the music on Grazie is Jazz, you’ve never heard it played in this manner before.


What is apparent throughout the recording is the very high level of musicianship on display. Marco, Enzo, Lorenzo and Matteo are all accomplished individual musicians who also perform very well as a group.

The "Grazie" or "Thank You" in the title of this piece also has a personal connotation for me in that listening to the music of the Marco Pacassoni Quartet helped move my ears in new directions.

All too often, those of us who evolved with the music from previous periods in its development know where Jazz has been and we get comfortable within these established forms of the music.

Yet, Jazz has always grown and developed, in today's parlance, it has morphed into new forms by incorporating new and different influences. Young musicians are particularly receptive and willing to try new approaches. So, in this regard, my thanks to Marco, Enzo, Lorenzo and Matteo for helping me keep current in the music.


I found Grazie to be a very rewarding musical experience. See what you think by listening to the following audio only file that features the group’s performance of Violet Wall, the opening track on the CD.



The Cal Tjader - Stan Getz Sextet

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



“Getz’s session with Cal Tjader looks forward with some prescience to the bossa nova records that were to come. Certainly the coolly pleasant backings of Tjader's rhythm section make up a cordial meeting-ground for tenor and vibes to play lightly appealing solos,....”
- Richard Cook and Brian Morton, The Penguin Guide to Jazz on CD, 6th Ed.


Although the title of this feature is very formal, in reality, the Cal Tjader - Stan Getz quartet was never a working group.


It was a “one off” that came together to produce a February 1958 Fantasy LP with the same title as this piece [Fantasy F-3266/OJCCD-275-2].


In today’s terms, the sextet on The Cal Tjader-Stan Getz Sextet was a hybrid made up of two players from vibraphonist Cal Tjader’s regular working group at the time - pianist Vince Guaraldi and guitarist Eddie Duran - and two musicians from the quartet then on tour with tenor saxophonist Stan Getz - bassist Scott LaFaro and drummer Billy Higgins.


Ralph J. Gleason offers this background as to how the LP came about in his insert notes to the recording:


“WHEN STAN GETZ played the Black Hawk in San Francisco ..., the time was ripe for the recording of an album that had been under discussion for a long, long time.


Cal Tjader had been an admirer of Stan Getz ever since the latter first shot to national jazz fame as the tenor saxophone star of the Woody Herman band and Stan had heard Cal and played with him at various sessions since Cal first went out as a member of the Dave Brubeck Trio. However, recording Stan with the Tjader group wasn't easy. They never seemed to be in the same part of the country at the same time. It wasn't until Stan came to the Black Hawk to fulfill a short engagement, during a period when Cal was laying off prior to reforming his group, that it was possible to work it out.


Getz' group at the Black Hawk featured two young jazz players who were totally unknown then: bassist Scotty LaFaro and drummer Billy Higgins. But they gassed Tjader as they had gassed everyone who heard them in the club. And it was decided to use them on the date along with Vince Guaraldi, Tjader's regular pianist, and Eddie Duran, the wonderful young guitarist who has been growing in stature in recent years for his in-person appearances and his work on his Fantasy albums.


Most jazz record dates, as anyone who has ever attended one knows, begin late and are one long tortured attempt to get enough material done right to fit on one LP. Once in a long while a date will jell from note one. This was one of those dates.
A critic journeying across the Bay to San Francisco to catch what he thought would be the last two hours of the date almost missed the whole thing. The album was recorded in record time (no pun intended) with less than three hours work. No tune, except two, had more than one take and even then it was a tossup as to which to use. …


As Vince Guaraldi, the swarthy Borgia of the piano, put it when the date was over, ‘When you got it, you got it.’ And they have.”


This album has long remained one of my favorites for the reasons mentioned in this excerpt from Ted Gioia’s West Coast Jazz: Modern Jazz in California, 1945-1960: [paragraphing modified]


“Tjader suffered to some extent from the general lack of imagination that characterized much of Fantasy's jazz product in the late 1950s. While other jazz producers of the day, such as Norman Granz or Orrin Keepnews, constantly strived for different formats, personnel, and concepts for their artists, Fantasy tended to churn out a steady stream of similar-sounding albums, usually featuring Tjader's working band.


One of the few exceptions to this rule, Tjader's collaboration with Stan Getz showed the benefits of mixing Cal with new blood from beyond the occasionally anemic Fantasy roster. In addition to Getz, the session featured Scott LaFaro, Billy Higgins, Vince Guaraldi, and Eddie Duran. The band drew on some of the permanent fixtures in the Tjader repertoire—Cal's waltz Lizanne, the blues Crow's Nest, and Guaraldi's Ginza Samba—with Getz leading the way with a charged tenor performance.”


This video is set to Vince Guaraldi’s Ginza Samba to give you a taste of what’s on offer in this wonderful recording.





Dutch Jazz Guitarist Jesse van Ruller: From Amsterdam, Bilthoven and Utrecht

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


“Jesse van ruler is an old soul whose musical personality is firmly embedded in the here-and-now, he plays the lingua franca material with fresh perspective and idiomatic nuance.”
-Ted Panken, Jazz DJ and author

“While American audiences like to think they have a corner on the jazz market, there's no denying the fact that this art form native to the Unites States has also become a universal language being practiced throughout the world. One might even further suggest that there have been several key contributors to the jazz legacy who have come from foreign lands, thus leaving their own personal stamp on a music that now is multi-faceted and multicultural in scope.  From a guitarist's perspective, few would deny that European artists such as Django Reinhardt and Rene Thomas hold their own in the pantheon of jazz plectrists alongside American heavyweights such as Kenny Burrell or Wes Montgomery.

Add to the list of distinguished European guitarists the name of Jesse Van Ruller, the first non-American to win the illustrious Thelonious Monk Jazz Competition and an Amsterdam native who is beginning to perk the interest of American audiences with his original style and talents as a composer.”
- C. Andrew Hovan, Jazz author

One wonders, where does the Jazz path begin for a young guitarist born in Amsterdam in 1972, who grew up in Bilthoven, a small village near Utrecht in The Netherlands?

Next to drums, guitar is perhaps the most popular instrument in the world.

But one would think that contemporary youngsters who are interested in popular music, grow up dreaming of becoming a rock guitarist and not a Jazz instrumentalist.

With Jazz radio and television broadcasts vanishing at hyper speed, where does a youngster even hear Jazz today?

Put another way: Holland has a population of 16,696,00; Utrecht has a population of 316,448; Bilthoven has a population of 31,592: how does someone “find” Jazz from such a limited population base [cf: the population of Beijing alone exceeds 20 million]?


For Jesse van Ruller, his journey into Jazz began serendipitously as suggested in the title to his first Criss Cross CD Here and There [1217] and recounted by Ted Panken in these insert notes  to the recording:

"As a kid, I liked the Pop music that was on the radio, like Queen and Van Halen, and the music my parents listened to, like Fleetwood Mac, the Stones, the Beatles and Bob Dylan," Van Ruller relates. "When I started playing guitar, it was Classical first. I started electric guitar at 11, and started improvising a little bit, without the harmony, but on one chord most of the time. When I was 14 and heard George Benson, who plays jazz harmony, but in a Pop way that I understood and was used to, I loved it immediately.

The jazz aspect was completely new and mysterious to me, the notes he played were so different than the notes you heard from Rock players, and I wanted to figure out how it worked.

Then I found out about John Scofield, and went to the library and borrowed Still Warm.  It was a new world. From that moment, it took me and it's never let me go."

The aspirant gobbled up guitar vocabulary, paying close attention to iconic recordings and occasionally traveling from Bilthoven to nearby Utrecht to hear local guitarists. "I never got into transcribing much," Van Ruller says. "I listened, and then figured things out by ear, not in a systematic way, but more playful, trying this and that.

"I don't think I play like John Scofield, but he was my bridge from Pop music to Jazz. Probably what I liked so much about him was the dissonance of his lines, and the way he phrases; he sounds like a saxophone player to me, which is something I've always wanted to get.

Then I read an interview where Scofield mentioned other guys, older guitarists like Jimmy Raney and Wes Montgomery, and also Pat Martino and Pat Metheny, whom I didn't know at that time. So I went to the library and found some of their records.

"Wes Montgomery is like our godfather for his unparalleled groove. Jimmy Raney was probably the first guitarist I heard who was not a Fusion or Jazz-Rock player; I love the way he outlined the harmony so tastefully within his very melodic lines. And Pat Martino was a huge influence in terms of emphasizing notes or accents in lines and playing dynamically.


"When I got to the Hilversum Conservatory, I discovered Peter Bernstein, who is now a friend. I got a lot from hearing how he treated the tradition, taking the whole background of Wes Montgomery and George Benson and Pat Martino, and making his very own voice. He confirmed that it was possible for someone closer to my age to play in the tradition, but still make your own music, have your own sound. Where I was learning, everybody had to play at least Fusion, everything new was cool, but you were considered old-fashioned and boring for liking music that had been played before, and it was hard to dare to play it.  Peter gave me hope."

During conservatory years, Van Ruller developed his talent with a vengeance. Not long after his 1995 graduation, a friend (the singer Fleurine, who brought him to New York that year as a sideman on a record with Christian McBride, Ralph Moore and Tom Harrell) urged him to attend that year's Thelonious Monk Competition, which he entered and won, the first European to earn the prestigious prize.

"It had a big impact on my career," Van Ruller acknowledges. "I had a lot of press attention in Holland; it was quite special for a Dutch guy to win a competition like that. From that moment on, I made records, and I played a lot."

As you can see, for someone of his generation, it was more a matter more of good fortune and lucky associations that helped Jesse discover the secrets of Jazz.

Jazz fans of all ages are certainly a major beneficiary of Jesse’s voyage of self-discovery.



Jesse appears with trumpeter John Swana performing John’s Philly Jazz with bassist John Patitucci and drummer Eric Harland.




Joe’s Bar Mitzvah, an original by fellow Dutchman, alto saxophonist Benjamin Herman, finds Jesse performing with Hammond B-3 organist, Larry Goldings and drummer, Idris Muhammud.


Jesse is the resident guitarist with the Amsterdam-based, Jazz Orchestra of the Concertgebouw, and he and this excellent big band perform his original composition The Secret Champ on this closing video.



Gary Foster, The Peacocks and A Timeless Place

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



One of the most wonderful things about maintaining this blog is all the great musicians who “drop by” the editorial offices of JazzProfiles from time-to-time [metaphorically speaking, of course].


Such was the case recently when I re-posted an archived feature on vocalist Norma Winstone which elicited this response from flutist, reedman, composer-arranger and all-round great guy, Gary Foster.


“Dear Steve:


It was interesting to find Norma Winstone as your recent subject. Perhaps something not well known about her relates to Jimmy Rowles’ “The Peacocks.” In 1991, Jim and I recorded “The Peacocks,” for Concord using his choice of the alto flute as the solo voice. Previously the song had been recorded by Jim, Bill Evans and Stan Getz.


“The Peacocks” is an AABA song form. The bridge is quite unique in that it is highly chromatic. In the early 90’s Jim had an actor/singer friend who wanted to write a lyric to the song but couldn’t deal with the bridge and asked him to change it by making it melodically more simple. That, of course, wasn’t going to happen.


I was at Jim’s house one afternoon when the postman delivered a cassette recording of Norma Winstone singing her lyric to “The Peacocks.” Her quite original treatment of the bridge was perfect. Rowles reacted immediately and made arrangements to record the song with her. I don’t remember any of the details but I believe George Mraz and Joe La Barbara were on the recording.


As a vocal, Norma titled the song “A Timeless Place.” Rowles contacted his publisher and arranged to share royalties with Norma when and if the song was released commercially with her title and lyric.


In 1999, several years after Jim’s death,  Tierney Sutton asked me if I had any unusual songs that she might consider recording. I sent along a few obscure favorites including “ A Timeless Place.” We recorded it on her 2000 Telarc recording, “Unsung Heroes.” Tierney sings it perfectly – like a classical art song. I wish Jim could have heard her.


I would be pleased to send along copies of the original sheets to “The Peacocks” and “A Timeless Place” for you files….


Best Regards,


Gary”


After saying “Yes, please” to a copy of the sheet music to both The Peacocks and A Timeless Place, and being the clever guy that I am, I decided to surprise Gary by putting together the video montage of peacocks that you’ll find at the conclusion of this piece using Gary’s alto flute performance of Jimmy Rowles’ composition "The Peacocks" from Gary’s Make Your Own Fun Concord CD CCD-4459]


[Incidentally, I am now the proud owner of 8 pages of sheet music that contain Norma Winstone’s clever lyrics set to Jimmy Rowles’ melodic refrains for "The Peacocks."]


After the video was made, I sent Gary a link to it on YouTube along with a note about being introduced to pianist Jimmy Rowles way back when by my drum teacher Larry Bunker and even sitting in for Larry on occasion with Jimmy’s trio at the Carriage House [later Chadney] which was situated across the street from NBC Studios in “beautiful downtown Burbank.”


I also suggested to him that if he should like to recount how the experience of recording "The Peacocks" with Jimmy Rowles on piano, John Heard on bass and Joe Labarbera on drums came about that perhaps I could weave all of this together into a blog feature.


Here’s Gary response.


“Dear Steve,


Once again – thank you for the surprise You Tube of "The Peacocks" and your kind words about the performance.


You suggested an accounting of how "The Peacocks" happened to be on the Make Your Own Fun recording. I just reread the liner notes and that reminded me that probably twice as many songs were considered  as could be on the final record. Typical of anything musical that passed through Jim’s scrutiny, every detail – The key, exact melody, rhythm, the perfect chord change - had to meet his standards. That alone was a great music lesson in our preparation. After graduate school, my wife and I decided on life on the street before the PhD. Clare Fischer, Warne Marsh, Jimmy Rowles. Larry Bunker all provided my PhD.


One night at Jim’s house, in late 1990, we we chatting and I asked him how he happened to write "The Peacocks" for Arthur Gleghorn. They were drinking buddies he said, and in their bar hopping days they referred to themselves as “The Peacocks.” Arthur was a first desk studio flute player in the film and TV studios. I worked with him a few times when I first started doing dates. I asked Jim if Arthur ever played "The Peacocks" for him. He said “No.” I offered to play it for him sometime. He said “Now?” and I went to the car for my flute.


I have a convenient triple case that holds a piccolo, flute and alto flute. The case was open on the chair and after we played it on the flute. Jim saw the alto flute and asked “How would it be on the big one?” We played it with the alto flute and he commented that he liked it. As I was backing out of the driveway later, he came out of the house and to the car. I rolled the window down and Jim said “'The Peacocks' is the alto flute!”


___________________________________________________________


Regarding Rowles:  Before we moved here in 1961, I had a couple of Rowles LP’s and hoped to hear him live once we were in LA. I looked for mention in the paper of where he might be playing and, once I had a Union directory, I phoned him and asked where he was playing. After a silence, and true to his cynicism, he said “Is this a gag?” I went to The Carriage House/Chadney’s many times over the next few years to hear him. It is possible that you were there, of course. I was playing regularly with Larry Bunker in Clare Fischer groups and in 1968 Larry introduced me to Jim. It gives me pleasure to relive mentally the years after that with Rowles in my life. ….


Best Regards,


Gary”




And here are Gary’s insert notes to Make Your Own Fun Concord CD CCD-4459 which are followed by some observations about Gary by Carl Jefferson who produced the CD for his label, Concord Records.


“A new jazz recording which focuses on the improvised solo is a document, in its time, of the beliefs, influences and growth of the individual performers. As a basis for improvising on this recording, I chose a few standards, two originals and a few not-so-standards. Loosely organized, this material was used to try to find those elusive few moments that might be called "a good eight bars." Finding the right tempo and a feeling of spontaneity were common thoughts of all involved. Carl Jefferson produced this recording. He gently nudged things here and there but, with great care, allowed the music to evolve on its own.


THE MUSICIANS


John Heard brings to any jazz performance a keen sense of what is right. He produces a beautiful sound, his time is strength itself and he is purely intuitive in the way he puts it all together. John has played with everyone. For many years we played together with Toshiko Akiyoshi's band. His graphic art works and his sculpture are becoming as well known as his bass playing.


Every time I've seen Joe LaBarbera in recent years we always talk of playing sometime. This recording became the reason to make it happen. Every tune on this album has moments which show Joe's beautiful taste and unfailing musical sense. Warne-ing was written for Joe to play along on the displaced rhythm of the melody and features him playing an extended solo on brushes.


Jimmy Rowles is a jazz man; the real thing. In the 1970s Jimmy moved to New York City for a few years and finally received the recognition and documentation on recordings that he had long deserved. I see him as a direct line to the jazz that counts. Billie, Ben, Pres, Sarah and all who have worked with him have sung his praises. He has gained the respect of all in the old fashioned way. He earned it! Jimmy never just comps. He reacts to the music around him and he can never be anticipated. His solos are conversational and confidential. They are full of invention, wit and surprise. His presence here gives me great personal satisfaction.


THE MUSIC


Jazz lore has it that Minnie Pearl was asked to sit in and "just sing something" on a TV talk show. Rowles, the pianist on the show, quickly asked, "how about 'Lush Life' Minnie Pearl?" To her credit, Minnie didn't accept the challenge and I doubt if Easy Living or Some Other Spring found their way into her repertoire either. These old standards have rich notes of the harmony throughout their melodies and have become jazz favorites for that reason.


Alone Together, I'll Close My Eyes, I Concentrate On You and Nica's Dream also fall into the standard class. With these beautiful songs it is a matter of agreeing on the right harmonic road map, getting a beginning and an ending and then making a try for a spontaneous performance.


Jimmy's The Peacocks is now a part of the jazz repertoire. It was written for Arthur Gleghorn who was for many years the preeminent flutist in the Hollywood studios. Asked if Arthur had ever played the song, Jimmy answered, "eight bars or so." After trying it with the flute, Jimmy asked to hear it on the alto flute and that became his choice for the melody. I asked Jimmy to sing one and he chose the beautiful, but obscure, What A Life.


‘Teef is a blues I have played for many years. The title alludes to Yusef Lateef. It works well as a duo-line for alto and bass. John took hold of this and roared.

In his New Yorker profile of Warne Marsh, Whitney Balliett referred to Warne as a "True Improviser." I had the pleasure of making music with Warne for nearly twenty-five years. Warne set and achieved the highest standards. Warne-ing, written over a set of his favorite changes, is not meant to capture Warne's musical way. It is simply a tribute from a grateful friend.


Sweet Lips was written for another great musician and friend, Wilbur Schwartz. The beautiful, soaring clarinet sound of Glenn Miller's music was created by Wil. In great contrast to that lead sound, Wil could produce a soft, intimate and personal sound that we called "sweet lips." A unique and brilliant man who took life on his own terms, Wil often advised, "make your own fun." Not a bad idea for life...or for an album title!


Gary Foster, March, 1991”


“Naturally, Gary neglected to write about himself, so I'd like to take this opportunity to share some of my personal insight into one of today's foremost reed men.


We've all heard Gary Foster on numerous recordings, TV and movie soundtracks over the years, as he is one of the most in demand studio musicians in the business. I have had the pleasure of recording Gary many times with such distinguished artists as Cal Tjader and Poncho Sanchez, as well as with the Marty Paich Dek-tette on two records with Mel Torme. Gary has always proven to be the epitome of professionalism as well as a consummate jazz musician, greatly enriching every project with his musical presence. Whenever Gary is involved, those "elusive moments" he refers to are virtually guaranteed.


On top of all this, he is simply a fine individual. Part of the concept for this album, had a lot to do with Gary's affection for Jimmy Rowles.


In conclusion, I wish all the dates were this pleasant. This is a well thought out album with exceptional musical values.


-Carl E. Jefferson
President, Concord Jazz, Inc.

More Mulligan

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© -Steven Cerra, copyright protected; all rights reserved


“And Gerry Mulligan lived through almost the entire history of jazz. It is against that background that he should be understood.”

- Gene Lees 

The title of this feature involves somewhat of a play on words.

I’ve always found the career of composer-arranger and baritone saxophonist Gerry Mulligan amazing both in terms of its scope and its content. Everything he did in Jazz in whatever the setting was done to the highest musical standards. His artistry was sheer genius.

But what is even more amazing to me is that with the exception of Jerome Klinkowitz's Listen-Gerry Mulligan: An Aural Narrative [Schirmer Books, 1991] which is written primarily from the author's take on Gerry's recordings, I know of no definitive, book length treatment on the subject of Gerry and his music, this despite the fact Jazz studies programs, institutes, and repositories dot the landscape of colleges and universities throughout the country and, increasingly, the world.

How sad.

More Mulligan, indeed.

In an effort to redress this tragic omission, the editorial staff at JazzProfiles has cobbled together its previous blog postings on Gerry and collected them into this feature so that they may be easier to locate in the archives should someone with more energy and discipline be interested in using them to write a comprehensive biography on Gerry Mulligan.

While by means an exhaustive “research of the literature,” what follows does contain writings about Gerry and his music by such distinguished Jazz authors as Bill Crow, Nat Hentoff, Gene Lees, Gordon Jack, Doug Ramsey, Ted Gioia, Bill Kirchner, Ira Gitler, Bob Gordon, Gunther Schuller, Burt Korall, George T. Simon, Michael Cuscuna, Gary Giddins, Fred M. Hall, Whitney Balliett, Martin Williams, Jeff Sultanof and Charles Fox [BBC].

This is for you, Jeru, until something better comes along.



“In his short story, Entropy, the novelist Thomas Pynchon takes Mulligan’s early-1950’s piano-less quartets with Chet Baker as a crux of post modernism, improvisation without the safety net of predictable chords.
The revisionist argument was that Mulligan attempted the experiment simply because he had to work in a club with no piano.
The true version is that there was a piano, albeit an inadequate one, but he was already experimenting with a much more arranged sound for small groups (to which the baritone saxophone was particularly adaptable) and the absence of a decent keyboard was merely an additional spur. …
Mulligan’s piano-less quartet is one of the epochal jazz groups, even if it had no such aspirations, formed for nothing more than a regular gig at The Haig….
In retrospect, it’s the simplest pleasures which have made the music endure: the uncomplicated swing of the various rhythm sections, the piquant contrast of amiably gruff baritone saxophone and shyly melodious trumpet ….
Cool but hot, slick but never too clever, these are some of the most pleasurable records of their time.”
Richard Cook and Brian Morton, The Penguin Guide to Jazz on CD [6th Ed.: p. 1082; paragraphing modified].

© - Steven A. Cerra: copyright protected all rights reserved.



In order to assist with our expanded portrayal of one of the Giants of Jazz, the editorial staff at JazzProfiles has secured copyright permission from authors Bill Crow, Nat Hentoff,  Gene Lees and Gordon Jack to use chapters about Gerry from their books. These will appear in subsequent sections of this piece on Gerry.

I liked Gerry Mulligan’s music from the first time I heard it. It made me feel content then and it still makes me feel content now whenever I play any of his records.

Mulligan’s music makes me feel happy, joyous and free, whatever the musical context, be it the arrangements he wrote for the Gene Krupa, Claude Thornhill, and Elliot Lawrence big bands; his involvement with Gil Evans in the Birth of the Cool sessions issued under Miles Davis’ name in the late 1940’s; his early 1950’s piano-less quartet with Chet Baker; the Kenton arrangements such as Youngblood, Swing House and Walking Shoes around the same time; the sextet he formed in the mid-1950s with Jon Eardley [tp], Bob Brookmeyer [vtb] and Zoot Sims [ts]; the re-formed quartets first with Bob Brookmeyer and later with Art Farmer [tp]; the marvelous and all-too-short-lived early 1960s version of the Concert Jazz Band; his association with Dave Brubeck’s Quartet after the latter’s classic quartet with Paul Desmond disbanded in 1967; the 1974 Carnegie Hall reunion with Chet Baker; the re-constituted editions of the Concert Jazz Band in the late 1970s and throughout the 1980s; his quartet during the later years of his life which included either Bill Charlap or Ted Rosenthal [p], Dean Johnson [b] and Ron Vincent [d].

And lest we forget, there are the many “Gerry Mulligan Plays with …” albums that this peripatetic baritone saxophonist made with the likes of Stan Getz, Thelonious Monk, Lee Konitz , Paul Desmond, Johnny Hodges and Ben Webster.


Nat Hentoff fondly refers to Gerry as the “Huck Finn” or the “Johnny Appleseed” of Jazz and Doug Ramsey also portrays Gerry’s wandering minstrel tendency in a most praiseworthy fashion when he explains:

“Some musicians, once they move past their salad days and establish careers as identifiable stylists, rarely leave the confines of their own groups or, if they do, seldom mingle in performances with players outside their own styles or eras. There are many sensible, even laudatory, reasons for such isolation. Some are purely artistic. Some are commercial. Others have to do with preservation of image, which is usually another manifestation of salability. Still others concern sheer preservation of physical and psychic energy.

But there have always been in jazz a few artists at the pinnacle of their profession, admired by their peers, flexible in outlook, quickly adaptable to a variety of circumstances, who love to play in virtually any musical setting of quality … [and] among major jazz artists, it may be that no one has sat in more often with bands playing a greater range of styles than has Gerry Mulligan.

Mulligan, master baritone saxophonist, small group innovator, one of the premier arrangers, is at home in every jazz idiom with the possible exception of the most outré elements of avant-garde.” [Jazz Matters: Reflections on the Music and Some of its Makers, Fayetteville: The University of Arkansas Press, 1989, p. 229].



Given the magnitude of the footprint that he left upon the music, it is almost as impossible to assess Gerry Mulligan’s role in the development of modern Jazz in the second half of the Twentieth Century as it is to underestimate it.

The following excerpt by Ted Gioia from his Cool Jazz and West Coast Jazz in The Oxford Companion to Jazz as edited by Bill Kirchner [New York, Oxford University Press, 2000] might serve as one starting point for Gerry contributions to Jazz’s evolution during this period:

“Gerry Mulligan’s stint in California in the early 1950s proved decisive for the emerging West Coast sound. Modern jazz in Los Angeles in the late 1940s was as hot as the asphalt under which the city was then being covered. It took as its primary model the bebop styles of the East Coast.

Mulligan’s L.A. quartet [with trumpeter Chet Baker] changed all of that, questioning the conventional wisdom about jazz music’s rhythmic essence, its melodic impulses, its approach to composition, even its assumptions about instrumentation.

Mulligan’s finely etched baritone sax lines entered into a ruminative counterpoint dialogue with Baker’s trumpet phrases. … Never before had the softer extremes of the dynamic spectrum been so finely explored by a jazz band …. [Accompanied by only bass and drums] no piano or guitar cluttered the pristine harmonic textures of the band, and this imparted even great clarity to the interlocking horn lines. [paragraphing modified: p. 336].

And yet, Mulligan seems to have disavowed the importance of his time on the West Coast claiming later in his career:

My bands would have been successful anywhere. [Mulligan, a native New Yorker, went on to assert] I didn’t live in California. I went to California, scuffled around for a while, wrote some charts for Stan Kenton to survive, and started my group – I had very little contact with anything going on out there – and then left.” [Bob Rusch, Gerry Mulligan Interview, Cadence, October 1977, p. 7, as quoted in Gioia, West Coast Jazz, p. 175].

As this excerpt from Ira Gitler’s Swing to Bop demonstrates, Gerry’s criticism of his time on the West Coast involving Stan Kenton was particularly vitriolic:

… part of the thing that really depressed me and I always hated being called West Coast jazz because to me the influences out of the West Coast in jazz were personified by Stan Kenton's band. And Stan's band to me was some kind of way symbolic of the end of the bands as I loved them. It had gotten too big and too pompous. You know, it took itself so seriously. Like just something terribly Wagnerian about it all.
Well, I once said, thinking I was being humorous, that Stan is the "Wagner of jazz" and then realized afterwards-because he had done a thing with the transcriptions of the Wagner pieces, and tried to conduct them-that he really saw himself that way and didn't see any humor in it at all. But I hated what that band stood for because it was like the final evolution of wrongly taken points. The way the band kept growing.

And the absolute maximum for any kind of use was the five saxes and the three or four bones and the four trumpets. The main reason . . . there's one you can do with four trumpets you can't do any other way, and that's four-part harmony, which only four trumpets together sound . . . OK. The only function for the fifth trumpet is an alternate player. But Stan's band kept getting bigger and bigger - to five trombones. Now five trombones is the most asinine.” [Swing to Bop: An Oral History of the Transition in Jazz in the 1940’s, New York: Oxford University Press, 1985, p. 247].


But as Bob Gordon points out in his effort at an even-handed assessment of Gerry’s tenure on the West Coast, while it may have been brief, it also brought him his initial fame and helped to give a wider public recognition to many southern California musicians and their music:

“When Gerry Mulligan returned to New York at the close of 1954, …, the catchphrase West Coast Jazz was being bandied about in the Jazz press and, much to his irritation, Gerry’s name was often linked to the music. Gerry was quite right in rejecting this linkage; his quartet was sui generis and belonged to no school save that of Mulligan himself. At the same time, though, the national popularity of the quartet did much to draw attention to Jazz in southern California and helped smooth the way for other musicians who were trying to be heard. …, Pacific Jazz [Records] owed its very existence to the Mulligan quartet, and that label and other independent companies that sprang up in its wake were largely responsible for launching the careers of many southland musicians who had been anonymous before Gerry arrived. Gerry Mulligan’s help may have been inadvertent, but it was indispensable nevertheless." [Jazz West Coast, London: Quartet Books, 1986, p. 85].

Before Gerry’s time on the West Coast, there were four, distinctive associations during the formative years of his career: [1] his time with drummer Gene Krupa’s post World War II orchestra; [2] his work with the Claude Thornhill orchestra beginning in 1947 which led to his meeting the arranger composer Gil Evans, [3] his work as a composer-arranger for the Philadelphia-based Elliot Lawrence band that began in 1949 and continued into the mid-1950s; [4] also in 1949, the landmark Birth of the Cool sessions issued under trumpeter Miles Davis’ name.


As Gunther Schuller points out:

“[In addition to Eddie Finckel], “… George Williams, and Gerry Mulligan, were even more instrumental in bringing the Krupa band into the modern era….

[And yet], Krupa did not record Gerry Mulligan’s early work (1946-47) until a dozen years later with a star-studded specially assembled band for Norman Granz’s Verve label. Krupa may simply have considered Mulligan’s [early] work too risky commercially – he did take a chance on two of his more “conservative” scores, Disc Jockey Jump (1947) and How High the Moon (1946) – notwithstanding his genuine commitment to the newer jazz styles, which he staunchly maintained into the early 1950s and beyond that. Indeed by 1949, the year the bop movement finally achieved wider public recognition, Krupa’s orchestra had developed into a full-fledged modern ensemble.” [The Swing Era: The Development of Jazz, 1930-1945, New YorkOxford University Press, 1989, p. 727].

Gerry’s contributions to Gene Krupa’s big band are richly detailed in the following un-attributed insert notes to the Verve CD – Gene Krupa Plays Gerry Mulligan Arrangements, as well as, those that follow which Pete Clayton wrote for the initial LP release of this music for the World Record Club[TP 351]:

“Gerry Mulligan joined the Gene Krupa band in February, 1946, and remained about a year. He arranged for the band all that time, played alto for a couple of months and tenor for about two more. The arrangements he did during that year - when he was 19 - are both interesting in themselves and illuminating in the context of the way his writing has developed since. He did about 24 altogether.

At the age of 17, Mulligan had already started arranging professionally - for Johnny Warrington's band at the Philadelphia radio station, WCAU; for Tommy Tucker on Gerry's first road trip; and then for Elliot Lawrence, who had taken over the WCAU orchestra.

"The Krupa band, however," Mulligan recalls, "was the most professional band I'd ever written for. They were so professional they sometimes scared the hell out of me. They had no trouble playing anything I wrote. Having that skilled a unit to write for was a new and a challenging experience."

Before he heard these versions of the arrangements he'd done for Krupa, Mulligan had feared that twelve years would make them sound much too dated for comfort, but he was hearteningly surprised to hear that they still stand up. "There were a lot of things," he said, "I thought I hadn't tried until I started writing for Claude Thornhill, but now I hear that I'd already been doing them with Gene's band."

In these arrangements can be heard Mulligan's characteristic concern for linear clarity and his overall functional approach to writing. In the years after, Mulligan - through his arranging for big bands and his own quartet - did a great deal to let more air into contemporary jazz scoring. He did not allow himself to be impressed with sound effects - however massed and screaming - for their own sake, but preferred instead to make a large band flow and swing lightly but firmly with plenty of space for the men, in sections as well as in solo, to breathe.
In some places here, you may be reminded of elements of the Jimmie Lunceford book, not only the rhythmic feel at times, but also the humor. Wit, sometimes sardonic, is another characteristic of Mulligan and it also was one of the invigorating assets of the Lunceford band.


"Actually," Mulligan explains, "guys at that time asked me if I'd heard Lunceford, and I hadn't. But I had heard several of the white bands who had been influenced by Lunceford."

Bird House is thus called because it's based on several Charlie Parker ideas, but it's also not unconnected with Neal Hefti's The Good Earth for inspiration. Gerry had left Mulligan Stew untitled, and the title it finally received made him vow that would be the last time he wouldn't title a song of his himself. Gerry wrote The Way of All Flesh after reading the novel, but doesn't think there are any correspondences between Samuel Butler's plot and the score.

Disc Jockey Jump, which turned out to be a Krupa hit, was written by Mulligan in the early months of his association with the band, but it wasn't put into the books until Gerry had left. Mulligan's only retrospective comment on the number is, "It came before Four Brothers."

Mulligan feels he learned a great deal from his year with Krupa, not only about writing and playing, but about people. The band traveled throughout the country, and the experience broadened Gerry considerably. He was also fond of Gene personally, and appreciated the fact that Gene let him write as much as he did and used most of it. Krupa, in turn, liked Mulligan because he always stood up for what he believed, and knew what he wanted to do.

Adding this album to your Mulligan-Krupa collection should prove to be an instructive pleasure. It gives - in high fidelity - a cross-section of an important year in Mulligan's history; and it also indicates that Krupa had the prescience to keep the 19-year-old with the band, and - up to a point - give him his head.



World Club Record" TP 351
"
Those who saw much of Gerry Mulligan during his 1963 visit to Britain found him looking robust, substantial and outrageously English as he loped affably about London smoking his pipe. And anyone who could, almost automatically contrasted this new Mulligan with the skeletally thin figure, with his sandy hair pruned down to little more than a ginger lawn, whose shortness of temper and air of almost perpetual irritability had made him such a prickly individual during his previous visit six years earlier. But if, in the matter of mere physical appearance and disposition, he has altered somewhat over the years, musically there is a consistency about him that runs right through his career; and this record, although made in 1958, takes us almost as far back as we can go in Mulligan's work in jazz. Nowadays a constant pollwinner on baritone sax, he made his first big impression as an arranger, and we have here twelve of the two dozen arrangements he did for Gene Krupa's band, of which he was a member, during 1946. He was then only nineteen.

Already he was thinking in terms of that articulate airiness that he later brought to exquisite perfection in the Quartet. At that early age he could have been excused had he succumbed to the temptation to wallow in the opulent sounds possible with a big band. But he didn't. That ambling boneyness, which is his by physique, had already got into his writing. You will notice that apart from Disc jockey jump, which was one of the Krupa band's big successes at the time, the tempos are nearly all relaxed, almost casual. And If you were the only girl in the world not only demonstrates his ability to sustain interest at a really slow tempo, but points also to his flair for working wonders with what appears at first sight to be unlikely material. The tune had been written right back in 1916 by Nat Ayer for a famous London musical show, "The Bing Boys are Here', and although a good strong one, it had always seemed to me to have rather an excess of that maudlin quality that goes down so well in pubs. But if there has to be a highspot on the record, for me it is this number.



Mulligan's own Bird house and Birds of a feather, and Yardbird suite by Parker himself, are Gerry's ample tribute to Charlie Parker. How high the moon, a number written by Morgan Lewis and Nancy Hamilton in 1940, had an uncanny fascination for the early modernists, who made it their own much as the jam sessioneers had once appropriated Honeysuckle rose and the revivalists were to latch onto The Saints. Margie by Con Conrad and J. Russell Robinson. is a standard dating from 1920. Mulligan stew is Gerry's tune but somebody else's title; he is said to have vowed thereafter never again to leave the choice of a name to another. Begin the beguine is Cole Porter's classic from the 1935 show 'Jubilee'. The way of all flesh was simply adopted as a title at about the time Mulligan was reading Samuel Butler's novel. Sometimes I'm happy V is one of the incredibly simple but highly effective numbers that came so readily to Vincent Youmans. It was in a 1927 musical called `Hit the Deck'.

When this record was played back, Mulligan was reported as being pleasantly surprised to hear how well this early work of his had stood the test of time. But he writes in a timeless way and, except when he's setting fashions for others to follow, has a sweeping disregard for such temporary things as musical fashions. What other modernist (if that term is not itself too restrictive) would dare to call himself a Dixieland musician, or admit that he'd been influenced by Red Nichols' Five Pennies? Come to that, how many jazzmen could have written with both originality and maturity while still in their teens and not only please a bandleader of an earlier musical generation altogether, but make him think it worth while rerecording those same arrangements a dozen years later still ?

Gene Krupa, who began his recording career a few months after Gerry Mulligan was born, was one of the first drummers whose technique was up to the demands of the swing era. Beginning as a Chicagoan, both geographically and musically, he went into big commercial dancebands in the early thirties, and by the time he joined Benny Goodman in 1935 he was not only a very able drummer but a first rate showman as well. He continued to propel the Goodman band in spectacular fashion until he left to form a band of his own in 1938. With a gap in the mid forties, when in the space of a few months he returned to Goodman and did a spell with Tommy Dorsey, he led a band continuously until 1951, when he first became part of Norman Granz's Jazz at the Philharmonic Empire.

One of the most striking things about jazz development in recent years has been the steady change in rhythm sections; by current standards Krupa is practically old-fashioned. But he's a great driver, a propulsive force whose powers of getting a big band off the ground are as full as ever. If he has changed at all it is in the matter of restraint. My memory seems to tell me that he had an over fondness for the bass drum in the swing days, a tendency to make a lot of noise out of sheer exuberance But here he plays with a light crispness and an almost unbelievable accuracy, steering an eager band through the spacious framework of a dozen arrangements provided by the almost unknown young arranger he'd had the farseeing good sense to employ all those years earlier."

PETER CLAYTON


Gene said of his time with Mulligan:

“I was attracted by the new jazz. After listening to Dizzy [Gillespie] and Bird [Charlie Parker] for a while, I began to hear music differently. It wasn’t too long before I made a commitment to this music. I hired Gerry Mulligan. An original arranger who was deeply involved with what was happening, be brought us “Disc Jockey Jump,” which was not only well-received, but established the fact that we were serious about going in another direction. My other arrangers [were] George Williams, Neal Hefti and Eddie Finckel …. These were exciting up-to-date guys. I let them go; only occasionally did I edit their scores or shelve what I felt wouldn’t work.” [Burt Korall, Drummin’ Men: The Heartbeat of Jazz, New York: Macmillan, 1990, p. 80].

And Gerry had this to say of his time with Krupa:

“I was young when I worked for him. And he was very good to me. You know, he introduced me to the music of Maurice Ravel. He always liked to take a record player with him on the road. He loved Ravel and Delius, too.



For reasons that are detailed in Nat Hentoff’s The White Mainstreamer chapter from his work Jazz Is and which will be included in its entirety later in Part 3 of this featureMulligan was fired off the Krupa band and next began arranging for the Claude Thornhill Orchestra, occasionally sitting in as a member of the reed section.

Thornhill's arranging staff included Gil Evans, whom Mulligan had met while working with the Krupa band. Mulligan eventually began living with Evans, at the time that Evans' apartment on West 55th Street became a regular hangout for a number of jazz musicians working on creating a new jazz idiom.

"In 1947-48, when Gil Evans and Gerry Mulligan wrote arrangements for the Claude Thornhill band, the jazz-oriented instrumentals swung without shouting, and hinted at a bebop equivalent of early Count Basle and Lester Young, and It was those arrangements that inspired Miles Davis to have Evans and Mulligan create a nine-piece version of the same sound, known retrospectively as the 'Birth of the Cool' band. But Thornhill was not just historically significant, the original performances of his band stand up In their own right and are still as fresh as the day they were recorded."- BRIAN PRIESTLEY

Unfortunately, the 1948 recording ban imposed by the James Petrillo, President of the American Federation of Musicians, prevented Columbia from recording most of the arrangements that Gerry wrote for the Thornhill band.

Gerry had this to say about his experience with Claude:

“There was always a sense of the mystical about that band and its aura, and all that came from Claude. The idea of the whole ambience of the sound, the kind of voicings that were more orchestral than band-like, that was all Claude’s doing. It was a natural and willing adaptation that Gil underwent to write for the band; his way of using it was to apply his own unique talent to that instrumentation. It turned out to be the same thing for me, it gave me the opportunity to write for a band that was totally unlike the others that I had written for.”

When asked to compare Claude Thornhill to Stan Kenton, Gerry observed:

“They were probably exact opposites. Thornhill was an introvert, his music was very artistically oriented. His whole attitude was music as an expression of the spirit, and he was much drawn to the Impressionists and the music of that period. Kenton, on the other hand, was an extrovert, and his music was very extroverted and his musical heroes would be more like Wagner. They were polar opposites. The sense of how to produce the sound: the Kenton band was very muscular and physical; the Thornhill band was much more spiritual and cerebral and sensitive.” [Both of these Mulligan quotes are drawn from Will Friedwald’s insert notes to Claude Thornhill – Best of the Big Bands Columbia CK 46152].


As is explained in the following excerpt from the insert notes to Elliot Lawrence Plays Gerry Mulligan Arrangements by George T. Simon, around 1949, Gerry began producing arrangements for Elliot Lawrence’s band which:

came out of Philadelphia and radio station WCAU to become a nationally known organization in the late Forties and Fifties. One of the band's sometime tenor saxophonists eventually became a major contributor to the band's book. His talent as an instrumentalist emerged on the baritone saxophone and his writing skills were in evidence in several big bands.

Gerry Mulligan had already done "Disc Jockey Jump" for Gene Krupa when Lawrence recorded his "Elevation" and arrangement of "Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea" in 1949. Later Mulligan did some important charts for Stan Kenton, and finally, for his own Concert Jazz Band.

These 1955 dates yielded 12 Mulligan arrangements, including seven originals and "Mr. President," a scoring of Lester Young's solo from his 1939 recording with Count Basie. A full listing of the tracks on this album includes:

The Rocker
Bye Bye Blackbird
Happy Hooligan
Mullenium
My Silent Love
Bweebida Bwobbida
Strike Up the Band
Apple Core
Elegy for Two Clarinets
The Swinging Door
But Not For Me
Mr. President

The Lawrence band interprets the Mulligan scores with style and bite, giving ample solo space to Al Cohn's tenor saxophone, Eddie Bert's trombone, Hal McKusick's alto sax, and the trumpets of Nick Travis and Dick Sherman [as well as the lead trumpet of Bernie Glow].
These Mulligan's scores are marked by [his] warmth and taste ... The section work is wonderfully firm and precise and swings crisply...”


Around the same time that Mulligan began arranging for Elliot Lawrence, as Doug Ramsey explains in his essay Big Bands, Jazz Composing, Arranging After WW II in The Oxford Companion to Jazz:

“Mulligan was one of a group of young writers and players who in the late 1940s assembled in the Manhattan basement room of Gil Evans, their guru, to exchange ideas. Like Miles Davis, Mulligan was enchanted with Evans's work for Claude Thornhill. Evans and Mulligan wrote for Davis's nine-piece group, as did John Lewis and Johnny Carisi, with the Thornhill sound as their basic model. The band's 1949 and 1950 records, later collected as The Birth of the Cool (Capitol), became one of the most influential bodies of music in jazz. Their concepts led to the Evans-Davis collaborations that resulted in Miles Ahead, Porgy and Bess, and Sketches of Spain (Columbia), Mulligan's 1953 Tentette (Capitol), and his Concert Jazz Band (Verve, EuroJazz).” [p. 413].

In his incisive insert notes to the CD reissue of Birth of the Cool, Pete Welding offers these thoughtful and thought-provoking comments about this seminal recording and its significance:

“In jazz, as in other music, some things are of their time, some ahead of it, while others simply know no time at all. The music produced by the Miles Davis Nonet, whose entire recorded output is contained in this album, is all of these and more. Not only was it the product of a specific time and place -and the special grouping of musicians involved in its creation-but it was demonstrably ahead of its time, having influenced a number of jazz developments that followed and took their lead from it. Then too, as listening will make immediately apparent, it's timeless as well, as most perfect things are.

Many things flowed from this seminal source-subsequent developments in Davis' own music and in those of various of its participants, notably Gerry Mulligan, Gil Evans and John Lewis; much small group jazz of the '50s and '60s which drew upon various of its elements as well as its underlying philosophy; the whole West Coast jazz movement, and so on. All of which is even more remarkable when one considers how little the Nonet recorded or, more important, performed in public. (The latter generally is the best indication of how musical advances are perceived and received by the listening public.)

Still, while jazz audiences of the late 1940s may have been indifferent to the music of the Nonet, at least to the extent of supporting its New York club dates, jazz players of the time evinced no such resistance but, rather, were quick to recognize the beauty and creative audacity of its music, the quietly revolutionary character of its approach to the small jazz ensemble, and the potential for further development implicit in it. Musicians in fact were the first to respond to what was signaled in the Nonet's recordings, and they did so almost immediately. Within two years of the group's final recording session Gerry Mulligan had incorporated various of the Nonet's musical precepts in the formation of his celebrated pianoless quartet with Chet Baker and was enjoying great success. Trumpeter-arranger Shorty Rogers assimilated its lessons, first into the arrangements he was doing for the Stan Kenton Orchestra and, from 1951 on, even more fully for his small group The Giants from which so much that was viable in the then emerging West Coast jazz idiom took its lead. John Lewis, another Nonet member, had formed and set the musical direction for the Modern Jazz Quartet based largely on his experiences with the Davis group.


Throughout jazz, in fact, the most forward-looking younger musicians studied the Nonet's recordings with the closest interest and translated whatever they could to their own music. Nor did its influence end with these and like activities of the '50s, but in the four decades that have elapsed since the Nonet made its first recordings has colored the very fabric of small group and, through the further collaborations of Davis and Evans which grew from their work for the Nonet, orchestral jazz as well. Hindsight has shown, and only too clearly, that these are among the landmark recordings of modern jazz, the implications of which continue to resonate in ways large and small through the music even today.

While it would be stretching the truth to say that the Davis Nonet came about through happenstance, there was a certain amount of the fortuitous to it. And like many things labeled revolutionary after the fact, the Nonet's music actually evolved gradually, through a steady process of development and experimentation in which its approach was defined, refined and given final shape. …

In its music the Nonet sought to realize a number of interlocking goals. Foremost of these was the development of an approach to ensemble writing that would retain the freshness and immediacy of improvised music and in which would be fused elements from bop, and Parker's music in particular, with a number of jazz practices such as a light, vibrato-less tonality and a more subtle approach to rhythm that the boppers largely had eschewed, as well as an attempt at achieving the broadened coloristic and textural palette of the large orchestra while using a relatively small number of instruments. A corollary goal was the production of a balanced, more seamless integration between the music's written and improvised elements than was characteristic of bop, the arrangement in effect leading and anchoring the soloist who was, in turn, expected to return his improvisation and resolve it in reference to the written segment that followed. …

Let's reaffirm something here: catchy album title notwithstanding, the music of the Miles Davis Nonet was, is anything but cool. Controlled, lucid, tightly focused, succinct -yes. It's all these and more. but cool in the sense of being dispassionate or otherwise lacking in the fundamental emotional character one always associates with the best jazz, no! As anyone familiar with the Nonet's music can attest, it possesses an abundance of focused emotional power all the more effective for being so low-keyed, so apparently subdued in character."…”

And fortunately, in 1971 Gerry Mulligan himself was able to add his own reflections about the making of Birth of the Cool and many of the musicians who performed with him on these recordings:

“I was lucky to be in the right place at the right time to be part of Miles' band. I'd been on the road a couple of years with various band by that time, but with Gil's encouragement I decided to stay in New York. With all the great bands that were around then, big and little, it was an exciting time musically. And everybody seemed to gravitate to Gil's place. Everybody influenced everybody and Bird was no. I influence on us all.

Gil lived in a room in a basement on 55th Street, near 5th Avenue. Actually it was behind a Chinese laundry and had all the pipes for the building as well as a sink, a bed, a piano, a hot-plate, and no heat. Some of the more-or-less regulars at Gil's I remember:
John Carisi, almost as hot-headed in an argument as I am. Anyone who writes a piece like "Israel" can't be all bad, right?
John Lewis, our resident classicist. 
George Russell, our resident innovator. (Wrote a couple of fine, interesting charts for Claude Thornhill's band that I suppose there's no trace of now.)
 John Benson Brooks, our dreamer of impossible dreams. 
Dave Lambert, our itinerant practical yankee.
Billy Exiner, drummer with Thornhill and our home philosopher, with his beautiful attitude toward life and music.
Joe Shulman, bassist with Thornhill; he believed Count Basie had the only rhythm section.
Barry Galbraith, the Freddy Greene of the Thornhill rhythm section and an altogether beautiful musician.
Specs Goldberg, blithe spirit. A fantastic intuitive musician who had a tough time trying to channel his free-wheeling imagination.
Sylvia Goldberg (no relation), piano student and whirlwind.
Blossom Dearie, blossom is blossom.
And Miles, the bandleader. He took the initiative and put the theories to work. He called the rehearsals, hired the halls, called the players, and generally cracked the whip
Max Roach, genius. I can't say enough about his playing with the band. His melodic approach to my charts was a revelation to me. He was fantastic and for me the perfect drummer for the band. (No small statement in view of the fact that Miles brought in Art Blakey and Kenny Clarke on the later dates.)


Lee Konitz, genius. Lee had joined Claude's band in Chicago and knocked us all out (including Bird) with his originality.
For the rest of the band, J.J. and Kai alternated on trombone. It wasn't too easy to find French horn players who were trying to play jazz phraseology but among those at our rehearsals were Sandy Siegelstein (from Thornhill), Junior Collins (who could play some good blues) and probably Jim Buffington. And Bill Barber on tuba. He used to transcribe Lester Young tenor choruses and play them on tuba. What a great player. As I recall, Gil and I also wanted Danny Polo on clarinet but he was out with Claude's band all the time and there was nobody to take his Place. Not long before Danny died we had some jam sessions at which he played the best modern clarinet jazz I've ever heard.
As I said at the beginning, I consider myself fortunate to be there and I thank whatever lucky stars responsible for placing me there. There's a kind of perfection about those recordings and I'm pleased that all the material is finally being released on one set. And without electronic "stereo." To paraphrase an American innovator, Gertrude Stein: a band is a band is a great band.

-GERRY MULLIGAN May 1971.”
To be continued in Part 2 with Bill Crow.



"Gerry Mulligan, whose career spanned five decades, worked gracefully in many styles and with many artists, defying the categories that so often narrow our vision of a creative spirit.
"Gerry Mulligan would not, could not, be categorized, and he flourished through changing times, in many cultures, and with many musical voices ranging from the baritone saxophone that was his principal instrument, to the full orchestra."
- James H. Billington
in opening remarks at the inauguration of the Gerry Mulligan Library of Congress Exhibition, 
April 6, 1999

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

Did I mention that I like listening to Gerry Mulligan’s music?

At times, I think of his music as something of a throwback. It reminds me of an earlier time in Jazz when the principal point of the whole thing was making music that was fun to play and fun to listen to.

While there are highlights in abundance from Gerry Mulligan’s later musical career, the small combo recordings that he made with various groups during the decade of the 1950s hold a special place in modern Jazz lore. The reasons for this have as much to do with serendipity as they are to do with Mulligan’s talent, highly developed musical skills, and dogged determination to succeed in Jazz on his own terms.
To put a slightly different spin on the well-known adage – “I’d rather be lucky than good” – in Mulligan’s case, this became – I’d rather be lucky and good - which he was, hence luck and competence became the main reasons for his enduring success.

As has already been demonstrated in Part 1 with the review of his accomplishments before coming to California in 1952, Gerry Mulligan was a very proficient composer-arranger. While he would continue to refine these music writing skills, during the decade of the 1950's, he also became one of the premier baritone saxophonists in Jazz.


As Larry Bunker, who replaced Chico Hamilton on drums, with the original Gerry Mulligan Quartet from January – June, 1953 recalls:

“Gerry was enormously knowledgeable and skilled in harmonic structure and chord changes - all of that. He could solo in a very linear fashion as well, but he may have wanted to play in a more vertical way because we didn't have a piano. He played the piano sometimes himself, and although he wasn't a great pianist, he knew what he wanted to do on the instrument. On baritone he was amazing, but sometimes it was a little hard to play with him, especially on a double-time thing where he would blow so many notes that he would get behind the time. I would be scuffling along, trying to drag him with me, but that was because of that big, awkward horn he was playing. Unlike an alto or tenor, it takes a long time for the air to get through. I have great respect for him both as a writer and a player.

I remember he did something really wild when we recorded those tentet things. We rehearsed one of the pieces, and after we made a take on it, we listened to the playback. Gerry flopped down on the floor in the middle of the studio, concentrating in a really dramatic, Christ-like pose, with his arms outstretched and his eyes closed. When the recording was finished, he got up off the floor and said, "O.K., guys -pencils." He then proceeded to dictate a new road map for the chart, which completely rearranged it, and when he counted us in, it was like a brand new piece of music. His writing had a magical quality, and he probably influenced both Bill Holman and Bob Brookmeyer, because he was a fantastic arranger.” [As recounted to Gordon JackFifties Jazz Talk: An Oral Retrospective, LanhamMD: Scarecrow Press, 2004, p. 149].

As to the serendipity-in- combination-with-skill part of the-Mulligan-equation-for-success-in-Jazz, Ted Gioia offers these observations:

"Certainly Mulligan had hardly been in California long enough to get a suntan when he teamed with Baker to form one of the most creative combos ever to grace a Los Angeles bandstand. This was an unlikely turn of events for the pair. Only a short while before, Baker had been laboring in obscurity with a local Dixieland band at Sea] Beach-the leader had hired him because Baker's playing reminded him of Bix Beiderbecke.

Mulligan’s profile was so low that he had traveled to California by hitchhiking, rather than purchase costly train or plane tickets. But now this duo was poised to legitimize and publicize West Coast jazz to a greater extent than anyone had done before. The Mulligan Quartet's distinctive approach-open, clean, smooth, lyrical with a dose of the cerebral-would come, for many, to define the West Coast sound. …

…, the public image of the Mulligan-Baker quartet was that of a well-oiled machine. There was no wasted energy or empty emoting in their music. Each note struck the mark. Seldom had a jazz combo played more effectively together. And not since the days of Jelly Roll Morton had a band shown such a knack for creating a collective sound, a perfectly balanced give-and-take between all members.

The simplest ingredients underscored this success: active listening; an acute sensitivity to instrumental textures; a studied avoidance of the easy licks and empty clichés of bop and swing; in their place, fresh, uncluttered lines, cleanly played. Above all, the band overcame the jazz musician's greatest fear: the fear of silence.

Emerging on the scene during the sturm und drang of the bop era-a time when musicians seemed to be paid piece rate by the note-these players clearly served a different muse, judiciously balancing sound and quiet, happily understanding the poet's dictum about the sweetness of unheard melodies."[insert notes, from West Coast Classics - Gerry Mulligan: The Original Quartet with Chet Baker, Pacific Jazz, CDP 94407, paragraphing modified].


Michael Cuscuna comments as taken from the insert notes to The Best of the Gerry Mulligan Quartet with Chet Baker [Pacific Jazz CDP 95481] may help to put all that happen on that magic carpet ride that was the 1952-53 Gerry Mulligan Quartet featuring Chet Baker in a more temporal context:

“It seems hard to imagine that such an influential group, still revered in nostalgic and historic circles, lasted a mere 11 months.
Through their appearances at The Haig and their singles for Pacific jazz (the first of which was recorded in August of'52), the group developed an ever-spreading and deserved following.

The interplay between Mulligan and Baker was empathetic and uncanny. Freed of the piano's conventional role and its domination in the scheme of arranging, the group developed ingenious charts which emphasized melodic elements over the harmonic and encouraged interplay among the horns and freer thought in solo flights.

The limitation of two voices (and sometimes a third with the bass) seemed to ignite Mulligan's already, fertile mind. Whether remodeling a standard or introducing an original, Mulligan stretched his limits and came upon a sound that was not only new and stimulating, but also incredibly fascinating and accessible to the general public.

Four months after their first recordings for a then eight-week-old label, they were stars beyond the jazz world with full page features in magazines like Time and choice engagements around the country. Through records, their popularity spread with immediacy into England and Europe.

Thanks to Dick Bock, a healthy slice of that innovative and Popular quartet's life was documented.” [paragraphing modified]

Ironically, as the Los Angeles Jazz scene was growing and expanding during the decade of the 1950s, Gerry Mulligan, one of the main causes for this growth, was returning to the East Coast where we pick up the story of more of the development of his various groups through these excerpts from bassist Bill Crow’s From Birdland to Broadway: Scenes from a Jazz Life [New York: Oxford University Press, 1992] Should you like to order a copy of Bill’s work, you can do so by Going Here.

As has been pointed out on a number of previous occasions, the editorial staff at JazzProfiles makes a concerted effort to feature great writers on the subject of Jazz and Bill Crow is one of the best of these practitioners. His musings are always filled with anecdotes, asides and reminiscences that provide additional human dimensions to the subject at hand, in this case, his time with Gerry.

© - Copyright protected; used with permission; all rights reserved.

“Stan Getz’s quintet broke up in California not long after I left him. Bob Brookmeyer stayed in Los Angeles for a while, sometimes playing with Zoot Sims and Gerry Mulligan, who had both moved out there. Bob eventually became a regular member of Gerry’s Quartet. The, on one job, Gerry added Zoot and Jon Eardley, and the Gerry Mulligan Sextet was born.

Gerry, Zoot, and Brookmeyer moved back to New York, and Gerry formed a new sextet with ldrees Sulieman on trumpet. Through Idrees' recommendation, Peck Morrison became the bass player, and Peck brought in Dave Bailey as the drummer. Idrees never recorded with the sextet; when he left in 1955, Jon Eardley came east and took his place.

That winter, Peck left the group and Gerry asked me to replace him. I was happy with Marian's trio, but I loved Gerry's music, and I couldn't turn down the chance to play regularly with Zoot and Bob. I gave Marian my notice and began rehearsing with Gerry in December 1955. The sextet, like Gerry's quartet, used no piano, even though he and Brookmeyer both played that instrument. Gerry built his arrangements for the four horns on just the bass line and the drums.


Marian's lovely harmonic sense and her penchant for playing tunes in unusual keys had drawn me into improving my playing technique, and she had given me room to develop as a soloist. But as soon as I joined Gerry's group I discovered I was in technical trouble. The fingering system I had invented for myself worked fine in the lower register of the bass, but I hadn't figured out how to be accurate in the upper register. I could play high notes if I worked my way up to them, but I couldn't be sure I had my finger on exactly the right spot on the fingerboard if I had to begin a passage on a high note.

I found some of Gerry's bass parts hard to play. I made pencil marks on my fingerboard to help me find troublesome notes, but I saw that it was time that I learned some of the things that other bass players seemed to know. The only time I'd ever heard anyone mention a bass teacher was when Marian's trio had played on a CBS radio show; staff bassist Trigger Alpert had told me that he was studying with Fred Zimmerman. I called Trigger and got Fred's number.

I couldn't have found a better teacher. Fred, the principal bassist with the New York Philharmonic at the time, taught with skill and imagination. At my first lesson I explained that I was self-taught and didn't know the right way to do anything. Fred said, "So, we'll just start you at the very beginning, as if you'd never played before. That way, we won't miss anything, and when we come to things you already know, it will go quickly."

It was discouraging to discover how much I didn't know. For the next several years, I took lessons from Fred whenever I was in New York. He showed me the standard fingering system and encouraged me in my struggle with bow control. His empathy and interest were most helpful.
"I studied with a man who used to hit my hands with a stick when I made a mistake," Fred told me. "I swore then that if I ever became a teacher I would never add any pain to the learning process. The physical problems of playing the bass are already painful enough."


I would always go early for my lesson. Fred's apartment on West Fifty-fifth Street was filled with art treasures that I loved looking at. He had a collection of pre-Colombian gold weights, delightful little figurines. On his walls were Pechsteins, Kirschners, Klees, and several of Fred's own oils. His bookshelves were filled with what looked like a complete collection of the Skira art reproduction books.

When I made progress with the bass, Fred was always enthusiastic. Once he ran into the kitchen, got his wife, and had me replay a passage for her. Fred said, "Isn't that beautiful? And he isn't even serious about music!"

Fred may have felt that a vocation in jazz was frivolous, but he was open-minded. One day he had me play a few bars of dotted eighth notes he had copied out. I think it was from a Hindemith piece the Philharmonic was rehearsing. It looked like a swing figure to me, so I phrased it that way. Fred said, "That's not the way it's written."
"No, but that's the way any jazz musician would play it. We play most things that are written in four-four as if they were written in twelve-eight. It's swing phrasing."

"Aha!" said Fred. "I knew the way we were playing it sounded corny, but I didn't know why."

Fred told me excitedly one day that Charles Mingus had called him to do a record date with him. He knew Mingus' reputation as an innovator in jazz, and was eager to play his music. When I saw him the following week, I asked him how the recording had gone.

"It was a fiasco!" said Fred angrily. "Everything on my part was written at the very top of the range of the bass! It was almost impossible to play, and it sounded ridiculous. I told Mr. Mingus if he wanted to write cello parts, he should have hired a cello player! He kept saying it sounded fine. I was never so uncomfortable in my life!"


My first work with Mulligan's sextet was in nightclubs around the Northeast. We squeezed in a record date in January 1956 for a Mercury album that Gerry had begun while Peck Morrison was with him. Then in February we began a European tour. The promoter brought us to Italy on the Andrea Doria, the beautiful ship of the Italian Lines that sank the following year after a collision with a freighter. Gerry's wife, Arlene, came with us as our road manager, and Brookmeyer brought his wife, Phyllis. We rehearsed a couple of times on the ship, but I spent most of the trip playing ping-pong on deck with Zoot.

We played concerts in NaplesRomeMilanGenoa, and Bologna. It was Gerry's first European tour, and we were made very welcome. At a restaurant in Bologna our local guides said we should ask for a special Bolognese delicacy called "pompini." The waitress blushed deeply when we asked for some, and we realized we had been set up. "Pompini" turned out to be a local slang word for oral sex.

After the Bologna concert we were taken to a restaurant to meet the members of the local jazz club. We were each seated in a separate booth with several young Italians who were doing their best to discuss jazz with us in English. A commotion broke out at the bar, and the fans I was sitting with hurried me outside. They said some Communist students were trying to create a disturbance, and we would be safer out in the street.

I searched the throng that had rushed out of the restaurant with us, but I couldn't locate any of the rest of the sextet, or the Italian promoters who had brought us on the train to Bologna from Milan. just as I was wondering how I would get back to Milan if I couldn't find them, a young man stepped over to me and said, "Say, man, didn't I meet you in New Jersey at a jam session with Phil Urso?"

He was an American exchange student and a jazz musician. He helped me find the rest of my party, who had gone out a different exit onto a side street.

When we arrived to play at one Italian opera house, we saw a huge banner hanging across the front of the building that read:

"Stasera, il sestetto GERRY MULLIGAN, con ARLENE MULLIGAN, ROBERT BROOKMEYER, PHYLLIS BROOKMEYER, WILLIAM 0. CROW, e SAMMY DAVIS, JR."


Someone had evidently taken the names from our official papers. They had transformed Dave Bailey into Sammy Davis, Jr., by misreading Dave's full name: Samuel David Bailey, Jr.

Since Zoot's name had been omitted, he kept trying to hand his tenor to Arlene as we went on stage.

"You're the one they came to see," he said.

As we sat in a backstage greenroom during intermission, an Italian jazz fan who had begged or bribed his way past the house security men appeared with record albums for Gerry and Zoot to sign. He said to Jon, "And you are Jon Eardley, from AltoonaPennsylvania, whose father played trumpet with Paul Whiteman and Isham Jones and now works for a finance company?" Jon looked stunned.

"Man, nobody knows that!"

I was thrilled about visiting Italy, and I wanted to see everything. I got up at dawn every day and, armed with my Berlitz phrase book and a camera, walked all over every city we visited. When I returned to play the concert each evening, I'd report on the day's discoveries to the rest of the group. Zoot usually didn't venture too far from the hotel, but he seemed interested in hearing about what was out there. On the way to our first concert in Milan, Zoot saw something he liked in the window of a shoe store as we drove by. He asked me, "Do you know how to get back here?"

I did, and offered to accompany him the following day. I was a little surprised that Zoot was taking an interest in Italian shoes; he usually wore casual clothes: corduroy trousers, sweaters, and sneakers.
The next morning, when I tapped at his door, I found Zoot dressed and ready to go. We walked back to the neighborhood where he had seen the shoes he wanted. They turned out to be heavy brown canvas hiking shoes with thick rubber soles and high tops that laced up with hook eyelets. When Zoot tried on a pair his eyes lit up with pleasure.

"Yeah! These are my shoes!"

He wore them constantly for the rest of the trip.

When our Italian concerts were finished, the promoters put us on a stiffly sprung little Mercedes-Benz bus with seats as hard and straight as church pews. We slowly chugged across the French border and up to Paris via some very narrow roads. The ride was bumpy, but the scenery was great.

In Paris, we were installed in a pension near the stage entrance to the Olympia Theater, where we were to appear for a three-week run as one of the acts on a variety bill. The show opened with jugglers and comedians. We went on just before the Nicholas Brothers, Fayard and Harold, who closed the first half of the show with their famous tap dancing routine. After an intermission there was a dog act, a dancing violin duo, another comedian, and then the headliner, Jacqueline Fran4;ois, the popular French Canadian singer.

When our turn came, the pretty young lady who was the emcee would step in front of the curtain and announce, "Et maintenant, Zhe-REE MOOli-GAHN et son sextette!"


The curtains would part and we would play about three tunes, and that was it for that show. With only two or three short appearances scheduled every day and all of Paris to explore in our spare time, it was inevitable that sometimes, when the curtain opened, someone would be missing. Jon slept through the first show one day, and on another afternoon Zoot stood at the stage door chatting with a friend for so long that our part of the show was over by the time he finally came inside the theater. The emcee would announce, "Et maintenant, ZheREE M00li-GAHN et son . . ." and then she would pause, peer behind the curtain and count heads, and then continue, son sextette!" or. . . quartette!" or whatever the number was at the moment. A lecture from Gerry brought us back up to full strength for the remaining shows.

The musicians in Paris made us very welcome. Henri Renaud and his wife Ny introduced us to many of them, and Henri took us to jazz clubs on the Left Bank where we could sit in after our last show. Zoot and Dave and I were jamming one night with Henri and some other musicians in a Left Bank sub-basement. Zoot's admirers had been toasting him liberally, and he was feeling no pain. He was too stoned to stand up, but he still felt like dancing, Slumped in his chair, eyes closed, he blew energetically into his tenor, playing chorus after chorus of his own special brand of whoopee.

On the last couple of choruses Zoot gave up trying to articulate anything intricate. He just swung the same simple riff harder and harder. He finally surrendered to exhaustion and relinquished the tune to the next soloist. Falling back in his chair, he looked over his shoulder and gave me a snaggle-toothed grin.

"You know," he said, "you can have a lot of fun with these musical instruments!" [pp. 133-38]

“In July 1958 1 got a call from Gerry Mulligan to rejoin his quartet. Joe Benjamin had replaced me when I left, and then Henry Grimes had replaced him. Now Henry was leaving to go with Sonny Rollins. Dave Bailey was still Gerry's drummer, and Art Farmer had just joined him on trumpet. I liked Art and admired his playing tremendously. We just had time for one rehearsal before our first appearance at Newport.


That was the year Bert Stern and Al Avakian came to film the Newport jazz Festival. They got good shots of the performers on stage, but after the sun went down, they couldn't photograph the audience in the dark.

While editing the film, Al found a problem with the lack of close-ups of the nighttime audience's reaction to the music. He solved it by throwing a party in New York, at which he showed rough footage of the movie. He filmed the reactions of the partygoers as they watched, and intercut those close-ups with the footage from Newport. Aileen and several of our friends who weren't at the festival attended that party and can be seen in the audience shots of the movie, Jazz on a Summer's Day….

On our first afternoon at Newport that year, Dave Bailey and I were sitting by the swimming pool at the Viking Hotel when Sonny Rollins arrived. Sonny was in bathing trunks and sandals, but he kept a white sailor hat pulled down around his ears all afternoon. The reason became evident at the concert that night. He came on stage with his trio (Roy Haynes and Henry Grimes) to reveal for the first time that he had shaved his hair into a Mohawk war-lock. He kept that hairstyle for quite a while.

A couple of years later, when Dave and I were playing at the Half Note with Bob Brookmeyer and Clark Terry, Rollins walked in and sat down at the bar. He was wearing a complete working cowboy's outfit: faded jeans, Levi jacket, sweat-stained Stetson hat, and cowboy boots. With a twinkle in his eye, Dave leaned over to me and whispered, "I guess Sonny found out that the Indians didn't win."

Mulligan had been thinking about band uniforms for the quartet. When Brookmeyer had been with us, we wore sport jackets from the Andover Shop in Boston. For the new group, Gerry sent us to Breidbart's on Sixth Avenue, a men's store favored by stylish dancers like Geoffrey Holder and Sammy Davis, Jr. The gray suits we bought there were sharp, but proved to be too warm for outdoor summer concerts. Gerry decided we needed something lighter and less formal. He took us back to Breidbart's and chose some royal blue linen trousers and short-sleeved gingham shirts with half-inch vertical red and white stripes. He added a touch of formality with black shoestring ties.

Dave and Art both had a little more meat on their bones than Gerry and I did, and their pants fit them very snugly. This was before macho pop singers made tight pants commonplace. When we showed up at the Great South Bay Festival on Long Island wearing our new outfits, Dizzy Gillespie discovered us backstage. He lifted his eyebrows dramatically.
"Will you look at these fools!" he cried, walking all around us to get a better view. He told Dave and Art, "You better not turn your backs when you get out on stage. You'll freak those little girls in the audience. You cats got some buns back there!"

I think Art and Dave were glad when the summer season ended, and we went back to wearing our gray suits. ...

Though it had been years since Gerry and Chet Baker had worked together, many fans of Gerry's early quartet records still expected to see Chet when they came to hear us. While we were playing at Storyville in Boston, two college boys came up to the bandstand. One of them asked Art Farmer for his autograph and Art obliged, but when the guy read his signature, he said, "Oh, aren't you Chet Baker?"

He started to rip up the slip of paper.

"Don't tear it up!" exclaimed his friend, "He may be somebody too, someday!"

In late 1958, we began recording an album for Columbia Records. Gerry complained that he couldn't write anything at home because the telephone and the doorbell were always ringing. I gave him the key to my Cornelia Street apartment and told him, "There's a piano there, and nobody will bother you. I'll be over at Aileen's place tonight. Go write something."

He did, and came to the last session with a lovely treatment of "What Is There to Say?" which became the title song of the album. Gerry had asked the rest of us to bring in tunes, so Art and I each wrote one. Art's was an untitled blues. Since Newport had been our first job together, Gerry suggested the title "Blueport."

Art had told me that "Buckethead" had been his childhood nickname, so I wrote that at the top of my tune, another blues, in three quarter time. When Art looked at the trumpet part I handed him, he laughed and said, "Oh, no, please don't call it that!"

"How about 'News from Blueport?'" Gerry offered- a spoonerism on "Blues from Newport." That became the title. The liner notes erroneously listed Gerry as the composer of both tunes, but Art and I receive the royalties. ... [pp. 164-167].

“… [In late spring, 1960], I got a call from Gerry Mulligan. He had put together a big band and taken it to Europe for a three week tour. After the tour, two of the three West Coast members of the band, Conte Candoli and Buddy Clark, had gone home to California. The third, Mel Lewis, decided to stay in New York. Clark Terry was taking Conte's chair, and Gerry asked me to replace Buddy, starting the following Tuesday night at the Village Vanguard. I sent in a sub to finish out Greenwich VillageU.S.A., and took my bass over to the Vanguard to rehearse.


To make it clear that we weren't a dance band, Gerry called us the Concert jazz Band, and put together a book of arrangements designed primarily for listening. It was a great band: Gene Quill, Bobby Donovan, Jim Reider, and Gene Allen in the reed section; Willie Dennis, Bob Brookmeyer, and Alan Raph on trombones; Nick Travis, Don Ferrara, and Clark on trumpets, and Mel on drums.

The money Gerry had earned in the movies had made it possible for him to pay for arrangements and equipment to get the band started. By the time Clark and I joined, Norman Granz had become involved as a backer. I'm not sure what sort of deal he and Gerry had made, but with Granz's support, it looked like we would be working steady for a while. The music was first-class, and we were all excited at the prospect. Our esprit de corps was very high; nobody sent in subs unless they were dying.

Besides having good soloists, one of that band's assets was having a good riff-maker in each section: Gerry, Clark, and Bob. On most arrangements, we didn't go to the next written section after someone's solo unless Gerry gave the signal. Gerry would improvise a background riff on a soloist's second or third chorus and the reeds would join him, in unison or in harmony. Bob or Clark would make up counter-riffs in the brass section, and soon we'd have developed something strong and new to lead into the next written section.

Gerry's music library included arrangements by Bill Holman, John Mandel, Brookmeyer, Al Cohn, Thad Jones, and Wayne Shorter, as well as his own charts. Gary McFarland, new in town, showed up at a rehearsal one day with a couple of compositions that had a strong flavor of Duke Ellington's writing. Gerry made a number of excisions and repositionings to make them more Mulliganesque. Gary saw what Gerry wanted and came in with several new pieces that were just right. We recorded them all. Gary's exposure with our band launched him into a successful arranging career in New York.

Gerry did another kind of editing when Al Cohn brought in an original he had titled "Mother's Day." Gerry retitled it "Lady Chatterley's Mother." After rehearsing it a couple of times, Gerry said, "Al, it's a wonderful chart, but I wish there was more of it. It just gets rolling and it's over. Could you add a few more choruses?"

Al nodded and gathered up the parts, and at the next rehearsal he passed them out again. The ending had been turned into a lead-in to another solo chorus for Gerry, and then Al's great shout chorus began. The first time we played it, the whole band cheered. If Gerry hadn't asked for more, we'd have had a good Al Cohn chart, but without that wonderful climax.


One Sunday afternoon at the Vanguard, Nick Travis brought in a movie projector, set it up in the kitchen, and showed us a reel of 8mm film that he had taken on the band's tour of Europe. Zoot had gone along as guest soloist. While the musicians were waiting on a railroad platform somewhere in Germany, Nick had started his camera rolling, and Zoot and Gerry had begun to do a soft-shoe dance. Zoot's dad was a vaudeville hoofer and had taught his sons the steps. As soon as Gerry realized that Zoot really knew how to dance, he stepped aside and let Zoot go by himself.

While Zoot continued a lovely, funny solo dance, the camera also recorded the approach behind him of a stolid German couple wearing very stern expressions. As they loomed directly behind Zoot, he did a spin that brought him face to face with them. Zoot registered their disapproving looks for a split second and then simply continued his spin for another quarter turn and stopped, facing Gerry, where he managed to look as if he'd been standing there talking all the while. Chaplin couldn't have done it better.

After a weekend in Fort LauderdaleFlorida, concerts at Freedomland in the Bronx, a week at Birdland, and another week at the Vanguard, Gerry broke the sad news. He and Norman Granz had terminated their business arrangement. When Norman sold his record label, Verve, to MGM Records, Gerry's recording contract, along with all the other Verve artists', was part of the deal. With no more Granz-sponsored European tours for the band, Gerry couldn't afford to keep us together. He had only one concert in Boston booked for the rest of the summer. He canceled that engagement, broke up the band, and told us he'd call us if he found anything in the fall.

The band re-formed now and then during the next three years for record dates and an occasional week at Birdland, but the spirit wasn't the same. We weren't the family we had been; we had lost the continuity and the feeling of commitment. Gigs with the Concert jazz Band were still fun, but the band wasn't the center of our lives any more.

Gerry continued to work with his quartet: Brookmeyer, Mel Lewis, and me. We appeared on Mike Wallace's television show during the time that Wallace was in the process of building a reputation as an investigative reporter. Wallace's TV interviews were popular partly because of his prosecutorial style.

At the rehearsal Wallace was courteous and low-key. He asked questions that had been prepared by his staff, and Gerry answered frankly about his career, his experiences with drugs and the law, and other aspects of his life. On the air, Wallace's tone became more contentious, and instead of asking the questions he had asked at rehearsal, he said accusingly, "I understand that you were involved with drugs, and did some time because of it!"

This left Gerry with little more to say than "yes." Though Wallace was using the information Gerry had given him at the rehearsal, he gave his audience the impression that he was confronting Gerry with the results of his own private investigations. Gerry managed to field Wallace's questions with his usual aplomb, but he found himself at a loss when Wallace asked him, "I notice there are no black musicians in your group. Is this accidental, or by design?"


Actually, it was the first time in many years that, by happenstance, there were no black musicians in Gerry's quartet, but any short answer to that question would have sounded lame. As Gerry considered how best to respond, Bob Brookmeyer glared at Wallace, jerked a thumb at Mel Lewis, and said frostily, "We've got a Jewish drummer. Will that help?"

Wallace dropped the subject.” [pp. 182-184]

To my mind, the Concert Jazz Band [CJB] has to rank as one of Gerry Mulligan’s very special musical achievements – right up there with the 1952 quartet with Chet Baker - and, as such, the CJB will be covered in greater detail in Gene Lees’ essay on Gerry which features in Part 4.

As Bill Crow explained and Gary Giddins underscores in the following quotation, the focus of the Concert Jazz Band was its music:

“A purely musical big band-no dancers, no singers, no hits, no nostalgia-was a risky proposition, despite a large and growing number of innovative jazz composers, among them Gil Evans, George Russell, Thad Jones, Bill Holman, Chico O'Farrill, Ernie Wilkins, Frank Foster, Manny Albam, Bob Brookmeyer, Neal Hefti, Johnny Mandel, Gerald Wilson, Oliver Nelson, Gary McFarland, and Mulligan himself. If anyone could make a go of organizing such an orchestra, Mulligan was the man. A bona fide jazz star steeped in big bands since his teens, he had the autocratic temperament to enforce discipline in the ranks and the easygoing charm to allay suspicion in the audience. He also had, at least in the beginning, the financial backing of Norman Granz and Verve Records. In case anyone doubted his intentions, Mulligan called his ensemble the Concert jazz Band. It debuted to critical acclaim in 1960 and lasted long enough to issue five recordings and spur a big band restoration.” [Visions of Jazz: The First CenturyNew YorkOxford, 1998, p. 361].


As to how he wanted the band to sound and why, Gerry offer the following explanation to Burt Korall in a magazine interview which Dom Ceruli included in his CD insert notes to Gerry Mulligan Presents A Concert in Jazz [Verve 2332; Japanese Verve POCJ 2686]:

"The band is the product of seven years of thinking and trying," he said "Typical instrumentation - seven brass, five reads. four rhythm - didn't work out; the sound was too heavy and full. The flexibility I had been so happy with in the small band was missing. We finally came up with our current set up six brass, five reeds, drums, and bass which allows for variety of tone color, and the flexibility and clarity of a small band.
We actually consider the brass as five brass - three trumpets and two trombones and a bass trombone. Five is a lighter feeling section for ensemble sound. And the reeds actually break down to an ensemble of a clarinet, alto sax, tenor, and baritone."

Gerry went of to say of this third LP by the CJB:

“We wanted this to be more a writer's album than what we had done before. The first album was cut in the studio with staples out of our book. It wasn't particularly concert material The second album was of the band in person, with the feeling you get at a live date. Here we have concert material, some of it pretty extended, and we have a band playing it that is a band rather than a good gathering of musicians.
I think that this band feels so much like a band now that we can play pieces like these for ourselves and feel how they would build for an audience"

And Dom Cerulli offered this excellent description of the textual qualities that Gerry was looking for when he organized the CJB when he offered this concluding statement to his notes:

“More than anything, this album proves that the band has achieved that lightness and flexibility so valued by Gerry, and that it has arrived at the point where it can tackle intricate and extended works without sacrificing the sensitive qualities which have been the hallmark of Mulligan 's style over the years.”

Throughout a career that spanned 50 years, the Concert Jazz Band may have been the ultimate stylistic expression of Gerry Mulligan and his music.

To be continued in Part 3 with Nat Hentoff.






“… when you get a guy like Gerry around a band, all the other arrangers start writing a little better.” 
– Miles Davis

“It took me a while to learn [that what to leave out of an arrangement is often more important than knowing what to put in] …, and it wasn’t until my writing for the Miles Davis sessions on Capitol that the ability to use space began to take shape in my work. You’ve just got to have space in jazz writing. 
– Gerry Mulligan

[Un]like Gerry and Gil Evans and Duke, some guys try to fill it all up.”
 – Miles Davis

[Gerry’s writing influence] has become so general [i.e.: pervasive], they won’t know to give him credit in the next generation.” 
– John Lewis

“Gerry had a lot to do with reminding modern writers and players that humor in jazz was not a cardinal sin.” 
– Nat Hentoff

[Gerry’s writing] … contained a lyric quality and a strong feeling for the ‘good times’ spirit of the older, less organized forms in early jazz band writing and group improvising.” 
– Bill Crow

[Gerry] seems to have understood that the principal objective of the arranger should be to respect the personality of each performer while at the same time giving the group a feeling of unity.” 
– Andre’ Hodier

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

One would have thought that it was time for Gerry Mulligan to rest after 20 years of combining his big band writing accomplishments from the late 1940s and early 1950s, with the formation of his piano-less quartet in the early 1950’s, the quartets and sextets he created throughout the remainder of the 1950s and the development of the original Concert Jazz Band with its [unfortunately] brief existence during the first few years of the 1960’s.

But perhaps, as is the case with never getting enough of anything that we do well, as the next step in his already considerable career, Gerry Mulligan amazingly began a 5-year association with Dave Brubeck after the latter disbanded his 17-year-old classic quartet with Paul Desmond in 1967.

All things considered, it was an amazing pairing of two of the greatest creative forces in the history of modern Jazz, and yet, given their joint accomplishments, the pairing of these Jazz Giants almost went unnoticed.

Perhaps this was because as Leonard Feather observed, Dave and Gerry’s quartet with Jack Six on bass and Alan Dawson on drums jelled so easily and so quickly:

“Before the group was two weeks old, a substantial repertoire had been assembled, composed of originals by Brubeck and Mulligan …. The public reaction to the new combo was consistently enthusiastic. The addition of Mulligan, and the curiosity value of hearing Dave in a new context, reinforced an already fervent interest.”


There was an precedent for Dave’s and Gerry’s later involvement with one another for they had formed a mutual admiration that dated back to the earliest days of their respective careers.

As Fred M. Hall, Dave Brubeck’s biographer, explains:

“In the early 1950s, Dave had worked the Blackhawk in San Francisco, and Gerry worked at the Haig in Los Angeles, and they would exchange locations – fellow musical pioneers, passing in the night. Both had, of course, heard and admired each other. ….

Mulligan was impressed by Dave’s playing, early on. ‘He always plays percussively and orchestrally. He gets top marks as both a musician and as a human being. Dave has always been a close friend, and from the very start, I’ve always thought there was a relationship there that probably started in a previous life.’” [It’s About Time: The Dave Brubeck StoryFayettevilleUniversity of Arkansas, 1996, p. 119].

Dave may have also had a hand in Gerry’s quartet recordings for that label in the early 1950s. In his 1995 reply to a letter Jim Harrod had written him about his research into the history of the Pacific Jazz label, Dave Brubeck did confirm his endorsement of Mulligan to record for Fantasy:

"I do recall that I pushed for them [Max and Sol Weiss, the owners of Fantasy] to record Gerry because at that time I thought I was part owner of Fantasy and I wanted to build a roster for the label filled with top drawer artists."


And Dave certainly returned the compliment when he expressed the following about Gerry to Nat Hentoff:

“When you listen to Gerry, you feel as if you were listening to the past, present, and future of jazz, all in one tune, and yet it’s done with such taste and respect that you’re not ever aware of a change in idiom. Mulligan gets the old New Orleans two-beat going with a harmonic awareness of advanced jazz, and you feel not that the tradition is being broken, but rather that it being pushed forward.” [Jazz Is, New York: Limelight Editions, 1991, p. 106; full-text of the chapter printed below].

Notwithstanding their long-standing affection and respect for one another, in a way, it is not surprising that Mulligan should step in to Paul Desmond’s role because, like Paul, as a soloist, Gerry was a superior maker of melodies.

Or as Whitney Balliett more poetically expressed this skill:

“Mulligan is a fresh and convincing melodist. Writing a pure and ingratiating melody is like putting together a sentence that by virtue of its perfectly chosen and arranged parts, has grace, rhythm and meaning. A rare talent in any sort of composed music, it is woefully rare among modern jazz musicians.

As a melodist, Mulligan then became a perfect compliment to Brubeck’s percussive, sometimes bombastic, but always pulsating solos.


But in addition to complimenting one another, Mulligan and Brubeck also shared some common musical tendencies for according to Mr. Balliett:

“…Mulligan believes in counter lines and organ chords … and he also feels that humor … has a definite place in jazz, which he grants is a happy music.” [Both of these quotations are paraphrased from Mr. Balliett’s liner notes to the Pacific Jazz LP The Gerry Mulligan Quartet [PJ-1207].

Nat Hentoff, the eminent Jazz writer expands on the whole question of the qualities of mind, personality and character that made Mulligan such an extraordinary musician in the following chapter from Jazz Is entitled The White Mainstreamer. As always, use of such materials on JazzProfiles is © - Copyright protected; used with permission; all rights reserved.

“When the redoubtable Charles Mingus brought a large orchestra to New York's Philharmonic Hall one winter evening in the early 1970's, there was a rustle of excitement in the audience as the musicians walked onstage because one of the sidemen- unadvertised -had once been an extraordinarily popular leader of a jazz combo, a world-wide phenomenon.

"How the hell is Gerry Mulligan going to fit in with Mingus?" asked a young woman?

"Mulligan can fit in with just about anybody," her companion said. "You never know any more where or when he's going to turn up, but when he does he lights up the place."

Indeed, during that evening the angularly tall, bearded, relaxed, alert baritone saxophonist with red-gold hair not only played with wit, charm, and exuberance but also, when not soloing or involved in the ensemble, was manifestly enjoying the proceedings as a spectator at least as much as anyone in the audience. He grinned approvingly during others' solos, particularly those of Gene Ammons, and all in all did light up the place.

A few weeks later, appearing with Dave Brubeck and Paul Desmond at Carnegie Hall, Mulligan-this time sharing the top billing-was just as persistently enlivening. As John S. Wilson observed in the New York Times, this "perennial guest . . . gave the evening its high point."
Through more than a quarter of a century, Mulligan's presence on the jazz scene has been singularly stimulating, and his history tells a great deal about certain key periods of jazz history-notably the "Birth of the Cool" gestalt of the late 1940's - as well as about what can be called the "white mainstreamer." There are other white mainstreamers - Zoot Sims and drummer Mel Lewis, among them - but Mulligan has a special ecumenical role in jazz history, a role all the more worth exploring in the 1970's when his significance tends to be overlooked.

In a way, Gerry Mulligan is the Huck Finn of jazz, sometimes exuberant, sometimes wistful, a perpetual wanderer.

In 1959, when Mulligan had become internationally renowned as the leader of a piano-less quartet, Dave Brubeck said, "When you listen to Gerry, you feel as if you were listening to the past, present, and future of jazz, all in one tune, and yet it's done with such taste and respect that you're not ever aware of a change in idiom. Mulligan gets the old New Orleans two-beat going with a harmonic awareness of advanced jazz, and you feel not that tradition is being broken, but rather that it's being pushed forward."

That encomium was largely true then; but, in the years since, "advanced jazz" has taken on much more far-reaching and turbulent characteristics, so that it can no longer accurately be said that Mulligan's work, by any means, encompasses the full scope of the music. What does remain true (and it is a considerable accomplishment) is Paul Desmond's analysis of Mulligan: "In probably no other jazz instrumentalist can you find such a clear progression from Dixieland through swing and into and out of bebop, all on the same record, if not in the same solo."

Or, as George Russell, an advanced jazz composer then and now, said in the late 1950's: "Mulligan is Mr. Mainstream."


Another musician much impressed by Mulligan was Coleman Hawkins, a man it was quite hard to impress. "Gerry," Hawkins told me some years ago with magisterial solemnity, "is full of the spirit."
What may well have particularly intrigued and pleased such older jazzmen as Coleman Hawkins and Rex Stewart was that Mulligan, as long as it was possible, directed his formidable spirit to the preservation of the jam session. For decades those informal, unpredictable, and often interminable meetings of jazz musicians-usually but not exclusively after hours-were not only a source of pleasure but also a testing ground. The jam session was a strenuous prep school for young jazzmen as well as an arena where the established postgraduates could keep themselves in musical condition to withstand the thrust of the continual lines of new challengers. Sometimes a venerable champion was toppled at one of these jousts, and the startling news spread swiftly through the jazz underground. Sessions, of course, were also places where ideas were shared. "Carving" and "cutting" were not always the hot order of business.

However, the hagiology of the jam session nearly always focused on the victors rather than the sharers. When I was thirteen or fourteen, for example, I used to listen to itinerant jazzmen of considerable proficiency but no special fame tell and retell bardic sagas of jazz wars. In those years the odyssey of Coleman Hawkins was most often recounted: how he had invented the jazz tenor in the twenties; how, at each stop on the road with Fletcher Henderson's band, he would be challenged by the leading local horn-slingers; and how, invariably, he would beat them by sheer fertility of imagination, blinding technique, robustness of tone, and all-around power. And how, one night in Kansas City, the swaggering Hawkins found waiting for him a pride of young tenor saxophonists, among them the still only regionally known Ben Webster, Herschel Evans, and Lester Young.


The tournament lasted through the night and into the middle of the afternoon of the next day. At its close, Hawkins had been defeated by Lester Young, who had prevailed even though his tone was lighter than Hawkins's and even though he preferred floating spareness to fiery technical virtuosity. Lester had triumphed because during that joust he had more to say, more that was fresh to say, more that was his own to say. Those jam sessions were no place for imitators, for hornmen whose next phrase or next chorus could be predicted. No sensible player competed-though many jumped in with no sense at all and were cut down-unless he felt he had come far enough along on his horn to be able to surprise the established gladiators. To be able to throw them off balance with a way of running changes, or phrasing, or playing with the beat-or all three-that made the reigning musicians suddenly fear that their ideas had gone stale, that these challengers somehow knew something they didn't know, something that had never been conceived before.

The very best of the established musicians survived their occasional defeats, accepting the notice that they had to woodshed more, practice more, dare more. And they, like Hawkins, would come back and reestablish, for a time anyway, their hegemony. Nearly always at these sessions, standing on the edge of the combat, would be the very young players, listening intently, trying to figure out when they ought to make their move, fantasizing the overwhelming victory. And at times those fantasies came swingingly true.

Hardly anyone would have predicted that this dramatic institution would ever fall into disuse, but starting in the 1950's most of the younger musicians, having separated themselves into tight, intensely rehearsed units, began to neglect the old joys and hazards of jamming. Meanwhile, as more of the jazz elders found it difficult to retain secure places in the jazz scene - because the newer audiences were focusing on "modern jazz" - they lost some of their own zest for jamming and, besides, the sessions were harder to find as fewer of their peers were working regularly.

Gerry Mulligan, however, had, by the late 1950's become the Johnny Appleseed of jam sessions, using any playing opportunity he could find to get a session going. At one of the Newport jazz Festival evenings, for instance, he was scheduled to play only once, but he ended up playing half a dozen times, onstage and later at jam sessions and parties, including one given by impressario Norman Granz, that produced the most spontaneous jazz of the Festival. On that occasion Mulligan was, as he often is, the first horn to play. As the earliest arrivals sized up the resources of the bar, the pianist Nat Pierce began noodling around and almost at once Mulligan, who had turned up wearing a red sweater and a red checked shirt, sat down near him and joined in softly. Soon other hornmen were playing, too, and Mulligan stood up and went into his characteristic rocking motion, his long back acting as a vibrantly tensile seesaw. In his devoted, rhythmic swaying Mulligan resembles an orthodox Jew at his prayers.

It was Mulligan, too, who presently organized the horns to back up the soloists with complementary figures. As had happened at many another jam session, Mulligan inexorably took over and in the course of the next few hours he demonstrated clearly that he had the strength to stand up with venerable volcanoes like Hawkins and Eldridge. The same sort of thing had occurred some months earlier, at a jam session that was staged after hours at Eddie Condon's club, then in Greenwich Village. Francoise Sagan was the guest of honor, and some Collier's photographers came, too, to catch her in the process of enjoying native American musique engage’. An observer, the magazine writer Richard Gehman, recalled, "It was an unlikely concoction. There were some of Eddie's Dixieland guys, including Wild Bill Davison on trumpet, and there was Zutty Singleton, the New Orleans drummer, and then, representing modern, there were Mulligan and his trombonist, Bob Brookmeyer. Before anyone knew quite what was happening, Mulligan was in charge. Even Wild Bill was following him."


Aside from the force of his personality, probably the chief reason Mulligan almost invariably becomes the director of any group, organized or casual, that he is playing with is that he doesn't have to waste time checking his bearings. He has a thorough knowledge and understanding of almost all the idioms in the language of jazz up to and including the Charlie Parker era but ending at the point of John Coltrane.

Jazz has been succinctly defined by its once-preeminent don, the late Marshall Stearns, as "a semi-improvisational American music distinguished by an immediacy of communication, an expressiveness characteristic of the free use of the human voice, and a complex flowing rhythm." Unlike the classical musicians of the time, with their "legitimate" tone and ("proper" fingering, the early horn players of New Orleans and other points of jazz orientation used their instruments very much in their own way, ignoring traditional restraints and incorporating the slurs, glissandi, and personal vibrato of speech. Most jazz combinations were small, and the emphasis was on improvisation - often multilinear collective improvisation. Pulsating beneath, through, and over everything else was the beat, polyrhythmic but inclined, at any rate in the rhythm sections, to be heavy and jagged.

Later on, in the twenties and thirties, emphasis on collective improvisation waned, and the soloists, with Louis Armstrong leading the way, dominated the jazz scene. Large bands emerged, which gave space to the improvising soloist but enclosed him in section work. Meanwhile, the rhythms of jazz were gradually smoothed as some bands, particularly Count Basie's, in the words of one critic, "put wheels on all four beats in the bar."

By the start of the forties, in the view of the restive young jazz musician, the whole situation had become firmly stabilized; nothing new seemed to be happening and there were stirrings of rebellion. Among the rebels were Charlie "Bird" Parker, Dizzy Gillespie, and Thelonious Monk. What they and others did was to widen the harmonic base for jazz improvisation more challengingly than ever before and to make the play of rhythms over the steady meter that is jazz more intricate and subtle than ever before. So challenging and intricate was their work that for a time it took a thoroughly oriented ear to appreciate, or even to follow, the involuted contours of the music's melodic content. The new music was given a variety of names, but the one that has survived most persistently is "modern jazz."

There was one feature of the older jazz that the insurgents did not dispense with-the tradition of the solo. The best of the influential modern Jazzmen were so intent on testing and developing their own voices in this new idiom that they preferred to function mainly as soloists whom other musicians played for, rather than with. Inevitably, a counterrevolution set in, and this was symbolized, and to a large extent touched off by, a series of recordings made by Miles Davis in 1949 and 1950 with an ensemble of nine instruments.


These records were comparable in their impact on a new generation of jazz musicians to the Louis Armstrong Hot Five and Hot Seven records of the 1920's, some of the Duke Ellington and Basie records of the thirties, and the records made by Parker and his associates in the early and middle forties. The counterrevolutionary aspect of the Davis discs was that they again put the stress on ensemble playing.
The soloist was still permitted to improvise, but he did so within a cohesive framework of relatively complex, freshly written ensemble material. The rhythmic and harmonic innovations of Parker, Gillespie, and the rest were retained by the new men, but they aimed for a lighter and more flowing rhythmic pulse than had emerged from the guerrilla warfare that had sometimes existed in the early modern-jazz rhythm sections, and a considerably more sensitive and varied dynamic range. Some of the leaping cry and slashing spontaneity of the beginnings of modern jazz were lost, but the records established a standard for coping once again with the problem-solved by the early New Orleans bands for their time, and by Ellington and Basie for theirs - of maintaining each player's individuality and at the same time emphasizing the organized expression of the group.


The Davis records were an arrangers' triumph, and one of the chief arrangers-and the baritone saxophonist - was Gerry Mulligan. In the following years, without in the slightest losing his interest in the jam session, he had continued to concentrate on organized expression. Beginning with a quartet in 1952, he has had a succession of small groups, each of them strongly integrated by means of arrangements and rehearsals but each permitting the soloists to improvise within an airy, if carefully built, structure.

At Newport, the night after Mulligan himself had roared through the free-style jam session at Norman Granz's party, at which soloing was all, or nearly all, one of his quartets - a particularly fine example, at the time, of a modern-jazz group that had chosen the collective approach as the path of its development - performed before an outdoor audience of twelve thousand. Mulligan and Bob Brookmeyer, playing the valve trombone, engaged in loosely contrapuntal conversations, with bass and drums providing the foundation. The colloquy usually began either with both voices stating a theme or with one lining out the melody while the other interpolated comments. As each then soloed, the other continued, but more softly, to contribute supporting, flowing melodic figures that were linked with warm logic to the foreground assertion.


The large, tawny, lunging voice of Mulligan's horn contrasted but did not clash with the more burnished, more gently burred singing of Brookmeyer's. Visually, Mulligan was the more commanding of the two. With the bulky baritone saxophone coming down to his knees, seemingly annealed to him, he rocked through each number, sometimes bending halfway over backward in his ardor, while Brookmeyer, also lean and long and slightly hunched over, stood with legs spread apart. The work of the quartet, individually and collectively, was subtle but strong, each voice remaining sensitive to the others not only in the spontaneous interplay of ideas but also in the constantly changing dynamics-from swelling waves of yea-saying to diminuendos so gently whispered that the bass became the loudest voice. The playing was organized with such clarity that all four instruments could be continually followed, and with such balance that, although there had been plenty of opportunity for each horn to release his own feelings, at the close of a number there were no loose ends.

Gerry Mulligan was born on April 6, 1927, in Queens VillageLong Island, the youngest of four brothers. He is three-quarters Irish and a quarter German, and this has led John Lewis, who feels that there have been too few musicians of Irish descent among the major jazz figures, to welcome him into that category with special warmth. Racial references of any kind, however, greatly annoy Mulligan. Some years ago, shortly after an earnest jazz-magazine editor had suggested that most of the best jazz musicians have been blacks, Jews, and Italians, in that order, Mulligan ran into him in a night club and told him fiercely, "The really impressive thing about jazz, and the important musicians like Bird and Miles and me, is that it and we are so individualistic." Mulligan went on to warn the editor not to bring "everything down to some kind of common denominator."

Mulligan grew up in what he feels was a narrow, conventional, and authoritarian Irish Catholic home. He had a driving interest in music before he entered kindergarten, and in the course of a highly peripatetic childhood (his father, a management engineer, was obliged to move about the East Coast and the Middle West) he learned, with almost no formal help, to play the clarinet and various saxophones, as well as to arrange and compose. (Later he also picked up piano, trumpet, and flugelhorn.)


Breaking away from his family in 1944, at the age of seventeen, Mulligan left high school in Philadelphia to take a brief traveling job as an arranger with the Tommy Tucker band. He then had a series of jobs as an arranger or a saxophonist, or both, with various small and large bands, including Claude Thornhill's and Gene Krupa's. However, being sharp-tongued, willful, and intolerant of bad playing, Mulligan had one calamitous run-in after another with his employers.

On one such occasion, while Mulligan was with Gene Krupa, the band had been working and traveling frenetically, and its playing in Mulligan's opinion had become shoddy. One night, at the end of a set, Mulligan rose and, in plain hearing of the audience, upbraided the band in general and then Krupa in particular for his inability or unwillingness to set higher standards. "I told them all to go to hell," Mulligan recalls. At a meeting of the band next day, Krupa lit into the band first, and then into Mulligan for inexcusable behavior in public. Krupa proceeded to fire Mulligan, but he did not hold a grudge against his former employee. "I had to admire that guy," Krupa said a few years later. "You get too much obsequiousness in this business. There was no obsequiousness in him, which I dug."


Meanwhile, along with his lack of obsequiousness, Mulligan was moving ahead rapidly as a musician, mastering the old and new idioms of jazz, and in 1947 - in a move that turned out to be vital to his own development and enabled him to become a significant part of jazz history-Mulligan settled down for a time in New York, joining a group of similarly explorative instrumentalists and arrangers in the experiments that led to the Miles Davis Birth of the Cool jazz recordings.
In the mid-1940's there were not many places in the United States where modern jazzmen like Charlie Parker and Dizzy Gillespie could find any sort of encouragement: some night clubs on Fifty-second Street and in Harlem, and a few scattered pockets of rebellion in the black sections of other Eastern cities. The rest of the country, in the modern jazzman's view, was a vast, square desert. Not long after an engagement in California, for example, Parker had fled to New York

"Nobody understands our kind of music out on the Coast," he told the critic Leonard Feather, "They hated it, Leonard. I can't tell you how I yearned for New York. . . . As I left the Coast, they had a band at Billy Berg's with somebody playing a bass sax and a drummer playing on the temple blocks and ching ching-ching cymbals ... and the people liked it! That was the kind of thing that helped to crack my wig." Even New York was far from perfect, offering little steady work, but it did promise companionship. A musician who was unable to make much of an impression on the outside world could at least tell his story to an audience of his peers, and there were marathon jam sessions, sometimes lasting two or three days, in any apartment that happened to be available, or in a hall when the jazzmen could scrape together the money to hire one. "There was a spirit then," the pianist George Wallington recalls. "We were engrossed in what we were finding out, and we were inspired by each other. Everybody just loved to play. Most of the time we didn't sleep. We'd fall out for an hour or so and go back to playing. It's nothing like that today. Everybody's going out on his own, trying to make a success."

And so it was that Mulligan was drawn to settle in New York. He supported himself largely by writing arrangements for Claude Thornhill's big band and, as he says, he "aced" himself into any jam session he could find. At the sessions there were heads of court who decided whether a newcomer would be admitted or barred, and Mulligan passed all crucial inspections. As an arranger, too, he was making substantial progress, partly because he renewed what had been a slight acquaintance with Gil Evans, the head arranger of the Thornhill band. Evans, then about thirty-five and a stubborn, self-taught pragmatist, had evolved an intricate, richly tapestried personal style, and this had an important influence on Mulligan, among other young musicians.


In 1947 Evans was living in a one-room basement apartment on West 55th Street, behind a Chinese laundry, and that room became the birthplace of at least one major development in modern jazz. Arrangers and instrumentalists went there to play records and talk, and some of the discussions are now regarded as historic. The room and something of what it meant to Mulligan and the others have been described the composer George Russell: "A very big bed took up a lot of the place; there was one big lamp, and a cat named Becky - The linoleum was battered, and there was a little court outside. Inside, it was always very dark. The feeling of the room was timelessness. Whenever you went there, you wouldn't care about conditions outside. You couldn't tell whether it was day or night, summer or winter, and it didn't matter. At all hours, the place was loaded with people who came in and out. Mulligan, though, was there all the time. He was very clever, witty, and saucy, the way he is now. I remember his talking about a musician who was getting a lot of attention by copying another. 'A Sammy Kaye is bad enough,' Gerry said. 'A bastard Sammy Kaye is too much.' Gerry had a chip on his shoulder.

He had more or less the same difficulties that made us all bitter and hostile. He was immensely talented, and he didn't have enough of an opportunity to exercise his talent. Gil's influence had a softening effect on him and on all of us. Gil, who loved musical companionship, was the mother hen-the haven in the storm. He was gentle, wise, profound, and extremely perceptive, and he always seemed to have a comforting answer for any kind of problem. He appeared to have no bitterness. As for Gil's musical influence on Gerry, I think that Gerry, with his talent, would have emerged as a major force in jazz anyway. His talent would have surmounted his lack of formal education. But Gil helped. Gil was, and is, one of the strong personalities in written jazz, and I'm sure he influenced all of us. Gerry, however, was better able than any of the rest of us to channel Gil's influences-including the modern classical writers, whose records Gil played-into mainstream jazz.
Gerry was always interested in the way each of us felt about music, but he was impatient with anything that moved too far away from the mainstream."


Out of the turbulence in the Evans apartment grew some extraordinary projects. Evans himself was strongly stimulated by Alban Berg, among other classical composers, and several times he and his friends, each carrying a score, trooped uptown to the Juilliard School of Music to attend rehearsals of Berg compositions. And-what was of far more moment from a jazz point of view-the discussions in the apartment eventually led to the Miles Davis Capitol recordings of 1949-50, which launched what was known throughout the world for years afterward as "cool" jazz. These records stemmed in part from the experience that Evans and Mulligan had had in writing for the Thornhill band, which made use of a wider and more varied range of instrumental colors-French horns and a tuba among them-than any other jazz orchestra of the time. The records also stemmed in part from the daring conceptions of players like Parker, Monk, Gillespie, and the pianist Bud Powell-frontiersmen who had done a good deal of work in small ensembles that relied on improvisation and whose playing was aggressive, challenging, hot, frequently hard, and at tempos that were inclined to be unnerving.

Now Mulligan and Evans felt that they could retain the searching spirit of the frontiersmen but make the music more subtle, more variously colored, and better organized. Discussions began in the apartment about the smallest number of instruments that could express the harmonic range achieved by the Thornhill band. Evans and Mulligan, recruiting other arrangers and instrumentalists as they went along-among them Miles Davis-proceeded to work out the problems involved. 

Eventually, they decided that the instrumentation should consist of trumpet, trombone, French horn, tuba, alto saxophone, baritone saxophone, piano, bass, and drums. Next the players were recruited, and Davis, whose organizational abilities were vital to the whole project, was installed as the leader. Late in the summer of 1948, after some weeks of rehearsals in hired halls, the new ensemble opened a three-week engagement at the Royal Roost, at Broadway and Forty-seventh Street. Davis insisted that a sign be placed in front of the club reading, "Arrangements by Gerry Mulligan, Gil Evans, and John Lewis" - the first time that any experimental arrangers in jazz, except for Duke Ellington, had ever received billboard credit. At that time the Royal Roost was probably the only night club in the country that would have taken a chance with this new and forbidding type of jazz, and even it failed to extend the Davis group's stay after the first three weeks. The Davis outfit never again appeared in public as a unit, but a few months after the engagement at the Royal Roost the players reassembled at the studios of Capitol Records to make the first of what turned out to be a series of single records that almost immediately intrigued young jazz musicians throughout the country, although most of the critics took longer to catch up, as usual.

In addition to giving currency to a lighter, more flowing beat and a more diversified and subtle dynamic range than had been characteristic of the earlier, more fiery modern Jazz, these sessions, in reemphasizing the importance of collective interplay, had an influence which in quite diversified ways has lasted into the 1970's. The music's least fruitful influence was on the largely arid, mechanical, almost entirely white "West Coast jazz" of the 1950's (an exception, in terms of musical value, being Mulligan's own quartets of that period). What the West Coast players did not comprehend was that beneath the surface "cool" of the Miles Davis sessions was a great deal of concentrated intensity. At its disciplined core this too was "hot jazz."


By the late 1950's, in direct, angry reaction to the sterile "West Coast jazz" and to the considerable income those white players were receiving from their bowdlerization of authentic jazz, black players in the East began to emphasize "funk," or "soul jazz," a counterthrust most strongly represented by the blues-and-gospel-rooted shouts of combos led by Horace Silver and Art Blakey.

As "soul jazz" took hold and was followed in the 1960's and 1970's by the much more complex but nonetheless aggressively emotional music of John Coltrane, Sonny Rollins, Cecil Taylor, Ornette Coleman, Sam Rivers, Anthony Braxton, the Art Ensemble of Chicago, et al., it appeared in retrospect as if all aspects of "cool jazz" had been transient divagations, the merest footnotes, in jazz history. Actually, this was true of white "West Coast jazz," but not of the Miles Davis Capitol recordings, both with regard to the staying power of that particular music itself, and also in terms of its long-range impact.

Miles Davis, for instance, though he grew much beyond those recordings in subsequent years, was strongly influenced by that search for unprecedentedly variegated combinations of instruments in a small group, by the keen attention to dynamics, and by the need for each player to continually add to the linear and textural designs with more than just accompaniment. So too was the future of John Lewis's (and the Modern Jazz Quartet's) music shaped in part by those sessions. In fact, no one deeply involved-from Max Roach to Lee Konitz-was the same again musically; and each of them in different ways went on to carry what was learned from this experience to other musicians with whom they worked. At its core that experience was a return to-and an expansion of-the concept of jazz as collective improvisation. Solos were vital, but in a rich, resonant configuration.

After New York, Mulligan went on to California, wrestled hard and eventually successfully with a heroin habit he had brought west with him, and started the series of softly swinging, contrapuntally improvising quartets which made his international reputation. During those quartet years Mulligan made another significant contribution to jazz-one that is going to return, I expect, with different textures and newer designs. And that is the natural development of contrapuntal swinging. Dave Brubeck had also worked this vein, and while his alto saxophonist Paul Desmond was exceptionally skilled and imaginative in this kind of improvisation, Brubeck too often was plodding. It was Mulligan who made the breakthrough.

As Gunther Schuller noted, when Mulligan's pianoless quartet was a pervasive phenomenon on the jazz scene, "Gerry brought back the contrapuntal way of playing jazz into naked clarity. He has taken away the harmonic background of the piano, which usually veiled multilinear writing for horns in jazz, and he hasn't fallen into the obvious snare of writing classic fugues-of using the classical forms of counterpoint as a basis for his originals and arrangements. His is simply clear linear writing in jazz terms; he has shown that contrapuntal designs can swing. Previous attempts in modern jazz to emphasize polyphonic writing and playing had bogged down, because of the self-conscious stiffness of the players. Where others went out of the jazz field to take forms from classical music and then returned to try to put them into jazz, he has eliminated that step, and thereby eliminated stiffness in multilinear jazz playing. He has also brought humor back into modern jazz. jazz, which had been so happy a music in the thirties, had become quite serious, and even at times sickly, during the development of the modern idioms. Mulligan has brought back a happy, relaxed feeling, because he is able to relax completely while playing. Sometimes he relaxes too much. But it is this ability to relax that permits him to play with all kinds of groups, in almost any jazz context, and that makes him the big catalyst that he is."


To which Martin Williams added: "The Mulligan groups play together, listen to each other, work as a group. . . . Also they get a complexity and density of texture out of their instruments."

There was another kind of impetus Mulligan gave to jazz in the late 1950's and early 1960's and may well-since he is so resilient-contribute again. "Gerry," says Bob Brookmeyer, "has a positive life attitude, in contrast to the suicidal perspective - the Charlie Parker complex -that was prevalent among many post-World War II musicians. Parker was so impressive musically and personally that he set some standards he hadn't meant to. Gerry came as a life-giving current of air to young musicians who had been stifled emotionally and intellectually by the idea of death. And in his music he proved that a whisper at times can be more effective and piercing than a shout."


In the 1960's Mulligan also proved his extraordinary capacities as a big-band leader. His orchestra was supple, resourceful, the soloists an integral, organic part of the arrangements. The band had drive, wit, lyricism, ingenuity-like its leader. But the economics of the jazz scene made it impossible for Mulligan to maintain the band. And so he has continued playing both as incandescent guest and increasingly again as leader. Meanwhile, as more of the older jazz players disappear, Mulligan remains a particularly important and attractive figure in jazz history for the affection and respect he has shown jazz elders during long years when few other younger players did.

One of the remarkable things about the remarkable form of expression known as jazz, which in the past seventy-five years has become familiar in the remotest regions of the globe, is that its collective history has been made by thousands of fiercely individualistic players. This history has consequently been a full one, marked by skirmish after skirmish on constantly shifting terrain, yet because it has been so brief, we still have in our midst survivors of every one of the campaigns. The eldest of these veterans, who started out working by day as longshoremen, cigar makers, and the like, and playing jazz by night-as much for pleasure as for money-are seldom heard from nowadays, however, except at such invaluable refuges as Preservation Hall in New Orleans. And the succeeding generation-professionals from the start, more sophisticated and more resourceful but no less fiery-have had hard going in recent decades. In the 1930's most of the best of them played in large jazz bands of a sort that has almost ceased to exist, and some of their triumphs are recorded in those hagiological listings called discographies.

Quite a few of these musicians were sweepingly proficient soloists, able to express through improvisation a range of ideas and emotions that made many a music student eye his textbook and teacher with skepticism, and in general they showed that an organization of perhaps fifteen men could swing with a drive exhilarating to players and listeners alike.

In the course of time, though, these musicians gave way to the first phalanx of what are known as "modern jazzmen" -somewhat more self-conscious musicians who worked at expanding or renewing the harmonic and rhythmic language of jazz, and in doing so tended for a time to drop melody into third place. Inevitably, the Jacobins-men like Parker, Gillespie, and Bud Powell - were themselves followed by a generation with even newer ideas. This second phalanx of modern jazzmen, while admiring the sometimes craggy advances of their immediate predecessors and doing their best to consolidate them, felt that it was possible, and agreeable as well, to concentrate on melodic lyricism again, and some of them are still profitably working along that line, though they too have been increasingly challenged by newer, more clangorously venturesome forces.

All these groups, and others, coexist, though their fortunes vary. It is as if Palestrina, Bach, Mozart, Debussy, and Webern were alive at the same time. Many young jazz musicians, however, derive no satisfaction from this extraordinary state of affairs; far from honoring their elders, some of the young in jazz know little about them and care less.

How little they cared was evident one Saturday evening in the summer in 1959 in a large tent at the Timber Grove Club, on Great South Bay, Long Island, when, in the course of a jazz festival, a group of aging musicians met to put on a special kind of revival meeting. The musical director of the festival was Rex Stewart, then middle-aged and performing with Eddie Condon's outfit. He had reassembled as many members of the Fletcher Henderson unit of the 1920's-one of the world's first large jazz bands-as he could, filling the remaining positions with jazzmen of the same era, or a slightly later one. The musicians looked forward to playing together again, especially since the world of jazz had been treating them badly; as a rule, night-club owners, bookers, and record company executives felt that there was no public for jazz musicians in their forties and fifties, and some members of the reconstituted band were reduced to routine day jobs that had nothing to do with music. Others had jobs with minor rhythm-and-blues bands. A very few-like Coleman Hawkins-had done better, but even they had remained in jazz under less than optimum conditions, artistic or financial.

If a reunion of a great classical group-the Thibaud-Cortot-Casals trio, say-had ever been held at Great South Bay, or anywhere else, young classical musicians would have arrived in swarms. For the Great South Bay Festival, which brought together such eminent jazz musicians as Hawkins, the trombonist J. C. Higginbotham, and the alto saxophonist Hilton Jefferson for the first time in years, only one prominent young jazzman made the two-hour trip out from New York-Gerry Mulligan. Then thirty, Mulligan had already played a decisive part in one of the most recent waves of jazz reform-the wave that had led to a reemphasis on melody and, with it, multilinear collective improvisation. 

Yet even though he was in the forefront of the innovators at that time, he had continued to listen to and to learn from the older traditionalists. Modern jazz in his view was not a revolution against an ancien regime that would be better off buried. He saw it as a natural evolution of the old jazz language, and he had great respect for his musical ancestors.


That Saturday morning Mulligan left his midtown New York apartment and drove out to Great South Bay. He went to listen, but, since he always hopes to find a jam session, he took his saxophone along. When he arrived at the tent a loosely swinging band, led jointly by bassist Bob Haggart and trumpeter Yank Lawson, was performing in a style that might be called swing-era Dixieland. For a moment Mulligan stood listening, and then was visited by a compulsion to play. He picked up his horn and moved up to the bandstand, to the evident satisfaction of the other players. This was the first time Mulligan had ever played with either Lawson or Haggart, but he sounded as if he had rehearsed with their unit for weeks. Meanwhile, Rex Stewart was basking on the beach, resting up for the Fletcher Henderson revival meeting in the evening. Somehow, word reached him that Mulligan had come and was playing, and Stewart, who felt for Mulligan a wholeness of devotion that he extended to few other young jazzmen, hurriedly changed his clothes, ran for his horn, and moved onto the stand. He and Mulligan had never played together, and this was an experience Stewart had been looking forward to for months. The instantaneous, hot rapport between the pair fired all the musicians on the stand into a booting ensemble rideout.

That evening, during the Henderson reunion, there was an extra baritone saxophone in the band. Mulligan had bought a ticket and had filed into the big tent with the rest of the customers. Then he had slipped into the shadows alongside the bandstand, and when the concert of the patriarchs got under way he began playing softly. At a wave from Rex Stewart, Mulligan moved onto the stand, took up a position between Hawkins and J. C. Higginbotham, and played a strong solo. The old-timers seemed pleased to have him there and he was pleased to be there. The last the audience saw of Mulligan, much later that night, he was walking out of the tent into the darkness, still playing.


Around the time of that transgenerational evening at the Great South Bay jazz Festival, Gerry Mulligan, in an article he had written for Down Beat, described a project that had long appealed to him: "I think it would be a good idea to organize a unit composed of some of the older jazzmen and those of the younger musicians who can do it. . . . But first I'd want the group to work out for some time. Then if something of musical value results, we could record it. But I don't like the idea of doing something just to record it. It has to work first."

Except for a few age-mixed bands in New Orleans through the years (usually a fusion of perpetual jazz students from Europe with the native musical aristocracy), there has yet to be a project of the order envisioned by Mulligan. Jazz remains more segregated by age than by any other factor, and that is a great pity and a great loss-to listeners and musicians alike. Nonetheless, the achievement of trans generational maturity among younger musicians is not beyond possibility-, and should such an orchestra finally appear, spanning the decades of jazz, Mulligan is still one of its most likely and logical leaders.

Together with his insistence on paying attention to the whole jazz tradition, Mulligan is also one of the prototypical jazz romantics. He describes, for instance, a small event with large consequences which took place in a small Ohio town when he was in the third grade there. And this brief tale also reflects the boyhood dreams of just about everyone, in any country, who later jumped into the jazz life.
"I was on my way to school," Mulligan recalls, "when I saw the Red Nichols bus sitting in front of a hotel. That moment was probably when I first wanted to become a band musician and go on the road. It was a small old Greyhound bus with a canopied observation platform, and on the bus was printed, 'RED NICHOLS AND HIS FIVE PENNIES.' It all symbolized travel and adventure. I was never the same after that."”

To be continued in Part 4 with Gene Lees.




  
“… Gerry Mulligan lived through almost the entire history of jazz. It is against that background that he should be understood.” – Gene Lees

“An orchestrator of ingenuity, wit and originality, Gerry Mulligan was a welcome antidote to the brassy blasts and relentless drive generated by the majority of competitors. Mulligan achieved excitement through color, shading and dynamics.” – Stuart Nicholson

“He knows exactly what he wants. He wants a quiet band. He can swing at about 15 decibels lower than any other band.” – Bill Crow

“My band offers a unique opportunity of learning and development for young players …. What I do with my band is use dynamics – dynamics of attack as well as volume. As a consequence, I think players get a particular joy out of playing that requires them to do things out of a wide range of possibilities.” – Gerry Mulligan in an interview with Charles Fox for BBC Radio 3, broadcast 4, May 1989

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

In his May 1989 BBC interview with Charles Fox, Mulligan further explained that his writing for big bands always stresses “ … a combination of low dynamics, light swing and meticulous attention to inner harmonic movement,” a style which he first put into practice with the 1949 ‘Birth of the Cool recordings’ and one which has been evolving ever since.

When asked about his 14-piece, Concert Jazz Band which experienced a resurgence in the 1970s after Gerry stopped working with Dave Brubeck that continued throughout the 1980s [mostly in Europe], Gerry stated: “From its inception, the Concert Jazz Band was based around the quartet. The orchestration, planning, everything about it was geared around Bob Brookmeyer and me; the valve trombone, the baritone sax and a piano-less rhythm section. And that was the basis for most of the arrangements. In my writing, I always like things more horizontal, evolved into lines with counterpoint.”

Charles Fox explains that “the horizontal style of writing big band arrangements tries to create different layers of melody all driving forward rather than it all being specified by the harmony which is vertical and based on a chord. So you go from chord to chord rather than trying to keep a melody flowing as in horizontal writing. Of course, bits of each technique cross-over, but the horizontal technique was something that Gerry Mulligan was particularly fond of.”

More details about Gerry Mulligan’s approach to arranging and composition can also be found in a series of articles that first appeared in the eminent Jazz writer Gene Lees’ Jazzletter.  

Because of their close and long-standing relationship, not to mention his considerable skills as a writer, many Jazz fans have long thought it logical that Gene Lees is the very best choice to author a biography of Gerry Mulligan. However, a closer inspector of the following essay on Gerry might yield the impression that he has already done so, albeit an encapsulated one.
Rich in detail and conversational repartee, as well as, comprehensive in its overview, there is no finer retrospective of Gerry Mulligan and his music than the following chapter from Gene’s Arranging the Score: Portraits of the Great Arrangers [New York: Cassell. 2000].

As Jeffrey Sultanof expressed in his Foreword to the book:

"… [Gene] knew the people he wrote about – Bill Evans and Gerry Mulligan, for example, were among his closet friends – and they trusted him with information that they would not share with any other writer, because they knew he would use what they said respectfully and accurately.

… He is an American treasure, finding the facts, celebrating the best that popular music and jazz has to offer, and helping us continue to explore their riches.”

The editorial staff at JazzProfiles is very grateful to the late Gene Lees for allowing it permission to feature his work.

© - Copyright protected; used with permission; all rights reserved.


I hear the shadows dancing: Gerry Mulligan

“When I became editor of Down Beat in May 1959, I telephoned one of my predecessors, Jack Tracy, by then a producer for Mercury Records. I asked him who, of the various musicians I would soon have to deal with, might give me a problem.

"Three guys," Jack said. "Buddy Rich, Miles Davis, and Gerry Mulligan." He added that, personally, he liked all three, but all three had prickly temperaments, and you had to accept them as they were; none of them more so than Buddy Rich. Perhaps because Jack had forewarned me, I had trouble with none of them, and indeed became very fond of all three.

Two of them - Miles Dewey Davis and Gerry Mulligan - were alumni of the Gil Evans "seminars" on West 55th Street, and of the Birth of the Cool records.

Among the bands I particularly liked in my late adolescence were those of Claude Thornhill, Elliot Lawrence, and Gene Krupa. Mulligan wrote for all three.

Gerry said,” I met Gil probably when I was arranging for the Krupa band. I knew about his writing before that. I used to visit Gil with Claude's band when I was working for other bands. One time I came back to New York after leaving one of the bands; it might have been when I left Tommy Tucker. And I stayed at the Edison Hotel. My room was on an air shaft on the west side of the building. And every morning about 10 o'clock, the band started to rehearse, because Claude was just back from the service and they were reorganizing. I would sit hanging out the window, listening to the rehearsals. A friend of mine, a guitar player from Texas, would come by, and we'd listen to the rehearsals.

I went back to Philadelphia, to write for Elliot Lawrence's band. And I lived there for a while. I got a postcard from Gil saying, 'What are you doing living in Philadelphia? Everything's happening in New York. Come back.' So I did. I stayed in a succession of rooms. Finally Gil said, 'Stay here."'

One of the records by the Krupa band that I liked was "Disc Jockey Jump," and I had bothered to note who wrote it: Gerry Mulligan. That was probably the first time I heard his name. I would soon hear it again: in the writing and playing credits on the so-called Birth of the Cool album.

Thirty-three years later, in early 1992, Mulligan would re-create that album for the GRP label, with John Lewis again on piano but Wallace Roney replacing Miles Davis, and Phil Woods replacing Lee Konitz.


Mulligan's interest in the format of those sessions continued beyond the Birth of the Cool sessions, and in January 1953, in Los Angeles, he recorded an LP made up almost entirely of his own compositions, including "Westwood Walk,""Simbah,""Walking Shoes,""Rocker,""A Ballad,""Flash," and "Ontet." I was becoming very, very conscious of this Gerry Mulligan, thinking he was one of the most important composers in jazz - though who was I to judge? I not only loved Mulligan's writing - I soon knew all those charts by memory, and still do - I loved his work as a soloist. He played a sort of rollicking, charming, unpretentious kind of piano, and he produced lovely solos on an instrument usually considered unsuitable for solos: the baritone saxophone, which he played with a light and highly individual tone that is now imitated all over the world.

That ten-inch Mulligan LP was part of the sound-track of my life at that time. By then I knew from pictures what Mulligan looked like: a tall young man with a brush-cut and a body almost cadaverously thin.

By then Mulligan had a quartet featuring Chet Baker on trumpet, which played Monday nights at a club called the Haig. The group had made its first recording for Dick Bock’s Pacific jazz label in August of 1952, a little over four months before the tentet record. The group startled critics because it used trumpet, baritone, bass, and drums, but no piano, always considered essential to communicating the harmony of a tune. Much was made of this "odd" instrumentation. It lay not in arcane musical philosophy, however: the Haig's owner could not afford more than four men. Red Norvo had played there with only vibes, guitar, and bass. Mulligan also got along without piano.

The rapport between Baker and Mulligan was remarkable. The emphasis was on counterline, and it seemed to free both horn players for ever more imaginative flights. Michael Cuscuna wrote in the notes for a CD reissue called The Best of Gerry Mulligan with Chet Baker.


‘The limitation of two voices (and sometimes a third with the bass) seemed to ignite Mulligan's already fertile mind.

Whether remodeling a standard or introducing an original, Mulligan stretched his limits and came upon a sound that was not only new and stimulating, but also incredibly fascinating and accessible to the general public. Four months after their first recordings for a then eight-week-old label, they were stars beyond the jazz world with full-page features in magazines like Time and choice engagements around the country.’

Mulligan was then 25.

So much legend has grown up around Chet Baker that his musical brilliance is often overlooked. Baker was a heroin addict: so was Mulligan. Mulligan would eventually break free of it, but Baker would not, leading a strange, bohemian, itinerant existence, hocking his horn from time to time, sometimes without clothes, sometimes even without shoes, surrounded by people who seemed fascinated by the morbidity of his existence. He got his teeth knocked out by dope-pushers for failing to pay what he owed them. He spent time in a jail in Italy. A story went around that when he met pianist Romano Mussolini, son of the murdered dictator, he said, "Hey, man, sorry to hear about your old man." I thought the story surely was apocryphal, but I asked Caterina Valente about it, and she said, "It's not only true, I was there. It was at the start of a tour."

Time ravaged Chet Baker. I encountered him only once, when he came into Jim and Andy's bar in New York to beg money, which the musicians willingly gave him. He looked bad. By the end, that clean-cut all-American boy face was a barren desert landscape of deep lines and gullies. He died from a fall from a hotel in Holland. It is widely believed that he was thrown from the roof by elements of the Dutch underworld, among the roughest in the world, for not paying a dope bill.

Whatever the cause of the death, the legend obscures the talent, and part of that legend is that he was just a natural who couldn't even read music. 
Mulligan was adamant in rejecting this.

Much of the music that quartet played was Mulligan's own. Only a few leaders, among them Dave Brubeck, Horace Silver, John Lewis, and Duke Ellington, have devoted their recording careers so extensively to their own compositions. What Baker was called on to do was very complex.

Mulligan told me: "People love to say Chet couldn't read: he could read. It's not a question of whether he couldn't read chords or anything like that. it's that he didn't care. He had one of the quickest connections between mind, hand, and chops that I have ever encountered. He really played by ear, and he could play intricate progressions."

"I presume that in blowing, you're playing by ear too," I said.

"Well at my best I'm playing by ear! But I often am saddled with thinking chords, until I learn a tune. And I have to learn a tune some kind of way. And, really, my connection between my ears and my hands is not that quick. Sure, when I've got a tune firmly under hand - which is different from having it firmly in mind - I'm playing by ear. It's taken me a long time to connect up."

"You said he could do that fast?"

"Yeah. Yes. Oh yeah."

"You'd run a tune by him and he'd get it?"

"Oh yeah. And in any key. He had incredible facility. Remarkable. So it's obvious that at some point in his life, Chet Baker practiced a lot. It's all well and good to be able to do that. You're not born able to do that. You're maybe born with a facility to learn quickly. It's like Charlie Parker. Everybody thinks Charlie came along full-blown, there he was. But as a kid, he was a heavy practicer. And Chet must have been too."

In view of its importance in jazz history, it is surprising to realize that the quartet with Chet Baker lasted only a year. Mulligan was arrested on a narcotics charge and sent to a California honor farm for three months, after which he returned to New York, where he established a new quartet with trombonist Bob Brookmeyer instead of Baker. With Jon Eardley on trumpet and Zoot Sims on tenor, the group recorded for Mercury as the Gerry Mulligan Sextet. But the quartet continued, growing constantly better, and it lost none of its momentum when Art Farmer succeeded Brookmeyer. The group (with Bill Crow on bass and Dave Bailey on drums) can be seen at Newport in the pioneering film Jazz on a Summer's Day.



And meanwhile, Mulligan made a series of albums for Norman Granz according to a formula Granz found appealing: mixing and matching various pairs of musicians. Mulligan recorded with Thelonious Monk, Stan Getz, Ben Webster (one of his early heroes), Johnny Hodges, and Paul Desmond, a particularly close friend.

When I joined Down Beat, I was well aware of the extent of the heroin epidemic in jazz: yet the subject was kept hushed. I did a good deal of research on the problem, asking many of the former addicts I was coming to know how and why they had quit. Al Cohn told me that an infection from a dirty needle settled into his eye, resulting finally in its surgical incision. "Losing your eye will make you quit," Al said in his sardonic fashion. Zoot Sims told me that he got into a car with a girl he was going with, left New York, and went through withdrawal in motel rooms as he made his way home to California.

And, later, when I knew Mulligan well enough, I asked him too how he quit. Gerry, not entirely surprisingly, took an intellectual approach to the problem. He met a New York psychiatrist who was interested in the problem of addiction. The psychiatrist said he could lose his license for what he was about to do. He said that he was going to supply Gerry with good syringes and medical morphine to replace the dirty heroin of the street. At minimum it would remove the danger and dark glamour from the practice. Morphine isn't as strong as heroin, but it's pretty good, as you know if you've ever had it in a hospital.

Gerry was playing a gig in Detroit. At intermission he went into the men's room, and he was inserting his nice clean medical syringe into his nice clean bottle of morphine when he stopped, thinking, "What am I doing to myself?"

He telephoned Joe Glaser, his booking agent, in New York, and told him to get him out of the job on grounds that he was sick. "And I'm going to be," he said. And he simply quit, going through the sweats and shudders and nausea of withdrawal. I always thought this was a remarkable act of courage. But Gerry said, "What else could I do? It was destroying the thing that means the most in the world to me, my music. I had a reason to quit. Had I been some poor kid in a Harlem doorway with nothing to look forward to even if he does quit, I don't think I could have done it."


I saw Gerry in person for the first time at the Newport Jazz Festival on the Fourth of July weekend of 1960. He had just organized what he called the Concert jazz Band. In a flurry of publicity, it was to make its debut at Newport. The big-band era was ended. Nobody - well, almost nobody tried to launch big bands any more. The ballrooms and dance pavilions were gone, or no longer booked bands. There's a dance pavilion in the rain, all shuttered down, Johnny Mercer wrote in the lyric he set to Ralph Burns'"Early Autumn." A new big band?

But I wanted to hear it: anything Mulligan did seemed likely to be innovative, as indeed that band was. I was backstage in a tent, talking with Dizzy Gillespie, when the first sounds of the band came to us. It was raining torrents. At stage left, the United States Information Agency had set up a shelter, a sloping canvas roof, to protect their television and recording equipment. They were recording the whole festival. The stage was chin high.

The band began to perform Bob Brookmeyer's lyrical arrangement of Django Reinhardt's ballad "Manoir de mes reves." In front of the stage, rain danced on a garden of black umbrellas. An imaginative cameraman panned across this audience in the rain, then across the stage, coming to rest on a great puddle, in which an upside-down Mulligan was playing an exquisite obbligato to the chart, leading into his solo. I was watching both the image and the reality. It was one of the unforgettable musical moments of my life.

I returned to Chicago, where Down Beat was headquartered. The Mulligan band was booked into the lounge in the Sutherland Hotel on the South Side. It had a largely black audience and booked the finest performers in jazz, black and white alike. Its disadvantage to performers was that they had to play on a high stage in the middle of the racetrack-shaped bar, and a band of thirteen had little room to move.

The group was startlingly fresh. Later Gerry told me he didn't think it was really a concert jazz band; it was a first-rate dance band. But he underestimated it. It was a gorgeous small orchestra, with a sound unlike any other. Gerry told me that he had previously tried to make small groups, such as the sextet, sound like big bands; now he wanted a big band to play with the fleet levity and light textures of a small group. Unfortunately, its book contained little of Mulligan's own writing. He found himself so busy running and booking the band that he didn't have time to write. Much of the burden of the composition and arranging fell on Brookmeyer, himself one of the most brilliant writers in jazz.

Something was going on during that Sutherland gig that none of us knew about, except, I think, Brookmeyer.

Gerry was going with and for some time had been in love with actress Judy Holliday, a gentle woman and one of the most gifted comediennes in American theater. She had just undergone a mastectomy. Gerry was playing the Sutherland in the evenings, then catching a red-eye flight to New York, sitting at her bedside as much of the day as he could, then getting an afternoon flight back to Chicago to work. He must have done all of his sleeping on the plane, and if he was drained and short-tempered at the time, it is hardly a wonder.

Some time during that week, I went upstairs with Bob Brookmeyer for a drink in the "band room," a suite of two or three rooms assigned by the hotel. Mulligan was in a bedroom with bassist Buddy Clark, whom I also knew by then, and they were in the midst of a heated exchange. Buddy shouted, "I'm getting sick of it! I'm tired of pulling this whole goddamn band by myself!" And Mulligan told him he wasn't pulling it by himself; he was getting plenty of help, and who the hell did he think he was? "I felt badly about that," Gerry told me some time later. "I didn't know Buddy was sick." Neither did anyone else, including Buddy. He had a rectal problem for which he later underwent surgery, and, he told me, his discomfort had made him short-tempered. He regretted the incident as much as Gerry did.

Mulligan, whose hair in those days was reddish-blond, came out of the bedroom and stopped in his tracks seeing me, a stranger, in the band's midst.

"Who are you?" he said harshly.

I told him.

"Oh God," he said, "that's all I need: press."

"You don't think I'd write anything about this, do you?" I said. And I never did, until now.

Mulligan stormed out, and the band played its next set.

I do not recall where next I encountered him, but by then everyone in the profession was crossing my path. By the time I moved to New York in July 1962, I knew him fairly well.

His influence, and through him that of Claude Thornhill and Gil Evans, had spread around the world. He had been a considerable influence on the
development of the bossa nova movement in Brazil, for example, and that is aside from all the baritone players on the planet whose sound resembled his.

There is no questioning this influence of Mulligan on Brazilian music. I had just returned from a tour of South America, and in Rio de Janeiro had met Joao Gilberto and Antonio Carlos Jobim, both virtually unknown in North America, except to a few musicians such as Bob Brookmeyer, Zoot Sims, and particularly Dizzy Gillespie, always aware of developments in Latin American music. It was said that the album made by Bud Shank and Laurindo Almeida called Brazilliance had also exerted an influence, but American critics tended to deny this, probably on the politically correct grounds that West Coast jazz was unimportant, and even Bud Shank said to me once, "The Brazilians didn't need me." But Bud (who incidentally played alto on the Mulligan tentet album) was wrong. Claudio Roditi, the superb Brazilian trumpeter, told me that in the period of bossa nova's gestation, almost the only jazz records available in Brazil were those on Dick Bock's Pacific Jazz label. The Shank-Almeida album, he said, was indeed an influence. But the major influence, according to Gilberto and Jobim, was Mulligan, and the influence on Gilberto's singing was that of a French Caribbean singer - from Martinique - named Henri Salvador, whose work I knew and loved.


Jobim told me that part of the ideal of the bossa nova movement was to achieve acoustical rather than electronic balances in the music, one of the keys to Mulligan's thinking. Jobim told me at the time, "The authentic Negro samba is very primitive. They use maybe ten percussion instruments and the music is very hot and wonderful. But bossa nova is cool and contained. It tells the story, trying to be simple and serious and lyrical. Joao and I felt that Brazilian music until now had been too much a storm on the sea, and we wanted to calm it down for the recording studio. You could call bossa nova a clean, washed samba, without loss of the momentum. We don't want to lose important things. We have the problem of how to write and not lose the swing."

Jobim came to New York that autumn for a Carnegie Hall concert of Brazilian musicians and, backstage, Gerry became one of the first American musicians I introduced him to. We were often together after that. Jobim's song "0 Insensatez" begins with the chord changes of the Chopin E-minor Prelude and, as a send-up of Jobim, Mulligan recorded the prelude as a samba. Jobim and Mulligan remained friends to the end of their days, and Gerry would see him whenever he went to Rio de Janeiro.

Gerry was not, as everyone seemed to think, living with Judy Holliday. She lived in the Dakota, on West 72nd Street at Central Park West, and he lived a block away.

I saw more of Gerry after Judy's death of cancer, which devastated him. We both lived on the West Side, and, aside from Jim and Andy's downtown, we had two or three favorite restaurants in the area of Broadway and the West 70s and 80s, halfway between his apartment and mine, which was on West 86th. A lot of my lyrics, including those written for Jobim tunes, had been recorded by then.

Gerry loved theater, and we thought we should try to write a show together. We looked for an appropriate subject, and one of us came up with the idea of the relationship between Diamond Jim Brady and Lillian Russell. I learned that Brady's house had stood approximately across the street from my apartment on West 86th a few doors in from Central Park. It had long since been replaced by an apartment building.

One of my happier memories is of that period when Gerry and I ran around to libraries and pored over books, absorbing the life of Diamond Jim, getting inside his mind, acquiring a feel for the New York of his time. We sketched out a script, and I think it was a good one. We wrote some songs. Gerry arranged a meeting with Hal Prince. The receptionist said, "Are you the Gerry Mulligan?"

And Gerry said, "I'm the only one I know."

She showed us in to see Hal Prince. And Hal Prince told us that a Diamond Jim Brady project was already under way, with Jackie Gleason set to play Brady and Lucille Ball as Lillian Russell.

We left Hal Prince's office feeling crushed, and no doubt stopped somewhere for a drink. Gleason and Ball would be perfect casting. All our excitement had been killed in an instant, and I suppose Gerry thought, as I did, of all our work being left to molder in a drawer. This would be the second disappointment of that kind for him. He and Judy Holliday, who was a gifted lyricist, had written a musical based on the Anita Loos play Happy Birthday. And although the songs were superb, Gerry had never been able to get anyone interested. One producer told him it could not succeed because the setting was an Irish bar. And, he said, "The Irish go to bars. Jews go to theater."

Gerry and I abandoned our Diamond Jim project. The show with Gleason and Ball was never made; it vanished into that limbo of unfulfilled Broadway projects.

One night Gerry and I went to see Stephen Sondheim's Company. Later we went to the Ginger Man for drinks and a late dinner. "I hate him," Gerry said. I said, "Me too." For Sondheim had done both music and lyrics, and both were brilliant. Long after, Gerry laughed when I recalled that night and said, "I've been trying to hate him for years and can't. He's too good."

One night in Jim and Andy's bar, Gerry said he had tickets for a new play and asked if I wanted to go with him. We ran down 48th Street to get to the theater by curtain time. We saw Jason Robards in A Thousand Clowns. The co-star was a young actress named Sandy Dennis. She and Gerry would be together for years, and then separate. Sandy is now dead, like Judy, of cancer. And like Gerry.

Being of English origin, I had for some time been noticing the scarcity of WASP English influence or even presence in American music, particularly jazz. Once, over dinner, I said, "Mulligan, you and I must be the only WASPs in the music business."

And, laughing, he said, "Speak for yourself, I'm an Irish Catholic."

Because he was not actively so, I asked him if he felt himself to be Catholic. He thought for a minute and said, "No. But I do feel Irish."

All this led to a series of observations on the ethnic origins of the Europeans in American jazz and popular music. Irish, Scottish, Welsh, yes; Polish, German, Jewish, Russian, just about any nationality you could mention. But very few English. Even those who bore "English" names, such as Joe Farrell, Louis Bellson, Eddie Lang, Will Bradley, and Glen Gray, had changed them to escape the prejudices of America.

It was during one such discussion that Gerry and I discovered we had arrived independently at the same conclusion: white American jazz musicians tend to reflect their ethnic origins in the style of their playing. And although this is not a universal verity, it often will be found to be true. Gerry told me that once, when he and Judy were listening to Zoot Sims, who was Irish, she said, "There he goes again - playing that Barry Fitzgerald tenor." And she imitated Fitzgerald's laughter, Ah-ha-ha-ha-ha, on a falling melodic line. It is a remarkably perceptive insight. But, even more to the point, listening to Gerry on a taped interview, I once heard him say something with the exact, momentarily falsetto, inflection of Barry Fitzgerald. And one part of Gerry's family came to America nearly a 150 years ago.

But speech patterns persist for long, long periods, and the accent of Normandy still echoes the speech of the Viking conquerors who settled there 1,000 years ago, and is in turn the source of the French Canadian accent. Perhaps the speech of Marseille descends from the Phoenicians. You will hear subtly Swedish inflections in Minnesota, even in those whose people have been there a long time.

I hear, I am certain, an Irish quality in Mulligan's playing and writing. It couples whimsy with melancholy, sadness with exuberance, it is at once lyrical and witty, and it is above all eloquent. I find that all very Irish.

In his last years Gerry led a quartet with piano. He continued to write for all manner of formations, including full symphony orchestra. An album on the Par label called Symphonic Dreams was recorded in 1987 by the Houston Symphony under Erich Kunzel. One of my favorite of Gerry's albums is The Age of Steam on the A&M label. Like the late Glenn Gould, Gerry had a fascination with trains. His Christmas cards usually showed one of the big old steam trains, often in a winter setting.

Proust points out somewhere in Swann's Way that fictional characters are transparent while the persons we know in life are opaque. Even those we know well are mysteries. We are mysteries even to ourselves.

So who was Gerry Mulligan? Where did he come from? Why did he love the old trains?

After 1969, Gerry and I never lived in the same city. I moved to Toronto for a few years, then to California. Once he came up to Toronto for a few days, and we did a television show together. We always stayed in touch. On my way to Paris, with a stopover at Kennedy airport, I called him from a phone booth. The conversation lasted an hour; it was mostly about Irish history.

An aristocratic Italian photojournalist named Franca Rota was assigned to cover him on a 1972 recording date in Milan: that's where they met. After their marriage, they lived in a house in Connecticut and an apartment in Milan, not far from the great cathedral and from the castle of the Sforzas, now a museum. I had lunch with them in Milan in 1984. By now Gerry did not smoke or drink. He never was a heavy eater, but his diet had become disciplined to the point of the Spartan. He told me I shouldn't use salt.

In the spring of 1994, we found ourselves on a jazz cruise of the Caribbean, with time for conversation, a little as in the Jim and Andy's days of memory. I asked him about things we had never discussed, in particular his family. I was aware that his relations with his father had been somewhat uncomfortable. It will usually be found that a gifted musician was encouraged by a parent or both parents, but not Gerry.

He was the youngest of four boys, in order: George, Phil, Ron, Gerry. All three of his brothers became, like their father, engineers, and Gerry's father wanted him to be one.

"Don't you think that's affected your work?" I said, thinking of the sense of design in all Gerry's writing and playing.

"Some of the attitude of the builder, the constructor, I suppose," he said.

"What did he do exactly? I asked.

Gerry said, "By the time my father was mature, they had started to use engineering to improve efficiency and practices in factories. It was the beginning of the time-study period. The pejorative term for what my father did was 'efficiency expert'. Of course, the companies hated to see people like that coming because they knew they were going to have to work hard. And it meant that a lot of people were going to lose their jobs because they streamlined the procedures. So he was schooled in all sorts of engineering.

"I remember when I was in high school in Detroit, he put himself through night school in aeronautical engineering, just to increase his own abilities. But he had his peculiarities. He had this image of having an engineering business with his sons. Dynasty time. My brothers fought that battle pretty well. My oldest brother didn't want to go to engineering school, and my father was only going to send him to school if he studied engineering. And I think he finally knuckled under and went and was very unhappy in engineering. The brother after him liked it, so it was all right.

"My father had a kind of strange attitude. I have realized in recent years, he was kind of anti-education and anti-intellectual. It was too bad, because he missed a lot of things. At the point where I started to be in contact with other musicians, especially the people with education, which I didn't have have never had - I heard Ravel's Daphnis and Chloe. My father's response was, 'Ravel only ever wrote one piece, and that was the Bolero.' Well you realize you can't have much conversation with people who think like that."

"There's a similarity here," I said. "My father had the same anti-intellectual attitude. He once said, 'An intellectual is like a man in a white suit who can't change a tire."'

Gerry mused on that for a moment, then laughed - he liked to laugh, often a short sardonic chuckle, and there was a kind of effervescence in his voice and said, "If I'd been smarter when I was young, and my father had come right out and said that to me, I'd have said, 'Yeah, well I want to be the man in the white suit. Let somebody else change the tire!"' And he laughed again.

I remembered the Gerry Mulligan wind-up doll Bob Brookmeyer invented. You wind it up, put it on the table, and it sends for room service. Gerry later amended that, satirizing himself: "Hello, room service? Send up the concert."

"What was your father's name?" I asked. "And where did the family come from?"

"His name was George. His family was from WilmingtonDelaware. His family must have come over here from Ireland in, probably, the 1850s or thereabouts. My mother was half Irish. Her mother was born in Germany, and her father's family was Protestant Irish. So I came along with a built-in dichotomy.
"I was born in New York, but before I was 1, my father picked up the family and moved to Marion, Ohio, where he became an executive with a company called the Marion Steam Shovel Company: the biggest business in town, a big, big, big factory. To this day, you'll see older equipment with that name on it. And then he was with another company that made Hercules road rollers and stuff like that. So we were out there until I was 10 years old and in about fourth grade." Laughing, he added: "So I always say I did 1 to 10 in Ohio.

"After that he went with a big company, May Consulting Engineers, still one of the biggest, based in Chicago. He did a lot of jobs for them. And because all these jobs would take a year or two, we wound up going with him. From Ohio he went to a job in Puerto Rico for a winter.

"Meanwhile, my grandfather, who was a retired locomotive engineer from the Pennsylvania Railroad, had died. He and my grandmother lived in South Jersey. So we went there for a while.

"My father then went to Chicago. We were there for one school year. I started to go down the garden path, because what was available there was four theaters that had big bands playing. I was old enough to get on the El and go downtown. We lived at 4200 North, near Sheridan Road. Not far from the lake. I went to the grade school whose claim to fame is that Joyce Kilmer and Janet Gaynor went there. I spent my time learning how to run fast. I was the country bumpkin. I guess it was the beginning of various kinds of ethnic warfare. The kids were ganging up on other kids, and I guess I looked like a likely subject, because they'd chase me and beat the hell out of me if they could.

"Then my father went to a job in KalamazooMichigan: we were there for about three years. That's where I first got some training on an instrument, barring the one semester in second grade in grade school that had piano lessons. At the recital, I would get halfway through a piece and forget it. About the second time I started over they came and took me offstage, like amateur night at the Apollo. And the nun told my mother, 'Just save your money. He will never play these things the way they were written! A nun had said it to my mother, therefore it must be the truth.

"In Kalamazoo, I wanted to take trumpet but I got side-tracked onto clarinet. I liked clarinet, because I liked Artie Shaw a lot, and I liked the Thornhill band, with Irving Fazola. I loved the sound of Irving Fazola, and one thing led to another. I wrote my first arrangement in Kalamazoo.

"I went to a public school the first year in Kalamazoo. There was a kid who lived across the street who could play trumpet. He could play things like "Carnival of Venice" and "Flight of the Bumble Bee." I was the most envious kid you ever saw. I admired him and we were best friends.

"The next year they sent me downtown to the Catholic school. The school was right next to the Michigan Central tracks. Every day I'd go out for the recess just as the Wolverine was going by. I used to see the people sitting in the dining car, with the white tablecloths and the silverware. The Wolverine was a very classy train on the New York Central. For a long time the Wolverine had the fastest schedule of any train in the country. Those were the Michigan Central tracks, but the Michigan Central was part of the New York Central. A great train, going by. And here I am in this filthy play-yard in the freezing cold. I was envious then, too."

"Does that explain your fascination with trains?" I asked.


"Well it runs in the family. My father's family had been with the B&O and the C&O, and on my mother's side, her father was a locomotive engineer with the Pennsylvania Railroad. The Irish built a lot of the railroads in this country. So I came by it naturally.

"The next year, they put up a new building and the school moved over there. They decided they were going to have their first school orchestra. They got a teacher and everything, and I learned the basics of the clarinet, and now we had an instrumentation not to be believed: probably a trumpet, a clarinet, two violins, and God knows what. An ungodly conglomeration. So I sat down and wrote an arrangement of "Lover," because I was fascinated by the chromatic progressions. I brought it in to play, and like a damn fool I put the title "Lover" on the top of it. The nun took one look at it and said, 'We can't play that.' So I never heard my first chart.

"But what's more interesting is what prompted me to write an arrangement in the first place. I don't know the answer: I just wanted to do it. I figured I could do it. I'd figured out how to make a transposition chart. I had one of those charts that you put behind the piano keys when you're a kid starting out. I guess I was in about the seventh grade at the time. A lot of us who were arrangers, there was always a kind of fraternity among arrangers, because of the recognition of the similarities. There are things that you know how to do and don't know how you know. I knew the basics of orchestration without having to be told."

"Could you, in grade seven, actually listen to a record and hear the chord content?"

"A lot of it, sure. The thing that I liked about the bands was the textures. I always was hooked on that. What you do with a single instrument is nice. What you do with a whole bunch of instruments becomes an interesting challenge to make it all add up to something cohesive. And to turn this thing that deals with a lot of mechanics into music is a miracle.

"If somebody had said, 'You can't do it, it might have stopped me. But nobody did."

"Let me get this straight," I said. "As a kid in grade seven, you could simply hear the contents of arrangements on records, hear the voices, without lessons?"

"Yeah.,,

"To me, that's weird. Henry Mancini was the same. He could just hear it. He told me, and Horace Silver did the same thing, that he'd play records at slow speeds until he could figure out what was in the chords."

"I wasn't that smart," Gerry said. "I did it the hard way."

"Your parents were not musical?"

"My mother and father were both born in the '90s. So they were in their twenties and thirties in the '20s and '30s of this century. And they both learned enough piano to be able to play.

"My father could read, but he read like an engineer. He could sit down and play a piece of music, but he'd miss all the accidentals, play lots of wrong notes, and just go happily along. But my mother played very nicely. She liked pretty music."

"Obviously you left Kalamazoo eventually," I said.

"We went from Kalamazoo to Detroit. There wasn't music proliferating in the schools. There was no such thing as jazz courses. And no such thing, really, as available lessons on an instrument. Music was a very separate and separated thing.


"But there was music around. Detroit is where I got totally hooked on boogie-woogie piano players. I loved Meade Lux Lewis and Pete Johnson and Pinetop, that whole era. It was such a joyful, funny, dynamic music. In Detroit we had at least one thing: the Michigan Theater played bands. That's one of the days I can pinpoint accurately: I know where I was on the seventh December, 1941. It was Sunday and I was at the Michigan Theater to hear Erskine Hawkins. I loved that band.

"I didn't realize it then, but Erskine liked a very thin sound. And apparently he liked guys in the section to have that sound. As a consequence, when they played even reasonably high, it sounded exciting: it sounded piercing. A high C with a thin sound really sounds high. Then later on, I wrote things for bands with guys with incredible chops; they could play a high C that was so fat that it didn't sound high. They had to go up to an altissimo G or something before it really started to sound piercing. It finally dawned on me that a fat sound on trumpet somehow diminished the impact of the highness of the note. Took all the excitement away. Erskine's band had a crackling excitement, and mainly because the trumpet players had a thin sound: it was great.

"From Detroit we went to ReadingPennsylvania. My father was working for a company that made an alloy of beryllium and copper. It was valuable because it's non-sparking and they can make tools for working around refineries or any place where sparks are dangerous. It's also unaffected by altitude or temperature. When I finally got a saxophone and clarinet, I wanted him to make me a set of springs, because that alloy never wears out, but he never did.

"I worked at that plant one summer as the mailboy. I saved my money and bought my first clarinet. I went to a teacher at the music store where I bought it and went through the exercises with the books. Sammy Correnti: a wonderful man. Sammy also transcribed a lot of the players he had known in the '20s and '30s.

"One day after I'd been taking lessons with Sammy for a while, he brought in an arrangement he had written in the early '30s on a piece called "Dark Eyes," written for three brass, three saxes, and three rhythm - two altos and a tenor, two trumpets and a bone. He said, 'Here, take this revoice it for four brass and four saxes.' I did. His attitude was, 'You can do this, so do it.' It wasn't 'You can't do it.'

"We had these things to learn, jazz choruses. I learned Artie Shaw's' Concerto for Clarinet' solo and his solo on 'Stardust."'

"Just about every reed player I ever met learned that 'Stardust' solo," I said. "Billy Mitchell told me he could still play it. Did you start working while you were in Reading?"

"Yeah. I started working professionally in Reading. I put together a quartet in high school. My brothers had a good time driving us around to our gigs, because all of us in my group were too young to drive. I was back there a few years ago. I went out to the church where we used to play for dances.

"But I wanted to have a big band. So I started collecting stock arrangements. Then they used to do manuscript charts of various bands. I had things from Les Brown's band, from this band and that band. We used to get gigs. I'd get these guys together and rehearse. Then it would be a mad thing. The band would be playing from 8 p.m. to 11 p.m. in a gymnasium some place, and my brothers would be racing back and forth. This guy could make it from 8 p.m. to 9 p.m., then they'd have to pick up his replacement.


"In Reading there was a piano player named Dave Stevens, who played with one of the studio bands in Philadelphia. I was a sophomore in high school, but I was playing with the professionals in town.

"Pennsylvania was a blue-law state, which meant that no entertainment was allowed on Sundays: no movies, no stage shows, no nothing. But it was all legal in private clubs, so private clubs proliferated all over Pennsylvania, which meant that there was work for musicians in Pennsylvania when work was dying out everywhere. I remember we played the Fifth Ward Democratic, the Third Ward Republican, the Polish American, the Irish American. Name it, all the ethnic groups in town, the labor unions, and they all had their own clubs and each one of them would hire a band, and a couple of them even had big bands. The Eagles had a thirteen- or fourteen-piece band. That was the most desirable one in town. I used to play in the band at the Orioles. These were good musicians I played with: I was very lucky."

I said, "Well this bears on what Bill Challis told me. He said that in the'20s, around Wilkes Barre, the musicians played dances in clubs. The coal barons had their clubs, the miners had their clubs, and the miners loved to dance. And when you think of all the musicians who came out of Pennsylvania, all the guys who came out of Pittsburgh and Philadelphia, the Dorsey brothers, Benny Golson, Henry Mancini, Billy Strayhorn, Red Rodney, it's a remarkable list."

"That may well have been a factor," Gerry said. "The blue laws and the clubs. Not only that, after the war, when work started to fall off for musicians, there still was that outlet in Pennsylvania for professional musicians."

I said, "Artie Shaw told me that in the heyday of the bands, you could play a solid month of one-nighters in Pennsylvania."

"Hmm. Well, those are all things that are impossible for people nowadays to understand. How many bands there were. There really was a lot of music available."

"What came after Reading?"

"From Reading, we moved to Philadelphia, and I found myself in West Philadelphia Catholic High School for Boys. About 2,000 boys, and no girls. That was the first time I had encountered that, and I hated it. Especially because down the street two blocks was the girls' school, and they started rehearsing their symphony orchestra in October for a concert in April. Envy again. There was no music in the school I was in.


"Dave Stevens of Reading had told me to go down to see Johnny Warrington, who had the house band at radio station WCAU. I took myself down to WCAU and saw Johnny. Now I think what kind of bemusement it must have fostered in him, to have this junior high-school kid come in and say, 'I want to write for your band.'

"And sure enough, he assigned a piece to me and said, 'Make me an arrangement of this. It will be for our Saturday night show.' I took the piece and spent a couple of weeks writing the arrangement. I brought it back. He went over it with me and he said, 'Well, let's see, you could have done this, you could have done that. Why didn't you do that here? Take it back and rewrite it and bring it back.' So I'd lucked into a teacher, somebody who helped. And he bought it and played it and assigned me something else.

"But the way that I got it written was even wilder. I really hated the school. There were a couple of teachers I liked and a couple of subjects that were fascinating. I had looked forward to chemistry as being probably an interesting subject, because you had laboratory work and it would be fun doing experiments. I had a teacher who ruined it for me. He spoke in a monotone, and he was a very dull man, and I remembered nothing.

"The school was taught by Christian brothers. Brother Martin was in charge of the band. When I transferred into this school and talked to Brother Martin, he never even asked me or even suggested that I play with the marching band. He explained that the marching band was not very good. The guys only went out for the band to get a letter and go to the ball games free. He said, 'The facilities are here. Any time you want to use the band room, it's yours.'

"Because it was such a big school, we had staggered lunch breaks. There were four lunch breaks. I had one of my own and three others. I started a band out of what I could get out of this marching band. I would have one of them come to my class and say, 'Brother Martin wants Gerry Mulligan in the band room.' So I would spend three out of the four lunch breaks in the band room, writing my chart for WCAU."

I said, "People forget that aside from the radio networks, which not only used to broadcast the big bands but had symphony orchestras on staff, even local radio stations employed bands, and pianists, and small groups. They generated their own music. They didn't just play records, as they do now. Radio was a tremendous generative force for music."

"Oh yeah. And given the opportunity, bands in all kinds of work tried to do their best. That's not to say all bands were good. There were a lot of sloppy bands around. But the best of them, which was a lot of them, were always trying to make music better. We always felt we could learn something, try something. So it was a good time for bands, all through the '30s and '40s.


"This brings up one of the areas where musicians got into a wrongful kind of relationship to the rest of the society, because of the attitude of the musicians' union. The union started in Chicago, and it was very much like a gangster organization, the way it went about doing things. For instance, their attitude in a town like Philadelphia. They would go into a radio station like WCAU and say, 'How many musicians do you employ?' The station might say something like, 'We employ ten.' And the union would say, 'All right, from now on you employ thirteen. How much are you paying them?' And the station might say, 'We're paying 75 dollars a week.' And the union might say, 'From now on you're paying 100.' It was done without discussion, it was: This is the way it's going to be or we'll pull the music out altogether.

"You'd be surprised how many radio stations said, 'Well, screw it.' And they got rid of the musicians. Those kinds of practices, I think, did musicians a great disservice. It made an antagonistic relationship that was harmful and wrong. And of course Petrillo, who was very much a dictatorial type, arbitrarily, against the advice of many people in the union, including the bandleaders, pulled the recording ban. That was the coup de grace for the big bands. Of all the times when he pulled it, when the guys were coming back from the service and needed all the help they could get!"

"But you still had WCAU and Johnny Warrington," I said. "Were you still in high school?"

"Yeah. In fact, at the school, I decided to put a band together. There were a lot of clarinet players in the marching band. There was only one kid who had a saxophone. I went and bought an alto so I would have at least two saxophones. We had a bunch of trumpets and we had one kid who played decent trombone. I wrote arrangements for the band, using this instrumentation. It came out sounding like Glenn Miller, because it was heavy on the clarinets. But because of that, I made something happen in the school, and we became the heroes that year, playing at various schools, playing at their assemblies. We even went down and played at the girls' school. So I suppose the girls' school was envious that we had a dance band and they only had a symphony orchestra.

"I went into the senior year. Chemistry had been destroyed for me, and I was bored to tears by the rest of the school. In senior year they had physics. They had lecture classes: it was like college - you're a big kid now. I go into the lecture room for the first thing on physics, and who have I got? The same guy who ruined chemistry for me. My mind did a trick on me that day, and I realized it started this at other times and it frightened me. Have you ever forgotten how to do something automatic, like tying your shoes or tying your tie? I watched this man. His lips were moving but I forgot what words meant. I totally lost the connection with language. I got up at the end of the class and went down to the office of the school and said, 'I'm leaving school. I have my father's permission. I'm going on the road with a band.'

"I didn't have a job and I didn't have my father's permission. I went to see Brother Martin, who didn't try to talk me into staying. He's one of the people I wish I'd had sense enough to keep contact with. He must have been a remarkable man. He didn't do any of the judgmental things that all the other grown-ups I remember from childhood did. He really treated me like a human being with the intelligence to try find my own way and as someone determined to find my own way.

"I went home and told my family what I was doing. My father didn't put up a big argument because, I think, he had lost his taste for trying to direct us. And obviously I was so far removed from his ideal of engineer that I didn't even warrant consideration.

"I thought unkindly in later years that he was probably relieved: he wouldn't have to think about paying to send me to college of any kind.

"I really would have liked to go to music school, but I never even broached the subject with him. I knew it was out of the question. That's what I mean by anti-intellectualism. I don't understand having that kind of an attitude toward your own kid. I never was that way with my own son, and can't be that way with young people."

(Gerry had one child, Reed, a son by his first and brief marriage to Arlene Brown, daughter of Lew Brown, of the Henderson-Brown-DeSylva songwriting team.)

He said, "I like to help young people have whatever opportunities there are, in whatever ways I can, without pushing them, without telling them the way Sammy Correnti did with me.

"I was now out of school, with no job to go to. I had to get a job in a hurry so I didn't have to go back to school ignominiously.

"I had met an agent named Jimmy Tyson. He was the agent for Alex Bartha, who had been the bandleader on the Steel Pier in Atlantic City for maybe fifteen years. What I didn't know was that every year he had this desire to take the band on the road and be a name band. I was infected with that! He promised he was going to take me on the road with him. Great! This was the job I thought I had. So I went down to see the agent. Jimmy said, 'Alex has been saying that for years. He's not going to take a band on the road.'

"And I thought, Oh God. I parked myself in the office of Jimmy Tyson's agency and waited for somebody to call up. Every band that came through to play at the Earle Theater, somebody would call up and say, 'I need a trombone player,' or something. And I would hear Jimmy say, 'Do you need a tenor or alto player? I was playing tenor and alto then. And nobody ever did.


"Then Tommy Tucker came to the Earle. Same thing. He didn't need a saxophone player. So Jimmy said, 'Well do you need an arranger? And Tommy Tucker said, 'Send him around, let me talk to him.' So I met Tommy Tucker backstage at the theater. He gave me a try. He signed me to a contract, 100 dollars a week for two jump or three ballad arrangements. Ballads being fewer pages than the jump tunes. Copied: I had to do all the copying."

Mulligan's career detour through the Tommy Tucker band has occasionally raised eyebrows: it seems somewhat incongruous.

The band, whose radio broadcasts began with the signature announcement, "It's Tommy Tucker Time!", was in that group that drew votes in the Down Beat poll's King of Corn category, usually won by Guy Lombardo. To the hip fans of the bands, that is to say those who thought they were hip (or, in those days, hep) there was a sharp division between the "jazz" and "mickey" bands, the latter including such as Blue Barron, Freddy Martin, Sammy Kaye, Russ Morgan, Kay Kyser, Shep Fields and his Rippling Rhythm, Lawrence Welk, and Wayne King. But to the professionals, the demarcation was not that sharp. I know saxophone players who thought Freddy Martin was a fine tenor player, and Benny Carter told me that one of his favorite saxophone players was Wayne King, not because what King did was jazz but because it was excellent saxophone playing.

Mulligan too has this breadth of view, and I was always baffled by his stated admiration for the Guy Lombardo band, which he shared with Louis Armstrong. I was baffled, that is, until I actually saw the band in the 1970s and got to know Guy late in his life. I realized with a start, after only a tune or two from the band in person, that what I was hearing was a museum piece: an authentic, unchanged, perfectly preserved 1920s tuba-bass dance band. And it did what it did extremely well. It was, as Gerry had always insisted, a damned good band.

Many of the "mickey" - meaning Mickey Mouse - bands contained excellent musicians, and some of them, including the bands of Kay Kyser and Sammy Kaye, could play creditable swing on occasion. Some excellent arrangers cut their professional teeth in those bands. George Duning, for example, wrote for Kay Kyser. And for a short time, Gerry Mulligan wrote for Tommy Tucker.

Gerry said, "That was my first experience on the road with a name band as an arranger. That was 1945, I guess, and that would make me 17 going on 18. It was the last year of the war. We traveled by cars. When we hit a town, I would be out of the car like a shot and into the hotel. Is there a room with a piano? It was always a search for a piano. And I never managed to make the three ballads or two jumps a week. But I got pretty close, wrote a lot of music for Tommy. It was a three-month contract.

"We did a lot of one-nighters. We did a month or six weeks or something at a big hotel in Chicago. I was a pig in mud. All the bands were coming through. Billy Eckstine's band came to a downtown theater, with Dizzy playing trumpet with him. Earl Hines had a great band. Artie came through and Lena Horne was singing with him.

"My arrangements for Tommy started to get more and more wild, although I think Tommy liked what I did. There's one thing of mine on a Hindsight record, taken from an aircheck. It's called 'Brass Hats.' I used plungers and hats. Years later, when I heard this thing, I fell off my chair, because I had copied Erskine Hawkins'  'After Hours.' I didn't mean to copy it, but it was very close.

"After the three months, Tommy said, 'It's been very nice, and you've done a lot of good things for the band, but I think you're ready to move on to another band because I think my band is a little too tame for you. I want you to know, Gerry, that if you ever want to go into business or anything like that, I really would be glad to help you - in anything except a band.'


"I never got to see Tommy after he retired, and then I found out a few years ago where he was, because a lot of friends went to Sarasota and saw him. I no sooner found out where he was than I read that he had died. I did call up his widow, a lovely woman. They were great people, and he was good to me.

"That's one thing I was lucky about. The men that I worked for were such nice people: Tommy Tucker, Gene Krupa, Claude Thornhill, Elliot Lawrence.

"After I left Tommy, I went back to Philadelphia. Johnny Warrington was no longer at WCAU. Elliot Lawrence had taken over. Elliot had been kind of a child star in Philadelphia. He had been the bandleader on the Horn and Hardart kiddies' hour. He kind of grew into the bandleader job."

And Mulligan began to write for Elliot Lawrence. In the 1950s, some of the writing he did for Lawrence was re-recorded in an album for Fantasy.

"It was all right," Gerry said of that album. "But it wasn't as good as some of the performances the band did at the time. Once, at a rehearsal, they played some of my music so perfectly that it made my hair stand on end. There was a unison trombone passage. The Swope brothers were in the trombone section. The section sounded like one trombone, the unison was so perfect."

Gerry was born on 6 April 1927. Earl Hines and Louis Armstrong had not yet made their pioneering records. The Duke Ellington band would not open at the Cotton Club for another eight months. Though the Paul Whiteman band was immensely popular, the so-called big-band era had not dawned. Benny Goodman was still with Ben Pollack. The Casa Loma Orchestra would not make its first recording for another two years. And network radio had just come into being. Some people still owned crystal radios.

Like Gerry, I grew up, ear to the radio, on the sounds of the big bands in the  1930s. Network radio was an incredible cultural force, presenting - live, not on records - music of immense cultural diversity, almost every kind of music that America produced, and making it popular. Network radio made Duke Ellington and Benny Goodman famous and, a little later, Glenn Miller. It made Arturo Toscaninii and James Melton household names. On Saturday afternoons, the broadcasts from the Metropolitan Opera could be heard everywhere from the Mexican border to the northern reaches of Canada.

How long jazz has been with us depends on how you define jazz. If you refer to Buddy Bolden's music, which you have never heard (nor has anyone else) or Scott Joplin's rags, as jazz, then it begins early in the century. Others would call this earlier music proto-jazz. But jazz begins at least by the late teen years of the twentieth century. If you define it even more strictly as the art of the great, improvising soloist, then it begins in the 1920s, and its principal founding figure is Louis Armstrong. As Dizzy Gillespie said of Armstrong, "No him, no me."

So if you accept Armstrong as the defining figure, then jazz was, as Bud Freeman used to argue, born in Chicago in the 1920s. Gerry Mulligan was born with jazz, just before the big-band era.

The big-band era lasted roughly ten years, from 1936 to 1946, when the major orchestras began to disband. If you want to push it back to the 1920s, with Whiteman, Goldkette, and early Ellington, then it is longer. And its influence persists, with the fundamental format of trumpets, trombones, saxophones, and rhythm section still in use. The evolution of that instrumentation is like that of the string quartet or the symphony orchestra: it works, and will live on. But as a vital part of America's commercial entertainment, the era has long since ended.

It was an era, as Woody Herman used to say, when "jazz was the popular music of the land."

Many years ago, Gerry said to me that the wartime gasoline tax had helped kill the big bands. And a thought occurred to me: I said, "Wait a minute, Gerry, the kids who supported the bands didn't have cars, and since they weren't making them during the war, our fathers certainly were not inclined to lend theirs." And it was precisely during the war years that the bands were most successful, even though many of the best musicians were in the armed forces. The dance pavilions and ballrooms were packed during those years with teenagers and uniformed servicemen and their girlfriends.

How did we get to the ballrooms and dance pavilions? On street railways and the inter-urban trolleys. And the street railways and trolley lines were bought up and dismantled by business elements whose purpose was to drive the public into automobiles and buses: this helped kill the ballrooms.

And network radio was dying as the broadcasting industry discovered how awesomely lucrative television advertising could be, and to the purpose of attracting ever larger audiences began seeking the lowest common denominator of public taste.

When the big-band era ended and the musicians went into nightclubs to play in small groups, their admirers followed them, for they were now over 21 and could go to places where liquor was served. But a younger audience could not follow them. A few nightclubs tried to solve the problem. Birdland had a bleachers section where young people could sit without drinking liquor. But this was at best a Band-aid, if you'll pardon the pun, and knowing the names of the musicians was no longer an "in" thing for young people. They were turning at first to "How Much Is That Doggie in the Window" and "Tennessee Waltz," then to "Blue Suede Shoes" and "Hound Dog." The Beatles were coming.


The exposure of jazz to a new, young audience was restricted. Thus you will find that by far the largest part of its audience today comprises older people. There are some young admirers, to be sure, and they always give one hope. But the music is hard to find; they must seek it out. It is no longer common in the culture. It is not on the radio in most areas. And fewer and fewer radio stations are presenting jazz. When I met Gerry Mulligan in 1960, he was only 33 years old. I know lists are boring, but I would ask you to read this one: Pepper Adams, Nat and Cannonball Adderley, Gene Ammons, Benny Bailey, Dave Bailey, Chet Baker, Kenny Barron, Keter Betts, Ruby Braff, Bob Brookmeyer, Ray Brown, Ray Bryant, Monty Budwig, Larry Bunker, Kenny Burrell, Frank Butler, Donald Byrd, Conte Candoli, Frank Capp, Ron Carter, Paul Chambers, Sonny Clark, Jimmy Cleveland, Jimmy Cobb, Al Cohn, John Coltrane, junior Cook, Bob Cranshaw, Bill CrowKenny Davern, Arthur Davis, Miles Davis, Richard Davis, Alan Dawson, Willie Dennis, Gene DiNovi, Eric Dolphy, Lou Donaldson, Kenny Drew, Allen Eager, Jon Eardley, Don Ellis, Booker Ervin, Bill Evans, Art and Addison Farmer, Joe Farrell, Victor Feldman, Maynard Ferguson, Clare Fischer, Tommy Flanagan, Bob Florence, Chuck Flores, Med Flory, Carl Fontana, Vernel Fournier, Russ Freeman, Dave Frishberg, Curtis Fuller, Stan Getz, Benny Golson, Urbie Green, Gigi Gryce, Jim Hall, Slide Hampton, Herbie Hancock, Jake Hanna, Roland Hanna, Barry Harris, Hampton Hawes, Louis Hayes, Jimmy and Tootie Heath, Billy Higgins, Bill Holman, Paul Horn, Freddie Hubbard, Dick Hyman, Frank Isola, Chuck Israels, Ahmad Jamal, Clifford Jordan, Richie Kamuca, Connie Kay, Wynton Kelly, Charlie Kennedy, Jimmy Knepper, Lee Konitz, Teddy Kotick, Steve Kuhn, Steve Lacy, Scott LaFaro, Pete La Roca, Lou Levy, Mel Lewis, Melba Liston, Booker Little, Dave McKenna, Jackie McLean, Mike Mainieri, junior Mance, Johnny Mandel, Herbie Mann, Warne Marsh, Don Menza, Jymie Merritt, Billy Mitchell, Blue Mitchell, Dwike Mitchell, Grover Mitchell, Red Mitchell, Hank Mobley, Grachan Moncour, J. R. Monterose, Buddy Montgomery, Jack Montrose, Joe Morello, Lee Morgan, Sam Most, Paul Motian, Dick Nash, Oliver Nelson, Jack Nimitz, Sal Nistico, Marty Paich, Horace Parlan, Sonny Payne, Gary Peacock, Duke Pearson, Ralpha Pena, Art Pepper, Walter Perkins, Charlie Persip, Oscar Peterson, Nat Pierce, Al Porcino, Bill Potts, Benny Powell, Seldon Powell, Andr6 Previn, Joe Puma, Gene Quill, Jimmy Raney, Frank Rehak, Dannie Richmond, Larry Ridley, Ben Riley, Red Rodney, Mickey Roker, Sonny Rollins, Frank Rosolino, Roswell Rudd, Willie Ruff, Bill Russo, Don Sebesky, Bud Shank, Jack Sheldon, Sahib Shihab, Wayne Shorter, Horace Silver, Andy Simpkins, Zoot Sims, Jack Six, Jimmy Smith, Victor Sproles, Alvin Stoller, Frank Strazzeri, Ira Sullivan, Grady Tate, Arthur Taylor, Toots Thielemans, Edmund Thigpen, Bobby Timmons, Cal Tjader, Ross Tompkins, Cy Touff, Nick Travis, Stanley Turrentine, McCoy Tyner, Leroy Vinnegar, Cedar Walton, Wilbur Ware, Randy Weston, Bob Wilber, Phil Wilson, Jimmy Woode, Phil Woods, Reggie Workman, Eugene Wright, and Leo Wright. What do they have in common? They were all actively performing in the United States in 1960, the year I met Gerry. And they were all under the age of 35. And that is by no means a complete list.

Max Roach, Sonny Stitt, Terry Gibbs, Sarah Vaughan, Paul Desmond, and Shorty Rogers were 36, and other major figures, such as Dave Brubeck, Milt Jackson, and John Lewis were under 40. Indeed, if you add to the list all those under 40 who were at the peak of their powers, factor in all those who were not well known to a national public, such as Gene Allen, Wayne Andre, and Phil Bodner, all the excellent jazz players of Chicago, such as Jodie Christian, Eddie Higgins, and Larry Novak, whose names have never made it into the encyclopedias, and then remember that almost all the pioneering and founding figures, including Duke Ellington, Count Basie, Don Redman, Benny Carter, and Earl Hines, as well as such lesser figures as Frank Signorelli, were alive, you see that the depth of jazz in the United States in that year was astounding. The problem is that we took it for granted, and looked on genius as a commonplace.

By comparison, the current jazz revival is very shallow indeed and merely imitative. This is not to say that there are no excellent young players. But none of these figures is original, and whereas the Ellington music was a constant adventure in innovation and the bands of the 1940s were ceaselessly pushing into the future, all that is now embalmed in jazz repertory programs that concentrate on the music and styles of the past. The jazz of the past has become, truly, a classical music, disinterred from its original context.

You start to wonder if jazz has at last run its creative course, as Oscar Peterson a few years ago predicted it soon would. Not that the new reconstituted food doesn't contain nourishment for a younger audience that is just now discovering jazz. But it hasn't much savor to those who grew up in its great age of innovation and remember its unmistakable individualists. And Gerry Mulligan lived through almost the entire history of jazz. It is against that background that he should be understood[Emphasis, mine.]

To jazz musicians, of course, the question "Where is jazz going?" has always been anathema. But a new question arises: "Where has jazz gone?" I put it to Gerry. He replied: "Where jazz has gone relates to where the country has gone. It's pretty hard to separate the progress of one without taking the other into consideration.

"There are a number of things going on in our society that we wonder how they're going to turn out. We have no way of knowing what the effects are because we've become a society of guinea-pigs, trying out new technologies. We've had a whole century of it, and God knows where we are. A rather precarious psychic state. By that I mean the numbers of things that have changed, not just in the ways people live but in the ways their minds work.


"I've been conscious of it lately because, doing university level courses of jazz history, I've found it's very hard to get people to imagine the world that musicians inhabited in 1910 as compared to now. It's hard for people to imagine how different everyone's life was, how life must have been before there was artificial music being thrown at them from every side. All along the way, there were the good and bad accumulations of the various technologies and the industries that grew out of them and the effects that they've had. Many of the effects of the phonograph record and radio were the very elements that made jazz develop the way it did; they probably were responsible for making it into an art form and not just being forgotten as an offshoot of popular music, something of a passing character.

"There were, even early in the century, statements that jazz was immoral and would lead to the breakdown of society as we know it." He laughed. "Listen, with the outcome we see, the state of our popular music, they may well have been right.

"However, I make a big distinction between what jazz was and is and what's going on in popular music.

"At this end of the game, where big business is involved with exploiting
whatever available audiences there are - and you usually start with the kids now - they've affected people's thinking about what music is, what music should do, how music should be used, and what music sounds like. So, unless you take the one into consideration, you can't figure out the other.

"Sometimes, of course, I wonder if it's just the usual generational sour grapes. A young generation comes along and they tend to put down what you're doing. You look at 'em with a kind of jaundiced eye and say, 'Well, young whipper-snappers, in my day they said jazz was an immoral music and now they're saying it about rock.' After you examine that, one has to carry through to what has happened to the content and the intent of popular music. Two elements come to mind. One is the music itself, which, a great deal of the time, as you know if you ever see MTV, is calculated as a destructive force, breaking down the good old enemies, the middle class, the bourgeoisie, and all of those causes of all our troubles. It's a music that's based on raw emotion, or at least the illusion of raw emotion. This is very prevalent in that music, easy ecstasy. There's the matter of volume: if you do it loud enough it sounds like you're having fun. And distortion. The day that somebody discovered the intensity that happens to the sound of a guitar when you over amplify it, they created a new world of easy access to excitement. You don't have to work for it, you don't have to think about it, you don't have to develop a craft, man. It's there, it's built into the vacuum tubes and the transistors. The equipment.

"Then there is the actual content of the words. We see a couple of generations that have grown up on a dissatisfaction, a disaffection, with the society that produced them. You only have to watch sitcoms to realize that the parents are always bumbling idiots and the children are all smart-talking, wise-cracking little bastards. So we've got an odd view of what our culture is and should be. These forces don't give a damn. The people who are exploiting our kids don't care about the effect. In fact they'll fight to the death to prove to you that violence on television doesn't have anything to do with violence in the streets.

"If people are so busy convincing themselves of nonsense like that, how can you persuade them to assume responsibility for anything? This has become the key to our time. It's always: 'It's not my fault.' We have become a nation of victims. It's always somebody else's damn fault. This is what has led to all this political correctness crap. You mustn't hurt anybody's feelings! Bullshit, man. What has that got to do with the real world?"

"The television people," I said, "try to convince you that their commercials can alter public behavior by selling products, but the entertainment part of their programming can't. It's a contradiction in their position. It's nonsense."

"Well," Gerry said, "there's a lot of the texture of our social structure that is just as contradictory. This is why you can't say what is going to happen to jazz without observing the society that produces it.

"There are a couple of things that have come out of the educational things I have done. I've been very interested to learn how it appears to other people, usually younger than I am. People come to some of these college classes because they want to go to school or they're interested in the subject. But a lot of it has to do with students who are looking for an easy credit." He laughed.

"It's fascinating to see how people react to their own time, to see how aware they are that they're being ripped off, to see whether anything can be done about it, or to contemplate the future. There is a lot of questioning about where we're going. We see immense changes going on in the United States and don't know what to make of it all.


"One thing I do know: in the States, people are terribly insular. jazz musicians, a lot of us, travel around the world a lot, so we see a great deal more of the world than the average Statesider. We come home and realize that people have a very, very unrealistic view of the world. We're politically awfully naive, and we are being manipulated at all points by the press and various other special-interest groups. It's an oddity. I don't know whether to worry about the suppression and repression from the right or the left or whether just to accept them both as the enemy equally and try to protect my niche in the middle. Because I know that I am the enemy. Anyone who walks the middle ground is gonna have very strong enmity from both sides."

I mentioned that Nat Hentoff had written a new book whose subtitle is: "How the left and the right relentlessly censor each other."

Gerry said, "That's interesting that a writer like Nat should arrive at that, because when he was first writing, he was very much a writer of the left. My feeling was always: I don't care what color the uniform is and I don't care whether your ideology is leftist or rightist, man, when you come around and tell me what I can and can't do, it amounts to the same thing. I don't care if you're beating me up in the name of Lenin or Hitler, it hurts with the same kind of bruise."

I said, "I met someone to whom that actually happened, a Hungarian symphony conductor, I can't think of his name. He told me, 'I've had my nose broken twice, once by the Nazis and once by the Communists, and it felt exactly the same both times."'

"Perfect. I sometimes wonder if this is why Americans have dedicated themselves to such sloppy dress. Dress styles today have gotten to the point of grotesque. A lot of these things, it's very hard for me to get a grasp on. You read the expensive magazines and you see the advertisements of the expensive companies. Giorgio Armani, he's got these beautiful young men lying out on the beach - with torn jeans! Wait a minute, man? What are you trying to sell here?"

"Torn jeans," I said.

"Anything to be in!" Gerry said. "It's a peculiar time. But then I wonder what it must have been like to live through some of the strange transition periods of cities or countries. Germany in the '20s must have been an insane place to be. And then in the '30s, the insanity came out of the closet. There have been a lot of times like that, the idiocies. Look at Bosnia. What must it be like for intelligent people to live through this? Or Argentina under the colonels? We've had such insane things happen in the world. And I wonder why. Why? Why do people want to do that to each other?

"The Puritans of New England would meet strangers at the city limits, and if they were Quakers or Catholics, they'd grab them and put them to the stake, because they were heretics. And always with the admonition, 'I'm going to burn you at the stake, but understand, this is for your own good."'

I said, "You've got the same thing with the anti-abortion people on an overpopulated planet, what I call the kill-for-life crowd."

"Absolutely!" Gerry said. "It's taking on the kind of ridiculous stature that one would expect. This is why the whole movement for political correctness is a dangerous thing.

"It is the justification of the suppression of other people's rights and opinions in what appears to them to be a good cause. And I say, 'Whatever reason you burn me at the stake, I'm sorry, the cause is not good enough."'

I said, "We can't talk about jazz alone, I agree. We have to talk about the evolution of the big bands, the movie industry, network radio, which were all interlinked. Bands on radio, bands in the movies, playing songs from Broadway shows. Network radio, which young people today cannot grasp, was a major linking force in the American culture. . .

"Absolutely," Gerry said.

" . . . whereas later, disc jockey radio became a force of destruction."

"Absolutely. That's exactly what I'm talking about. The effect of radio in the early days, when it was still struggling to find its audience and find itself, was good. But the man who invented Top Forty radio. . .

"Todd Storz of New Orleans," I said.

"I'd rather not know his name," Gerry said. "I'd rather think of him as someone anonymous hanging by this thumbs somewhere."

"No, he's probably swinging in a penthouse. Or a mansion."

"It's rather remarkable," Gerry said. "He succeeded in destroying radio and music with one idea."


When I was at Down Beat, I met all the founding figures of jazz, most of whom were still alive. I had conversations with Duke Ellington, Coleman Hawkins, Don Redman, Ben Webster, Benny Carter, and many more. But Gerry not only knew them all, he recorded with a great many of them. What Gerry and I know of early jazz history comes largely from the people who made it.

I said, "When our generation is gone, there will be no more direct oral links. Future writers will be getting it all from secondary sources, such as newspaper and magazine clippings and previous books, some of the material very unreliable and sometimes downright wrong."

Gerry said: "I remember John Lewis and I walking down 55th Street
one day. We'd just left Gil Evans' place. John said, 'Gerry, there's one thing you've got to understand. Jazz as you and I know it and love it will die with our generation.' And I of course reacted with indignation, saying, 'How can you say that, John?' He just smiled like the sphinx and said, 'Remember this. We grew up playing with these men. We've had the chance to sit and play with them as professionals, we traveled with them, we know them, and knew how they thought and arrived at it. After we're gone, it will all be hearsay and records."'

I said, "Bill Crow told me once that the older musicians told him that on record sessions in the 1920s, drummers had to back off, because if they played hard, it would jump the cutting needle. So we can't really know how those rhythm sections sounded live."

"Sure," Gerry said. "Because of these lectures I've been giving, I've been doing a lot of listening to old things, in some cases to records I'd never heard before. I've become very conscious of what those drummers were doing. A lot of those dates through the'20s were done with brushes, brushes on a telephone book, anything to make an illusion of propulsion without knocking the needle off track. You seldom could hear the bass, which is mostly, I think, why the guys used tuba or bass saxophone, 'cause they had to be heard."

"Rollini, for one."

"Rollini was already into something else. He was a line player. I didn't remember hearing him. I probably did when I was a kid, because I listened to all those bands on the radio every night, and Rollini played with a couple of bands I remember hearing. But later on I had a record of Red Nichols' band, with Jimmy Dorsey on clarinet, Miff Mole on trombone, Adrian Rollini on bass sax, Joe Sullivan on piano, and I think it was Davey Tough on drums. There were two sides of an old ten-inch that Ion Eardley gave me. He said his father had made a copy for me. And it was 'The Battle Hymn of the Republic.' The first side starts out as a slow thing, with Joe Sullivan playing it as a kind of a blues piece. And you turn it over and they take it up and make it into a swing piece. And Adrian Rollini plays an entrance to his chorus on it, which knocked me over, because it sounds so much like an entrance of Charlie Parker's on 'Blues for Norman,' recorded on one of the Granz tours." Gerry sang the Parker passage. "It was almost the same phrase that Adrian had played on that record."

"Do you think he might have heard it?"

"That could be, because Bird was all ears when he was a kid."

"He said he hired Chet Baker because his playing reminded him of Bix."

"
I loved Louis's comment when he heard Bix. I have to paraphrase. He said they were aiming for the same thing. Which seemed very odd to people, because their styles were so totally different."

I said, "Everybody talks about how pretty Bix played. But he had a real sting on the edge of his tone."

"Oh yeah. But we can only have the impression we get from the records. This is something I was very conscious of, listening to the records he made with Frankie Trumbauer. Those were intricate arrangements. And they were intended to be - highly sophisticated music. And again, they suffered because they had to hold the rhythm section back. So it's likely that those things neither sounded nor felt quite the way they do on the records. Bix's sense of style and form alone were obviously unique. I would love to have heard his sound.

"You know, Bird had an incredible ability to sail through pretty complicated progressions, especially if the progressions were going somewhere not just a sequence of chords, but a true progression. I was listening to some Tatum records the other day and it suddenly dawned on me: I wonder how much time 
Bird spent listening to Tatum? Because Tatum could do that. He could do the damnedest transitions, and the damnedest alterations. It will make your hair stand on end! And even when he was doing it fast, it was such a remarkable sounding thing.

"Bird had a tremendous amount of facility in a lot of directions. He had so much facility, I've always thought he really didn't know what to do to survive. He didn't know how to be a beginner again. He needed to move on from where he was. It wasn't satisfying enough. And he became more and more frustrated. He loved a lot of different kinds of music. He loved things like Debussy's Children's Corner. Whenever he would come by Gil's place, he would want to listen to some parts of the Children's Corner."

"I was told he loved Prokofiev's Scythian Suite."

"Oh God yes! We were all hooked on the Scythian Suite. It was the Chicago Symphony, and it was a dynamite recording of it. It's a wonderful, dynamic piece. It was a youthful piece of Prokofiev's. There are a few pieces that different composers wrote around the time The Rite of Spring was written, but so much has been said about the outrage caused by The Rite of Spring, this supposedly chaotic music, that people didn't pay much attention to other pieces. And I think the Scythian Suite is one of those. But it's a piece that just swings relentlessly from beginning to end. It has a momentum, a forward propulsion to it, through all the movements, through tempo changes and everything. And that particular recording was very good. I've heard a lot of recordings of it since then, but it's impossible to get that one any more. Every time I see a recording of it, I buy it. But I'm always disappointed. I say,’ That’s the wrong tempo!' One man's opinion."

And he laughed at himself, as he was wont to do.

If some of those in the audience now in its forties, growing jaded with a rock and-roll that has now survived for 40 years - four times as long as the big band era - are discovering jazz and saying "Oh wow!" to young players whose every influence Mulligan and other older jazz musicians can instantly detect, that's all right. Imitative jazz will doubtless continue for some time.

But Gerry's generation lived through an era of innovators, Hines and Tatum and Wilson and Cole and Powell and Evans, Hawkins and Webster and Young, Armstrong and Berigan and James and Dizzy and Miles, Redman and Carter and Sauter and Evans, each with a thumbprint you could not miss. The experienced ear can detect Benny Carter in two bars; no one of the new generation has that kind of individuality.

I try to resist thinking about the 1960s, but sometimes I can't help it, and I remember all the friends Gerry and I have lost, including Zoot and Mel Lewis and Nick Travis and Willie Dennis, all of whom were in Gerry's Concert jazz Band.

When I wrote a piece about the end of the big-band era, which is in my book Singers and the Song, I used a phrase of Johnny Mercer's "Early Autumn" lyric. I called it "Pavilion in the Rain."

This essay, Gerry told me later, caused him to write a tune he called "I Heard the Shadows Dancing." Then Nancy Marano told Gerry she wanted to record the tune. Gerry called and asked me to put a lyric on it. And so I did. I remembered seeing abandoned pavilions on beaches and in parks, where the Ferris wheels no longer turned. I used those images in it.

Gerry was even slimmer than in his youth, but he wore a beard, and the strawberry blond hair had gone as white as paper. Did he have regrets? Who doesn't? I daresay he regretted that he and Miles Davis never got to do the tour they had planned to perform the Birth of the Cool music. Miles got sick, precluding it, and Gerry toured without him.

Another regret, apparently, was our abandoned Diamond Jim Brady project. A few years ago I asked if he still had the music. He had lost it. The lyrics? I lost them. The script? Gone.

"We should have finished it," he said on the phone one day.

Other regrets?

"I wish I'd gone to music school."

Then, in early November 1995, Gerry's current quartet went on a jazz cruise of the Caribbean on the SS Norway. For months rumors had been circulating that his health was failing rapidly. I heard he was undergoing chemotherapy in Boston. Gerry would tell me it was for treatment of a liver condition consequent of a case of hepatitis years ago.

Phil Woods was on the cruise, performing in the same week as Gerry's group. Phil and Gerry had had their collisions, both of them being very crusty Irishmen. Gerry once hired and fired Phil on the same evening, and at one point he called Phil an Irish drunk, which infuriated Phil at the time. As Phil said to me on the ship, "Talk about the pot calling the kettle green!" (In recent years, neither of them drank anything at all.) They reconciled, of course, and Phil is on the 1992 Re-birth of the Cool album Gerry did. Phil also said on the ship: "I love Gerry."

Johnny Mandel came along as a passenger, just to hang with his friends, and the week developed into that, a hangout of Mandel, Phil, Gerry, and me. But Gerry was very weak. His skin now had a transparent look: the veins in his hands stood out quite blue. And he was in a wheelchair much of the time, using a cane the rest of it.

There is a theater on that ship that I don't particularly like. It gives me what Woody Herman used to call the clausters. But I could not miss Gerry's performance there. He hobbled on-stage and sat on a stool. And the quartet began to play. It was one of the finest groups Gerry ever led. And it was some of the finest and most inventive playing I ever heard from Gerry in the 36 years of our friendship, not to mention the years long before we met, when his Us were high on the list of my favorite records.


The rapport of the group was amazing, particularly Gerry's telepathic communication with the outstanding pianist Ted Rosenthal. I was in awe of what I heard. It had a compositional integrity beyond anything I have ever heard in jazz. From anyone. I do not know what was going on in Gerry's mind, perhaps the atmospheric awareness of his mortality. It is not that his playing was abandoned, although it certainly was free: it was as if he had a total control of it that he had been seeking all his life. There was one piece that he played in which the byplay with Rosenthal left me with my jaw hanging down. I don't even know its name; one of Gerry's pieces. For certainly he was one of the greatest composers in the history of jazz, as well as its primary baritone soloist. Yes, I have known other baritone players who soloed well; but none of them had Gerry's immense compositional knowledge and instinct. So exquisite was the structure of what he, and bassist Dean Johnson and drummer Ron Vincent did, that, afterwards, I told him, "Gerry, I am not sure that this should any longer be called jazz. It seems to be some kind of new end-of-the-century improvised classical music." Franca told me later that he quoted that with pleasure several times.

There were to be two performances by the group that evening. Leaving the theater, I ran into Phil Woods and Johnny Mandel. Both of them felt as I did: they couldn't endure a second performance. Such was the tearing of emotions in two directions: ecstasy at the level of Gerry's music and agony at the frailty of his health. Next day he asked us all to come by his room. And we went up to the top deck. Gerry was never enamored of the sun: with his blond, now white, eyelashes, its glare bothered him. But we went up, and I took a camera. Franca photographed the four of us. There were days in the 1960s when you could have found the four of us together in Jim and Andy's bar in New York, one of the favorite hangouts of jazz musicians in the 1960s. Mandel and Gerry had been friends since they were habitués of that Gil Evans pad on
West 55th Street. As Franca took the pictures, I think we were thinking the same thing, that the four of us would never be together again.

On New Year's Eve, the last evening of 1995, he was cheerful and said he was feeling well and lectured me a little about taking care of my own health. Had I been fully alert, I would have realized that that call - warm and affectionate, more overtly so than was typical of Gerry - was a farewell. I later learned he had called Bill Holman, Johnny Mandel, and other friends about the same time.

On the morning of 20 January 1996, I received a telephone call from Franca. When I heard her voice, with its slight Italian accent, I asked, "How's Gerry?"


And Franca said quite softly, "Gerry's dead." She paused for a breath, then said, "He died a few hours ago." As she told me later, he slipped away between 10.45 p.m. and 11 p.m. on the night of 19 January.

I burst into tears at her words. Yes, yes, I should have known. He had been lying to all of us. Why didn't Gerry admit to his friends us that he had liver cancer? Perhaps he wanted no sympathy. When our close friend Paul Desmond was terminally ill with cancer, Gerry had kept me posted on his condition. It seems that all the highways to New York City's main airports run past cemeteries, and Paul left orders that he be cremated, saying with that sardonic wit of his that he didn't want to be a monument on the way to the airport. Perhaps Gerry didn't want to hear the hushed voice of solicitous inhibition in conversations with his friends. Whatever his reasons, he didn't reveal his true condition, and so I was at the same moment quite unsurprised and totally surprised by her news. Certainly I was shattered, and it was for more reasons than the loss of a friend. As you grow older, you get, if not inured, at least accustomed to such tidings.

But she had lost her husband, and I tried to control my feelings out of concern for her. Then she said, "Gerry always thought of you as his brother. He would say, 'I have to talk to Gene about this. He'll know what I mean."' And that only made matters worse; I cried quite helplessly after that. I wanted to get off the phone, but Franca wanted to talk, and the least I could do was listen.

She told me something Gerry had said to her that will remain with me as long as I live. He said, "A life without ethics is meaningless."

Gerry could be feisty; and he did not suffer fools gladly. But he was at heart a kind, warm man.

The best evaluation of Gerry that I saw in print after he died was a column by Robert Fulford in the Globe and Mail. He noted that Gerry's "boyish eagerness" made him always eager to participate in whatever kind of jazz was being played, and quoted Whitney Balliett's wonderful remark that Gerry would "sit in with a treeful of cicadas."

Fulford wrote of the first Mulligan quartet's "inventive charm and rueful humor." He said:

Over about seven years, the Mulligan quartets demonstrated that there were
more possibilities in jazz than anyone had imagined, not all of them necessarily momentous. His own tunes were amiably sophisticated essays, musical equivalents of James Thurber's stories or Ogden Nash's poems. The sounds Mulligan made colored their era. And when I heard the original records ... four days ago, they sounded as fresh as they did more than four decades ago.

Gerry Mulligan ... was a catalyst, a splendid performer who was also the cause
of splendid performances by others. John Lewis ... once remarked that Mulligan's influence was so vast and general that it became hard to spot. It melted into the music of the time, became part of the climate.

Yes. What began with Gil went out to the whole world. Including Brazil.

On that New Year's Eve 1995, Gerry told me how much he loved my lyric to "I Hear the Shadows Dancing.""It makes me cry," he said. The lyric is about the vanished big-band era that nurtured and shaped him.


On 12 February 1996, a memorial service was held in New York at Saint Peter's Church. It was titled A Celebration of the Life of Gerry Mulligan. Many of his old friends and musical associates, including Clark Terry, John Lewis, Chico Hamilton, Dave Grusin, Jackie and Roy Kral, Art Farmer, Bill CrowDave Bailey, Lee Konitz, and more, performed. George Shearing and Dave Brubeck, with whom Gerry had often toured, played piano solos. The speakers included George Wein, Herb Gardner, Elliot Lawrence, and Alan and Marilyn Bergman.

I couldn't be there. Franca arranged that the last song Gerry and I wrote be performed, the lyric he told me on New Year's Eve made him cry. It was sung by Annette Saunders, accompanied by Ted Rosenthal on piano. I realized later that I had written it on 13 February 1991, five years and one day earlier. The lyric goes:

A ferris wheel abandoned,
a silent roller coaster,
a peeling carousel
whose painted horses revolve no more.

Within a grove of willows,
in shadows made by moonlight,
a dance pavilion dreams,
its shutters fastened, the music gone.

It dreams of bygone dancers
Who filled the floor with motion
And fell in love to songs
that almost no one remembers now.

The ferris wheel reverses,
the carousel runs backwards.
The horses start to prance,
the roller coaster begins to roar.

Then softly from a distance
the blended sound of trumpets,
and saxophones and drums.
A wondrous music returns and then
I hear the shadows dancing once again.





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



“Gerry … was enormously knowledgeable and skilled in harmonic structure and chord changes — all of that. He could solo in a very linear fashion as well, but he may have wanted to play in a more vertical way because we didn't have a piano. He played the piano sometimes himself, and although he wasn't a great pianist, he knew what he wanted to do on the in­strument. On baritone he was amazing, but sometimes it was a little hard to play with him, especially on a double-time thing where he would blow so many notes that he would get behind the time. I would be scuffling along, try­ing to drag him with me, but that was because of that big, awkward horn he was playing. Unlike an alto or tenor, it takes a long time for the air to get through. I have great respect for him both as a writer and a player.”
- drummer Larry Bunker as told to author Gordon Jack

“… it was Gerry's inimitable presence that drove and de­fined the character and flavor of the group, and I loved working with it. I couldn't wait to get to work each night, because it was great being out there, totally exposed to the challenge of inventing melodically interesting bass lines, strong enough to eliminate harmonic ambiguity and simple enough to swing. I thrived on that challenge!

Of course Gerry's abilities as an accompanist were phenomenal, and he had that vast pool of ideas to draw upon, from all those years as an arranger. His forte was building spontaneous arrangements, because he was something of an architect. It was really exciting to walk a bass line and discover him moving along a tenth above, totally enhancing the whole effect. He always had his ears open and expected the same from his cohorts. With all due respect to the other guys, without Gerry's accompaniment, there is no Gerry Mulligan Quartet.”
- bassist Bob Whitlock as told to author Gordon Jack

“Mulligan was one of the quintessential jazz musicians of his genera­tion. As much as the silhouette of Dizzy and his upturned trumpet, the image of bone-thin Mulligan, tall enough to dominate the baritone, his hair country-boy red (before it turned great-prophet white) had an iconic familiarity.  … No musician in the postbop era was more adept at crossing boundaries. Though a confirmed mod­ernist credited with spreading the amorphous notion of cool jazz, he achieved some of his finest work in collaborations with his swing era idols Ben Webster and Johnny Hodges; he displayed a photograph of Jack Teagarden in his studio.

Mulligan fashioned a music in which all aspects of jazz commingle, from Dixieland two-beats and polyphony to foxtrot swing to modern harmonies, yet he remained something of an outsider, set apart by his devotion to certain not always fashionable musical principles, including lyricism and civility. By lyricism, I mean an allegiance to melody that, in his case, was as natural as walking. …

By civility, I mean his compositional focus on texture. Mulligan was chiefly celebrated as a baritone saxophonist, for good reason. He is the only musician in history to win a popular following on that instrument, the only one to successfully extend the timbre of Harry Carney and de­velop an improvisational style in the horn's upper range. … the baritone best expressed his warmth, humor, and unerring ear for sensuous fabrics of sounds. Yet he insisted he was less interested in playing solos than an ensemble music— even in the context of his quartet. He was, as he proved from the beginning of his career, a master of blending instruments.”
- Garry Giddins, Visions of Jazz

“Gerry Mulligan lived through almost the entire history of jazz. It is against that background that he should be understood.”
– Gene Lees

In compiling information from a number of highly regarded Jazz sources and configuring them into a five-part feature on Gerry Mulligan [you can locate the first, four pieces in the sidebar of the blog], it has been the intent of the editorial staff at JazzProfiles to create a broad outline for a comprehensive and critical [i.e.discerning] biography of Jeru and his music.

Over the span of this five-part feature, we have enlisted in the service of this cause, writings about Mulligan by such Jazz luminaries as [these are not listed in any particular order]: Gene Lees, Garry Giddins, Nat Hentoff, Bill CrowTed Gioia, Doug Ramsey, Bill Kirchner, Ira GitlerBob Gordon, Gunther Schuller, Pete Clayton, Burt Korall, Whitney Balliett, Michael Cuscuna, Dom Cerulli, Martin Williams and Alain Tercinet.

This listing is by no means exhaustive and no doubt excludes other important essays and articles about Gerry Mulligan.

Astoundingly and not withstanding the 100+ pages of manuscript contained in the five JazzProfiles Mulligan features and the fact that Gerry is the subject of a permanent exhibit at the Library of Congress, there remains no definitive book length treatment on the career and music of Gerry Mulligan!

Our thanks to Gordon Jack for allowing us to use his interview with Gerry in Part Five of our feature about one of the most influential figures in the history of Jazz.

Bill Crow, himself one of the subjects in Gordon Jack’s Fifties Jazz Talk, An Oral Perspective [LanhamMaryland: The Scarecrow Press, 2004, refers to Gordon, as “… one of the jazz world’s most skillful interviewers. He asks all the right questions and then gets out of the way, letting his subjects reveal themselves.”

I’m sure you will agree with Bill’s assessment after reading Gordon’s interview with Gerry Mulligan, who reveals things about himself and his career that I never knew before reading their 1994 talk.

[We have refrained from populating Gordon’s piece with photos as none were interspersed in the original chapter.]

Fifties Jazz Talk: An Oral Perspective [LanhamMaryland: The Scarecrow Press, 2004, pp. 143-153].

© -Gordon Jack/Scarecrow Press. Used with the author’s permission. Copyright protected, all rights reserved.

“Gerry Mulligan was born on April 6, 1927, in QueensNew York City. By the time he was seventeen, he was contributing arrangements to Johnny War­rington’s band for their broadcasts on WCAU, a local radio station in Philadelphia. Over the next few years his writing for Elliot Lawrence, Gene Krupa, Claude Thornhill, Miles Davis, and Stan Kenton showed him to be one of the best of the young postwar generation of arrangers. Although he played in all those bands except for Kenton’s, he was far better known as a writer than as an instrumentalist. It was not until his move to California in 1952 and the formation of his first quartet that he really started to develop as a bari­tone soloist. We met on two occasions at his suite in London’s Ritz Hotel in May 1994, and we concentrated on his career until the demise of the Concert Jazz Band in 1964. I hoped to continue our discussion at a later date, but Gerry died on January 20, 1996.

In the late forties I played in a group with Kai Winding, Brew Moore, and George Wallington, in clubs like Bop City in New York. We also recorded quite a lot, and we visited Kansas City in 1947, which is where I first met Bob Brookmeyer, when he sat in on valve trombone. At the same time I was play­ing and writing for Elliot Lawrence, and I was featured in a quintet from within the band, with Phil Urso on tenor. When I wrote “Elevation” for Elliot, he claimed a joint‑composer credit, which was the convention with band­leaders in those days, but it was my tune. A little later that band became very good when he had Charlie Walp on lead trumpet with Ollie Wilson and the Swope brothers on trombone. Those guys were known as the “Washington brass section,” and Herbie Steward was there, too, on lead alto. I remember walking into a rehearsal when they were playing one of my charts, with Tiny Kahn on drums, and it was the first time I heard a big band make my things sound really great. The first time that happened with a small group was Georgie Auld’s little band, with Serge Chaloff and Red Rodney.

For the Miles Davis nonet I actually arranged seven of the twelve numbers that were recorded, although I have seen most of them credited to somebody else over the years. There were two other titles not included on the Birth of the Cool album, “S’il Vous Plait” and “Why Do I Love You?” which were John Lewis arrangements. You may have heard that Miles wanted another trumpet to play lead so that he could concentrate on soloing, but that is quite untrue. He didn’t want to know about another trumpeter, and remember, if we had someone else on lead, they would have phrased the band into another area. Miles wanted to do it his way, and I wanted him to do it his way. If you were writing for him in that band, you knew exactly where you were, and I only wish I had written more for it.’

A lot of these things seem easy in retrospect, because in 1992 we went on the road with the “Rebirth of the Cool” band and worked with those charts. That’s really why I did it, because I finally wanted an insight into those pieces, to see where we might have taken them. Before the tour I thought a lot about the in­strumentation, because I didn’t see any reason to be nailed to Miles’s nine-­piece. The Tentet arrangements I had from California, for instance, had mo trumpets and two baritones, and I liked the idea of two baritones. You can have them playing unison in the ensemble, and it’s like a cello section, which is fun I really wanted a baritone doubling clarinet, but finding somebody to do both became a problem. Ken Peplowski was supposed to be with us, and he was a nice guy and a beautiful player, but I didn’t want to push him into switching from tenor to baritone. Unfortunately on the day of rehearsal, he telephoned ill say that he’d been running for a plane at a small airport somewhere when he slipped on the wet tarmac and broke his ankle. That’s when I got Mark Lope­man, who is a fine musician, and he had done a lot of the transcribing for me.
Getting back to Miles’s band, we originally wanted to have Danny Polo or clarinet, but he was on the road with Claude Thornhill all the time. During most of the years of Thornhill’s success, he had two clarinets, Irving Fazola and Danny Polo, and they both had this great wood sound because they played “Albert” system. This was not “Benny Goodman” clarinet you know: we’re talking about something much darker and richer, which were the timbres we were looking for. Anyway, Gil Evans and I decided not to me‑s,, around with the clarinet if we couldn’t have Danny. Miles liked the idea Av having a singer, so he had his friend Kenny Hagood sing a couple of number, one of which, “Dam That Dream,” was recorded. For the 1992 “Rebirth” tour I rewrote that arrangement, although what I actually did was to finish it. because I wrote it in too much of a hurry for Miles. The other ballad we featured on the tour was “Good‑bye John,” which I dedicated to Johnny Mercer.

Before I left the East Coast for California in 1951, I had already started ex­perimenting with a piano-less rhythm section, using trumpeters like Don Joseph [tpt], Jerry Lloyd [tpt], or Don Ferrara [tpt], with Peter Ind on bass and Al Levitt on drums. It was actually Gail Madden who suggested the idea. She played pi­ano and percussion, and as a matter of fact I’ve recently been trying to find out what happened to her. It was her experiments that helped me when I got to L.A., since I already had an idea of what would and wouldn’t work. The last record date I did before leaving New York was in September for Prestige, playing my compositions with Allen Eager [ts] and George Wallington [p], among others. Gail played maracas on some titles, but the atmosphere was spoilt by Jerry Lloyd, who couldn’t pass up the opportunity of making jokes about her boobs bouncing up and down when she played. Jerry was an old‑guard male chauvinist and couldn’t help it, but after a while, I sent the band home except for the saxes. I didn’t want to do that thing with just Allen and me, but I had to complete the album.’

I decided to leave New York because the drug scene was a little out of con­trol and the work was rapidly drying up, so I sold my horns and Gail and I hitchhiked to California. I did a little work along the way, using borrowed horns, mostly tenors, and I remember playing in a cowboy band outside Al­buquerque for a while. I was lucky, because I knew a guy who was teaching at the university there, and he helped us keep body and soul together. When we reached L.A., I sold some arrangements to Stan Kenton, thanks to Gail, who arranged the introduction through her friendship with Bob Graettinger. She was really responsible for Graettinger’s survival up to that point, because he was nearly “done for” with alcohol, but when I met him, he was absolutely straight. I liked him a lot, and he was in the thick of a reworked “City of Glass,” and he was also writing a cello and a horn concerto. As a matter of fact, I had heard the original “City of Glass” when they were rehearsing at the Paramount Theater in New York a couple of years before.


When I first got to L.A., I did some playing with Shorty Rogers at Balboa with Art Pepper, Wardell Gray, Coop, and June Christy. Shorty was very good and always used me whenever he could, and I remember Bob Gordon was around at that time, and I liked him a lot. I soon met Dick Bock, who was in charge of publicity at the Haig, and I started working there with Paul Smith, who was the leader on the off‑nights, when the main attraction had a night off. We worked opposite Erroll Garner’s trio, and when he left, they brought in Red Norvo with Tal Farlow and Charles Mingus. That’s when I took over as leader on the off‑nights, using Jimmy Rowles until I got the quartet together with Chet Baker, Bob Whitlock, and Chico Hamilton. I had encountered Chet at jam sessions in the San Fernando Valley, so when it came time to put the group together, I wanted to see how he would work out. Gail had already told me about Chico, who was just finishing a gig with Charlie Barnet’s seven‑ or eight‑piece band at the Streets of Paris down on Hollywood Boulevard. Car­son Smith took over from Bob later, and being an arranger, a lot of the good ideas in the early quartet were his. For instance the way we did “Funny Valen­tine,” with that moving bass line which really makes the arrangement, was Carson’s idea. Chico thought of doing some a cappella singing behind Chet on a couple of numbers, but Chet never sang solo with the quartet. We played opposite Red Norvo for a while, then went up to the Blackhawk in San Fran­cisco for a few weeks before returning to the Haig, this time as the main at­traction.

Bernie Miller wrote “Bernie’s Tune,” but I never knew him. As far as I know, he was a piano player from WashingtonD.C., and I think he had died by the time I encountered any of his tunes. He had a melodic touch, and he wrote a couple of other pieces that musicians liked to play. The recording company wanted to put “Bernie’s Tune” in my name but I refused, because I always objected to bandleaders putting their names to something that wasn’t theirs, so I wasn’t going to do it to Bernie Miller whether I knew him or not I told them to find out if he had a family so that the money could go to his heirs. If he didn’t have one, I would have claimed it to stop it going into the public domain. A few years later Lieber and Stoller wrote a lyric for it, which I thought was a little presumptuous; I hated the damn thing. They were nice enough fellows, but I really resented them doing that.

Chico liked using brushes, because he was an admirer of the great brush artists like Jo Jones, who was incredible ‑ also Gus Johnson and Shadow Wilson. It would be a mistake, though, to think that the records are a total indi­cation of what the group sounded like, because the drummer didn’t always use brushes, even though a lot of the pieces were recorded that way. You know, when you examine the recordings of the twenties, you find that Bessie Smith never used a drummer at all, but nobody ever comments on that. Until it was possible to isolate instruments through multi-tracking, a set of drums was hard to balance with the rest of the band. This was especially so with cymbals. A lot of recordings, even in the forties, had cymbals that tended to drown the main attraction, hence the beauty of brushes in recording. I remember when we first started rehearsing in Chet’s house down in Watts or somewhere in southeast L.A., Chico would just use a snare, standing tom‑tom, stand cymbal, and a hi‑hat, and that’s all, but when I looked in his trunk as he packed to go to the Haig for our first date, he had a whole set of drums. I said, “Where are you going with those?” and he said, “We’re going to work.” “Oh, no you’re not,” I said. “This is not what you rehearsed with. I don’t want to get to the club and find a surprise waiting for me.” So he came to work with the very minimum kit; then, as time went on, he figured out he could add to the set without changing the sound. It was always a kit geared to what we had rehearsed with and not a whole big band set of drums.

Very little of what we played was written, although my originals sometimes were. Chet and I often put the arrangements together driving to the Haig, which is how we did “Carioca,” for instance. He used to like singing the parts as we drove from his house, and we worked out that arrangement by singing t. A lot of movie people used to come and see us at the Haig, and one of the most regular was Jim Backus (Mr. Magoo), who often brought his buddy David Wayne. Mel Ferrer and Anne Baxter also used to come, and in fact, Anne had the quartet over to play at her birthday party.

Some months after our first records were released, Stan Getz showed up, playing at the Tiffany club with Bob Brookmeyer and John Williams, who was a good piano player. Stan used to sit in with us at the Haig, and I re­member a jam session at somebody’s house, probably Chet’s, where Stan, Bob, Chet, and I were the front line, and we worked really well, improvising on ensemble things that were great. Stan decided that we should all go out to­gether as a group, only he wanted it to be his group. Musically it was too bad that we couldn’t do it, but personality‑wise, I don’t think it would have worked. Stan was peculiar; if things were going along smoothly, he had to do something to louse them up, usually at someone else’s expense.

Early in 1953 we did the tentet album, and because I didn’t think Chet wanted to play lead, I brought in Pete Candoli so that he didn’t have that re­sponsibility. In the event, Chet wound up playing most of the lead parts any­way, so I had Pete, who was a high‑note man, on second trumpet! Somehow this myth has grown that Chet couldn’t read music, but people love myths. It’s more fun that way. There are lots of myths about Chet and the gothic, ro­mantic life he lived and died; it’s grist for that whole “Dark Prince” mode.

Both Dave Brubeck and Paul Desmond had recommended Dick Collins as a good replacement for Chet when I was reforming the quartet at the end of 1953, but he wasn’t available. By this time I had become angry with L.A. any­way, so I telephoned Bob Brookmeyer in New York and asked him to come out to California for rehearsals, and bring some New York musicians with him. Bringing guys from the East was obviously expensive, but after rehearsals, we only had a couple of dates booked before going back to the East Coast to work. He arrived with Bill Anthony and Frank Isola, who had both been with Stan Getz. Before leaving town, we did our one and only engagement with the ten­tet at the Embassy Theater in downtown L.A., and that was quite an experi­ence. When I looked through the curtains at 8 o’clock, it seemed as though we had bombed out, because there was hardly anyone in the house. We decided to get the show underway when someone came backstage very excitedly telling w to wait, because people were lined up around the block. Apparently, the newspaper advertisement for the concert quoted the wrong time. We wound up with a full house, and it really was quite an evening. It was so exciting that some fans stole a couple of the books, including mine, and it was at that point that we started to be more careful with the music.

I had a second baritone as well as the tuba in the tentet, because they do different things, although the baritone is used in today’s big band setup as if it were a tuba, but it’s not at all. However, I’ve finally realized that I don’t need a tuba, because laying in all those bottom notes gets in the bass player’s way. Later on, when I was organizing the Concert Jazz Band, I had intended to include a tuba, but at that point, there was nobody I could count on who could cut the book to go on the road with us. The third trombone was sup­posed to be a tuba, so Alan Raph came in on bass trombone. What I really wanted was Bob Brookmeyer, bass trombone, and tuba, which would have given me a complete scale and palette, starting at the bottom and going chromatically to the clarinet on top. I could have used flutes, but they depended on amplification to be heard in that kind of band, and I didn’t want to me­ss with that. I would have liked to have a couple of clarinets or possibly a soprano sax and maybe even C trumpets to sustain higher tones.

When the quartet reached New York early in 1954, I replaced Bill Anthony with Red Mitchell, who was one of the best bass players I’ve had. Frank Isola was with me for most of that year, and his thing really was to play time and keep out of the way, which worked out alright. Most of the drummers approached the quartet like that, which I accept. I hired guys because I liked the way they played, and Frank’s approach established a precedent for the bard, whether I wanted it or not. It’s not quite what I wanted, because I would rather have had a little more activity or aggression in the rhythm section.

I had become used to playing with drummers like Max Roach, and when we were in Kai Winding’s group, he was wonderfully considerate, thinking like an arranger by injecting melodic interest into what was going on. Very few drummers could do that. Most of them were aggressive but didn’t add musical things that a writer would appreciate, and as a soloist, I didn’t appreciate it either. Everyone should be working together, and if anything, soloist should dictate where the solo goes. If you were playing with Buddy Rich or Art Blakey, for instance, and they felt it was time for the soloist to be pushing and getting into something climatic, they’d start pushing, whether you were ready or not. Max didn’t do that because he listened to the soloist and that is the kind of player I would have really welcomed.

That was one of the reasons why I always had problems with drummers,  I needed somebody who was walking a thin line between playing the non-aggressive smooth thing that, say, Lennie Tristano wanted, where the drumm­er just kept time without any comments, but on the other hand, not dropping bombs all over the place. Even Chico used to do that, which is one of the rea­sons I took his bass drum away from him. He did it in Charlie Barnet’s band and I said, “I’ll kill him if he does that to me!” You have to remember that we were a totally acoustic group, and getting a balance to include the bass in the overall sound meant coming pretty far down in volume. I always needed a drummer who thought in terms of the ensemble sound, which is why Dave Bailey and Gus Johnson played the way they did with the quartet. Now if a drummer has a way of doing that and being busy, like Mel Lewis, for in­stance, that’s fine. Mel never actually played with the quartet, which is a pity, because he carried on that chattering conversation underneath your playing which I always liked. There would be punctuations, and it would relate in a way that meant something in the construction. Gus Johnson’s feel with the group was a lot different, but I had remembered how polished he was from seeing him with Count Basie. He was fun, and he loved playing brushes. As time went on, I was after drummers to play louder and use more sticks, but I never really pressed the point.

Later on in 1954 I was between trumpets and trombones, since I needed a replacement for Bob Brookmeyer, and being in the East, I decided to try Tony Fruscella. Now Tony had that fuzzy, introverted tone that Chet had, although Chet’s was more outgoing while Tony’s was very inwardly directed. It sounded nice, but one concert at the Newport Jazz Festival was enough for me to realize that having Tony traveling with me and being onstage together night after night would have driven me crazy. He lived in a world of his own, and when someone is a real introvert, it can take all your strength just to sur­vive. They seem to have a magnet sucking in your energy but nothing comes out, which is what shyness does to people. For the professional life of con­certs in a band that works and travels, your energy has to be up for it, and you can’t live in a world of your own because you have to deal with the real world. Having a guy like Tony meant I had to deal for myself and him too. It was too bad it didn’t work out, because he was such a lovely player, but he just did that one concert with me.

It’s funny because Stan Kenton was the M.C. at Newport that year, and he always had the amazing ability of giving a speech that sounded so serious. You would be listening attentively, until you suddenly realized that he’s not saying anything! I don’t know how he did it, but it was all delivered with such oratorical sincerity that you felt it was your fault for missing the point. To­wards the end of that year, I recorded some titles with John Graas and Don Fagerquist in California. I loved the way Don played, and he would have been an ideal trumpeter for the quartet, but he wasn’t available when I needed him. At the end of 1954 I disbanded the quartet to go home to New York and write some new music.

In 1955 I  sometimes played as a guest in Chet Baker’s group, and I seem to remember a date in Detroit with him and Mose Allison. I also worked at Basin Street for a few weeks with Al Cohn, Gil Evans, George Duvivier, and Herb Wasserman. Now Stan Getz was around the comer at Birdland, and he drove Al crazy. Every time he was free and we were playing, he would come and watch Al from the Peanut Gallery, staring up at him and making him feel uncomfortable.’ What he really wanted was to take Al’s mouthpiece and have it copied over at Otto Link’s. Al kept refusing, but Stan pestered him for about ten nights until he finally gave in. They met during the day, and Stan had it copied so that he could get a sound like Al’s.

Later on that year I formed the sextet, and initially Idrees Sulieman was on trumpet, but he just did a couple of dates with us because we had a hard time getting together on a style for the ensemble. I think he was an interesting choice, and the group would have sounded a lot different, but we weren’t comfortable with each other, because our stylistic approach wasn’t compati­ble. I have often wondered what the sextet would have sounded like if we had aimed it in that direction. We ran the group for quite a while, although I don’t remember all the reasons for not continuing with it. Zoot Sims may have wanted to leave, because a soloist like that would have found it to be a strait-jacket after a while, and I certainly didn’t try to replace him; Zoot was Zoot.

After the sextet I was “between groups,” and “between everything” at this point. I was really at a low ebb, having had enough of being a bandleader for a while, because being the leader can be a pain in the neck. You have to lay out the focus of the thing, decide what to play, and arrange the transportation and hotels as well. There have been periods when I have been fed up and looked for somebody else’s band to play with, which happened much later when I worked with Dave Brubeck. I was just going to be a soloist on one date; then we played in Mexico. One thing led to another, and I became the saxophone player who came to dinner and didn’t leave for about seven years!  In 1956 I did a little campaigning for Adlai Stevenson, who was the Democratic nominee for the presidency, when he ran unsuccessfully against Ike.  The following year, I worked a little with Mose Allison, and I think that Chet and I took a group out together, although it was primarily his group. We  a recorded a couple of albums, but there was never any talk of us getting together permanently. Over the next couple of years I did a lot of recording. I remember a session with Manny Albam, which was a nice L.P. with a good group musicians, and it was fun playing in the ensembles. [Jazz Greats of Our Time, Vol. 1, Coral CRL 57173].

I did a date with Stan Getz which Norman Granz wanted us to do [Stan Getz Meets Gerry Mulligan in Hi Fi, Verve 849 392 2]. He was recording Stan, but you can ­tell from the material that we really didn’t have anything prepared. The jam session idea is alright, but it has never been my bag, and it wasn’t my idea to switch horns on some numbers; Stan or Norman suggested it. I liked Zoot’s and Brew Moore’s mouthpieces, but I never liked Stan’s, and I didn’t like the sound I got on it.  I did an album with Monk, and having Thelonious as an accompanist was a challenge [Gerry Mulligan Meets Thelonious Monk, OJCCD  20 310-2]. We only played together a couple of times, but I remember a jam session I finally dragged him to, where we played “Tea for Two” and one other tune all night. He was trying to get us to play “Tea for Two” the way Tatum played it, where the progression goes up and then down in semi‑tones, and we had to try and follow him. In the mid fifties we lived near each other in New York, hence my original “Good Neighbor Thelo­nious,” because he lived on 63rd and I was on 68th Street near Columbus.

I also recorded with Paul Desmond, who always wanted to do the piano­-less quartet thing, with the alto playing lead instead of trumpet [Gerry Mulligan-Paul Desmond Quartet, Verve 519-850-2]. Dick Bock produced an album with me, Lee Konitz, Al, Zoot, and Allen Eager, which he called The Mulligan Songbook, Volume 1 [CDP 7243 8 33575 2 9] although I told him that title was a little optimistic. I used Freddie Green on guitar, because I was always mess­ing around with the rhythm section, trying to find out what to do with it, and I loved the idea of playing with Freddie. The Annie Ross date was Dick’s idea, and although we hadn’t worked together before, I liked her and the al­bum came out well. My favorite record from the “Mulligan Meets . . . “ se­ries was the one with Ben Webster, Jimmy Rowles, Leroy Vinnegar, and Mel Lewis [The Complete Gerry Mulligan Meets Ben Webster Sessions, Verve 539-055-2]. We played quite a lot with that group, including a feature on the Di­nah Shore T.V. show, and everybody could be called a co‑arranger because they all made a contribution. Jimmy Rowles was wonderful, and what he does is so deceptively simple, fitting things in so that they become part of the whole. Unfortunately he is now very ill with emphysema.”

In 1957 I did a big band album which I didn’t complete, and consequently it wasn’t released until about twenty years later [Mullenium, Columbia CK 65678] I wasn’t pleased with the way things were going, because on the fast numbers I couldn’t get my rhythm section together. I had Dave Bailey on one set of dates and Gus Johnson on the other, and I realized that I had to write more for them, because there wasn’t time for them to get to know the pieces like they would in a small band. It created a problem which I couldn’t overcome, and George Avakian, who was the A and R man for CBS, said to postpone everything until later. He then left CBS, and it wouldn’t have come out at all if it hadn’t been for Henri Renaud. I remember Don Joseph played beautifully on “All the Things You Are.”

When I formed the Concert Jazz Band in 1960, Norman Granz’s financial input was pretty extensive. He paid for a tour in the States to prepare us for a European trip, but I paid for everything else, which is how I always ill‑spent any profit I was able to make; I’ve always been a sucker that way! Judy Hol­liday did an album with us, although she never sang live with the band [Judy Holiday with Gerry Mulligan  DRG Records SLI 5191]. She should have done, because she would have been more comfortable when we got into the studio. Judy always joked, but it was only half‑a‑joke, that her way of going to work was to go to the theater, heave, and then start to get dressed. Recording for her was worse, but as she got to know the material, her sound would evolve, so it would have been good if she could have sung with the band at some point. Phil Woods didn’t record with us, but he was a regu­lar in the band whenever we could get him. He was always pretty busy, but he played quite a lot with us at Birdland. Later on, in the seventies, I formed another big band, and although I never really dropped the name, the Concert Jazz Band was a particular band and instrumentation in my mind.

After the CJB I went back to the piano-less quartet with Bob Brookmeyer. until we finally disbanded the group in 1965. Later that year I played with Roy Eldridge and Earl Hines in Europe. I would have loved to play more with Roy, but they booked the tour in such a ridiculous way, I wound up getting flu or something and I gave the whole thing up. The sixties were turbulent years.

I have always played a Conn baritone, but in the early sixties I used a Selmer for about a year. Jerome Richardson was funny, because when I started playing the Selmer, he said, “You sound peculiar. Why don’t you get your Conn back and sound like you’re supposed to. That sounds awful­! Eventually the Selmer got damaged, so I went back to the Conn, and Jerome came into the Vanguard one night and said, “Finally you’ve got your Conn and everything’s back to normal.” I never did like the Selmer anyway, be­cause of the way it was balanced, with the short neck on it.

Coming right up to date, in January 1994 I was elected to the Down Beat “Hall of Fame.” Somebody said, “What took so long?” and it’s true, things do seem to happen slowly for me, but I guess I’m not considered to be a fash­ionable elder. Popularity polls can be strange, because I started out as at arranger and always think of myself as one, but I don’t show up in that cate­gory at all, which used to bug me. Have you noticed in the Down Beat polls that nobody ever votes for my present quartet? If I don’t have a piano-less quartet, it’s as though I don’t have a quartet at all. You know, these things are fun to talk about, but I’ll have to stop, or we’ll be here all night.”

GERRY MULLIGAN _ GORDON JACK
© -Steven Cerra, copyright protected; all rights reserved





In discussing the ‘Birth Of The Cool’ arrangements writer Bill Kirchner observed “Their influence has been compared to the Louis Armstrong Hot Fives and Sevens and to other classics by Duke Ellington, Count Basie and Charlie Parker. These recordings had an enormous influence on musicians and the jazz public. Principally, they have been credited – or blamed, depending on one’s point of view – for the subsequent popularity of ‘Cool’ or West Coast Jazz…….but their influence extended much further and writers like Gigi Gryce, Quincy Jones and Benny Golson produced recordings using this approach.”


The editorial staff at JazzProfiles is working on some larger features which it plans to post in the coming days. In the meantime, we thought you might enjoy another visit with Gordon Jack on these pages.

Gordon is the author of Fifties Jazz Talk: An Oral Retrospective [LanhamMD: Scarecrow Press, 2004]  and he has graciously granted the editorial staff at JazzProfiles permission to reprint his work on these pages.

This essay first appeared in the March 2002 issue of JazzJournal and it can also be found in the sleeve-note for Bud Shank’s CD After You, Jeru [Fresh Sound FSR 5026].

Order information regarding Jazz Journal is available at www.jazzjournal.co.uk/.

© -Gordon Jack/JazzJournal, copyright protected; all rights reserved.

It is now 50 years since Gerry Mulligan  created one of the most distinctive and arresting sounds in small group jazz by the simple expedient of removing the piano from his rhythm section.   This pianoless ensemble focussed attention on his solo abilities even though he was  far better known as an arranger, having begun his career some years before writing for Gene Krupa, Elliot Lawrence and Claude Thornhill.  He did occasionally play with those bands and on a CBS album – The Arranger – there is a delightful photograph showing him aged nineteen playing second alto in Krupa’s sax section, but he was primarily employed for his skill with the pen rather than the saxophone.  During his time with the drummer he wrote one of the band’s biggest hits – Disc Jockey Jump.  In its first sixteen bars there is a resemblance to Jimmy Giuffre’s Four Brothers  although it was recorded in January 1947, ten months before the Woody
Herman classic.

It was thanks to his involvement with the unique Claude Thornhill orchestra that he met Gil Evans, and as a result became one of the most important figures in what was eventually known as the Miles Davis ‘Birth Of The Cool’ nonet.  Gene Lees once asked Mulligan how Davis had become the leader and Gerry replied,  “He made the telephone calls for the rehearsals and made everybody get in and play.”   Miles also obtained the band’s only booking - two weeks at the Royal Roost in 1948.  In a recent  JJI interview Lee Konitz said that the writing was the most important aspect of the band and because Gerry had written most of the charts, he considered him to be the guiding light. This has been confirmed by Johnny Carisi who contributed Israel to the project saying, “Gerry wrote more than anybody”.  Only recently has it emerged that the baritonist arranged
seven of the twelve titles recorded by the ensemble and not five as was originally thought, proving his contribution to be even greater than was acknowledged at the time.  

Just as an aside, the principal writers - Mulligan, Evans and John Lewis - did not get paid for the charts.  In his book Arranging The Score,  Lees quotes John Lewis saying to Miles “We wrote this stuff for ourselves. This was a rehearsal band and that was great.  Now you’ve recorded  we’re supposed to get paid”, but apparently they didn’t get a penny.  In discussing the ‘Birth Of The Cool’ arrangements writer Bill Kirchner observed “Their influence has been compared to the Louis Armstrong Hot Fives and Sevens and to other classics by Duke Ellington, Count Basie and Charlie Parker.  These recordings had an enormous influence on musicians and the jazz public.  Principally, they have been credited – or blamed, depending on one’s point of view – for the subsequent popularity of ‘Cool’ or West Coast Jazz…….but their influence extended much further and writers like Gigi Gryce, Quincy Jones and Benny Golson produced recordings using this approach.”   Artistic achievement alone seldom pays the rent and the work situation in New York became so difficult, that on more than one occasion Mulligan was forced to rehearse a band in Central Park because nobody had enough money to hire a studio.

Towards the end of 1951 he decided to sell his instruments and with his girl friend Gail Madden, hitchhiked to Los Angeles.  Thanks to her former relationship with Bob Graettinger he was introduced to Stan Kenton, who was not too keen on Mulligan’s work at first thinking it too simple.  Mulligan said “The first chart I took to a rehearsal was rejected by Stan, but the next day Bill Holman brought in an arrangement that sounded more like me than I did!”   On another occasion, one of Gerry’s scores called for Shelly Manne to play brushes on cymbals.  After listening for a while with obvious displeasure, Kenton shouted out “No! No! No! – we don’t use brushes on cymbals in this band  - that’s faggot music!”   However, long time Kenton arrangers like Holman and Lennie Niehaus have acknowledged Gerry’s influence in the way he thinned out the ensemble
lines allowing the band to swing more.  His writing was highly popular with musicians and the public and numbers like LimelightSwinghouse and Young Blood pointed the band towards a far more subtle approach.  Talking about Kenton, Miles Davis once said “If you get a guy like Gerry around a band all the other arrangers start writing a little better.  In jazz writing there has to be space.  Gerry, Gil Evans and Duke know that but some guys try to fill it all up.”   Years later when Mulligan was editing charts submitted by other writers for his Concert Jazz Band, Bob Brookmeyer would joke to the musicians “We’re having a rehearsal to-morrow – bring your erasers!”

Early in 1952 Mulligan obtained a regular Monday night booking at the Haig, a club with a capacity of 85 customers opposite the famous Ambassador Hotel on Wilshire Boulevard. It was while he was appearing at the club that Richard Nixon composed his famous ‘Checkers’ speech at the Ambassador, which saved his position on the Republican ticket as Dwight D.Eisenhower’s running mate. Albert Einstein once rang reception there to complain about room service and on another occasion, Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald set fire to their room creeping out in the confusion without paying the bill! Sadly, the hotel achieved a different notoriety when Bobby Kennedy was assassinated there while campaigning for the Presidency in 1968. The Ambassador’s nightclub – The Cocoanut Grove – was the playroom for the elite of Hollywood society and Elizabeth Taylor, Howard Hughes, James Stewart, Bette Davis and Marilyn Monroe all came to dine and dance to the music of Freddy Martin. Across the street at The Haig, owner John Bennett catered for an altogether hipper audience. With no cover charge but a two drink minimum, the fans could sit and listen to Gerry Mulligan on his Monday night jam sessions with guests like Art Pepper, Dave Pell, Ernie Royal, Jimmy Rowles and Howard Roberts. Bassist Bob Whitlock often played on these occasions and he recently told me how he had introduced Chet Baker to the baritonist. Whitlock and Baker had known each other since 1948 when they played in downtown Los Angeles with Ray Vasquez’s Latin Band and had become lifelong friends. At a Mulligan rehearsal at the Cottage Italia, a restaurant in North Hollywood, Bob recommended Baker when it became obvious that a certain trumpeter (whose name is now forgotten) was not working out. It was at this time that Gerry decided to stop using the piano because in Chet Baker he had found someone who was totally sympathetic to his aims. They were quite different personalities but musically they became one of the great partnerships in jazz and the Mulligan pianoless concept in one form or another, lasted for the next 14 years. One of the earliest titles recorded by the group for Richard Bock was Walkin’ Shoes, which was a reference to Mulligan and Gail Madden’s mode of travel from the east to the west coast. It was the outstanding success of the early quartet recordings that allowed Bock who had been in charge of publicity at The Haig, to launch his Pacific Jazz label.

With the pianoless quartet Gerry achieved a unique and pristine ensemble sound dominated by his quite outstanding ability as an accompanist on the baritone. His skill as one of the foremost jazz writers was matched by the way he could compose instant arrangements on the bandstand, finding perfect counter lines to whatever his playing partners conceived. It was this single quality that made his groups so distinctive for despite becoming a virtuoso soloist, Mulligan was essentially an ensemble player and the quartet was most definitely an ensemble – not just two soloists sharing a stage with a rhythm section. It should also be remembered that most of the group’s arrangements were improvised with very little being written. Bob Whitlock who was the original bass player in the quartet has confirmed that “Gerry’s abilities as an accompanist were phenomenal. He had that vast pool of ideas to draw upon from all those years as an arranger and he could tap into them on the spot. He always had his ears open and expected the same from his cohorts.” Trombonist Dave Glenn expressed similar sentiments to Steve Voce when Mulligan’s big band was touring the U.K. with Mel Torme in 1983. “Even after all these years Gerry continues to amaze me. He is the greatest cat I’ve ever heard in playing counter lines to a melody. When we were working with Mel, they would perform as a quartet with Mel taking Chet’s role. The counter lines were different every night and they were brilliant.” During the fifties many groups emphasised the importance of the soloist at the expense of any group interaction. Some leaders like Miles Davis actually left the stand when colleagues were featured but with his love of ensemble playing, Mulligan’s saxophone is hardly ever quiet on his recordings as he gently supports and encourages his associates. In its eleven months existence the Mulligan/Baker quartet proved to be sensationally popular, leading to a February 1953 profile in Time Magazine where it was described as “The hot music topic in Los Angeles………where they drew the biggest crowds in The Haig’s history.” The previous month Gerry had recorded with his tentette with Baker again as the featured soloist. The lead trumpeter on the date was Pete Candoli but on some titles Mulligan told me that it was Chet who actually played lead – thus disproving one of the great myths of jazz. Given a choice between myth or the truth the media will generally go for the former, which is why Chet Baker still has a reputation of being unable to read music and also being ignorant about chords. The truth as confirmed by contemporaries like Herb Geller and Bud Shank, is that he could read although in common with many jazzmen he was not a sight-reader and as Mulligan wittily observed, “Chet knew everything about chords, he just didn’t know their names!” A little known fact is that just after the tentette recordings Gerry eloped with Jeffie Lee Boyd who was a waitress at The Haig, prompting Baker to book Geller into playing with him in the quartet for three weeks until the baritonist returned from his honeymoon.

Gerry’s expertise as a composer of improvised arrangements was particularly evident in 1955 when he formed what many consider to be his best ever small group – the sextet. On recordings like Elevation which he had written for the Elliot Lawrence Orchestra, he is in his element as he takes on his customary role of a Pied Piper leading Brookmeyer, Zoot Sims and Don Ferrara through a series of extemporised riffs, hinting at a phrase here and a comment there which in turn is picked up by the other horns and developed into what could almost be a written arrangement. Towards the end of the decade he made a series of fine albums with a diverse range of star soloists including Paul Desmond, Johnny Hodges, Stan Getz, Ben Webster, Thelonious Monk, Annie Ross and Jimmy Witherspoon. His abilities as a supreme baritone soloist were at last fully recognised because as Bob Brookmeyer has observed , “When Gerry first arrived in Los Angeles in 1952 he was still considered to be primarily a writer.” As late as 1957 he had told Nat Hentoff that it had only been within the previous two years that he had been fully able to control the baritone, with a direct line between his imagination and his fingers.

It was in the late fifties that Leonard Feather commissioned a fascinating poll inviting leading jazzmen and women to nominate their personal favourites. It revealed that Mulligan had found total acceptance from a wide spectrum of players since Nat Cole, Miles Davis, Buddy De Franco, Erroll Garner, Urbie Green, Stan Getz, Terry Gibbs, Bobby Hackett, Carmen McRae, Oscar Pettiford and Lester Young were just some of the instrumentalists who voted for him. In discussing Gerry Mulligan, Phil Woods once said “No one played the instrument like Gerry, because it was too hard.” His long time drummer Dave Bailey recently told me, “With his soft tone coupled with the masculinity of the baritone, he would sometimes blow your mind – especially on ballads.” As with his writing, there was an elegant lyricism about his approach that belied the apparent clumsiness of his chosen means of expression. This was partly because when soloing, he rarely ventured into the bottom fifth of the instrument preferring to construct his melodic lines in the middle and upper registers much as Lester Young – one of his inspirations – might have done had he played the baritone.

Duke Ellington usually composed with his own sidemen in mind but he made an exception in Mulligan’s case when he wrote Prima Bara Dubla, which was performed with that other baritone master Harry Carney at the 1958 Newport Jazz Festival. Over the years Gerry often played with the Ellington band usually sitting in the section next to Johnny Hodges, improvising(!) a sixth saxophone part. Early in 1974 he took Carney’s place when the Ellington veteran was hospitalized prior to a concert in Miami. The end of the fifties saw him appearing and playing in a number of Hollywood films like I Want To Live, The Rat Race and The Subterraneans and if the latter, where he took the part of a horn playing preacher isn’t one of the worst films ever made, it will do until the real thing comes along! The music though, composed by Andre Previn was fine and Mulligan played in an all star line-up with Art Farmer, Art Pepper, Bill Perkins and Russ Freeman. He also had a non-playing acting role with the wonderful Judy Holliday in Bells Are Ringing, handling his part with considerable aplomb. Although they never married they were what the gossip columnists refer to as an ‘item’ until her death in 1965. The decade ended with a two-part profile in the New Yorker by Nat Hentoff proving that his fame had now spread far beyond the narrow confines of jazz. Indeed as Jerome Klinkowitz points out in his fine book Listen: Gerry Mulligan , the writer Thomas Pynchon refers to the baritonist in his 1960 story Entropy. He was now recording for the Verve label and few eyebrows were raised when Norman Granz authorized an advertising campaign in the trade press simply stating, “1960 belongs to Gerry Mulligan”. Almost as a confirmation Metronome organised a reader’ poll in 1959 to find the most popular jazz musicians of all time where he finished third, behind Miles Davis and the winner Charlie Parker. The fact that Louis Armstrong and Duke Ellington finished no higher than sixth and 16th. respectively shows how ephemeral polls can be, but nevertheless it indicates how incredibly popular Mulligan was by now – a popularity he maintained throughout his career without in any way compromising his artistry.

Having made some money from his film making, he decided at the beginning of the sixties to return to his first love by forming a larger organization which he called The Concert Jazz Band. As a young man he had been an arranger and occasional sideman in other people’s bands but he was now the chief soloist, who unfortunately found little time to write. This ensemble was rightly called a big little-band, because his attention to detail ensured that the 13 pieces had the same clarity and transparency that characterized his small groups. As Bill Crow observed at the time, “He knows exactly what he wants, which is a quiet band. He can swing at about 15 decibals lower than any other band.” On the same subject Mulligan once told Harry Frost, “When you overblow, the tone quality goes. Our band shouts but it doesn’t scream.” It was not always just sweetness and light however and on numbers like The Red Door, I’m Gonna Go Fishin’, Lady Chatterley’s Mother and Blueport the band displays a relentless drive and passion that is totally infectious but which never gets completely out of hand – what George Simon has accurately called “Controlled Violence.” The CJB adopted the same free wheeling approach to ensemble playing that had been such a feature of his quartet and sextet. Bill Crow told me, “What was so good about the band was having someone in each section who was a good riff maker – Gerry in the saxes, Bobby Brookmeyer in the trombones and Clark Terry in the trumpets. Gerry would start to play backgrounds behind a soloist and by the second time around the rest of the saxes would be playing in unison or harmonising with him, then Brookmeyer or Terry would think of a counter line and the brass would join that. The band would stay behind the soloist for five or six choruses of improvised riffs and it would really get going until it reached a certain level, when Gerry would give the signal to go into the next written section.”
Unfortunately in spite of the band’s undoubted musical worth and Mulligan’s popularity, it was difficult keeping it on the road and he was often forced to revert to the quartet formula with Brookmeyer when bookings for the CJB became scarce. In an enthusiastic review of a Birdland performance Ira Gitler wrote in Down Beat, “If this band cannot work when it wants to, there is something very wrong with the state of music in the United States.” Clearly a prophetic statement, because within eight months the CJB was playing its final engagement at Birdland on New Years Eve 1964, which was also the night the club closed down for business. The personnel that so impressed Gitler included Thad Jones, Nick Travis, Clark Terry, Bob Brookmeyer, Willie Dennis, Phil Woods and Richie Kamuca. Al Cohn, Ben Webster, Benny Powell and Jimmy Owens had also sat in with the band. 

Discussing his time with the CJB Clark Terry told writer Joe Goldberg, “Gerry’s a real leader. He respects all the guys and knows how much they contribute and you feel you’re part of things. He pays well too, unlike one leader I worked for who used to say ‘I want you to remember it’s me they are paying to see.”’ Many other sidemen have expressed similar sentiments. Bob Brookmeyer for instance had an offer from Duke Ellington in 1962 which he had to turn down because Duke could not match what he was earning with Mulligan. Bill Crow used to get increases without asking for them and Dave Bailey has confirmed that Mulligan preferred to pay his musicians generously, rather than give the money to the Federal Government. He would also whenever possible, fly the band first class. Apparently, the fringe benefits were so good that a number of famous drummers – among them Art Taylor and Osie Johnson – regularly telephoned Gerry trying to get him to fire Bailey so they could take over!

In retrospect, the closure of Birdland and the break up of the CJB seemed to indicate the end of an era, not only for jazz but for Gerry Mulligan too. The sixties was a time when the avant-garde were challenging former truths and persuading many that the removal of melody, harmony and rhythm was the way forward – an approach that helped turn jazz into even more of a minority interest. It was to be another seven years before Mulligan’s next major project, The Age Of Steam which was recorded in 1971. Harry Edison and Bud Shank were in the line-up and Brookmeyer was involved again along with some of the younger generation including the magnificent Roger Kellaway, Tom Scott and John Guerin. The album introduced Gerry’s exciting K4 Pacific which he often used as a concert finale in later years. Another highlight was Shank’s sensitive work on the slowly moving harmonies of Grand Tour, an intensely sad and poignant original by the leader. While Age Of Steam was being recorded Mulligan and Shank appeared on a Beaver And Krause L.P. playing Gerry’s By Your Grace, which ultimately became the much longer and grander Entente For Baritone Saxophone And Orchestra. This piece which was dedicated to Nancy and Zubin Mehta was a totally successful marriage of the jazz saxophone soloist with the symphony orchestra. Mulligan recorded it with the Houston Symphony under Erich Kunzel in 1987 and five months later it was performed in concert with Zubin Mehta. On the same evening, Itzhak Perlman sat in with Mulligan’s quartet to play a little jazz.

During the last sixteen years of his life Mulligan maintained a punishing schedule, touring worldwide with either his reformed big band or the quartet which now featured a piano in a conventional rhythm section. When I asked him about the reintroduction of a keyboard he said that he wanted to play the melody more, which of course is difficult in a pianoless context because of his role as an accompanist. He had just been inducted into the Down Beat Hall Of Fame and he told me, “Popularity polls can be strange because I started out as an arranger and I always think of myself as one, but I don’t show up in that category at all and that used to bug me. Have you noticed in Down Beat that nobody ever votes for my present quartet? If I don’t have a pianoless quartet it’s as though I don’t have a quartet at all!”

The period from 1980 was arguably his most creative as a songwriter yet Bud Shank recently said “Too few of us were aware of what he was doing then.” Critics, while acknowledging his outstanding abilities as a creative soloist seemed to ignore the very real beauty of his compositions. Lyrics have occasionally been added to his songs and Gene Lees who has called him one of the greatest composers in jazz, put words to I Heard The Shadows Dancing. Mel Torme recorded The Real Thing with his own lyric and this piece was performed by Carol Sloane at a Mulligan Memorial concert on February 12, 1996. The Brazilian singer Jane Duboc wrote words to a number of Mulligan originals on a charming 1993 CD entitled Paraiso –Jazz Brazil. Of course an earlier album that is always remembered with affection is his 1961 recording with Judy Holliday where they collaborated on What’s The Rush, Loving You, It Must Be Christmas and Summer’s Over. Just before she died in 1965 they were working on an Anita Loos play called Happy Birthday and Ms Loos was quoted as saying that the music for the show was “Brilliant”. Over the years a number of instrumental albums have been devoted to his music by people like Claude Williamson, Sal Salvador, Vic Lewis, Elliot Lawrence and Gene Krupa. Since his death though in 1996, it is as if his originals have been rediscovered since Bill Charlap with Ted Rosenthal – Brookmeyer with Lee Konitz and Randy Brecker – Kerry Strayer with Brecker again - Bud Shank and Ronnie Cuber have all recorded tribute albums. Cuber’s Three Baritone Sax Band Plays Mulligan with Nick Brignola and Gary Smulyan is particularly interesting, as it is Ronnie’s intention for the group to continue recording and touring, promoting Mulligan the songwriter.

In Gerry Mulligan’s hands the baritone saxophone, once considered an unwieldy section horn, became a vehicle for the most elegant and gracefully lyrical solo statements. He was also one of the music’s most creative arrangers and composers and his themes deserve to be as much a part of the jazz language as those by celebrated contemporaries like Benny Golson, Thelonious Monk and Horace Silver.

Communicating With JazzProfiles

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I use Blogger as the platform to format and publish JazzProfiles. It’s free of charge and very compatible with other applications that Google hosts.


But if you have ever tried to leave a comment about any of the features that post to the blog, you know that Blogger isn’t very accommodating in this regard. I’m not sure why this is the case as other blogging platforms such as Wordpress make it very easy for readers to interact with the blog author.


For the most part, I have been satisfied with this arrangement as it allows me to dwell in relative anonymity and to focus on preparing pieces for the blog.


It takes a great deal of time and effort to research and write the features that I bring up on JazzProfiles on an almost daily basis, and populate them with images, graphics and audio-visual examples of the music and the musicians under discussion.


Besides, since I am not an authority on Jazz, I’ve always assumed that the readers of the blog would rather spend their time perusing its contents than corresponding with me.


However, should you like to leave a comment, ask a question or make a request, please feel free to contact me at scerra@roadrunner.com/ and I’ll do my best to provide you with a timely response. I will also negotiate the abstruse Blogger platform and nest your comment under the appropriate feature.


I plan to place a listing of “Readers Comments” in a permanent section of the blog’s sidebar and update it regularly.


All of this by way of saying that the editorial staff at JazzProfiles welcomes your communications.

Duke Jordan: Flight to Europe

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“His style is an amalgam of Art Tatum and Bud Powell, the parts not always cohering with absolute authority. A player of great facility, he may have recorded too much to be absolutely distinctive.”


“There are very many recorded versions of some of the pianist's most successful themes. 'Jordu', in particular, has become a popular repertoire piece. A Jordan theme tends to be brief, tightly melodic rather than just a launching-pad of chords, … “
- Richard Cook and Brian Morton, The Penguin Guide to Jazz on CD, 6th E

“Duke Jordan was a pianist whose work with the saxophonist Charlie Parker endures in the jazz pantheon. Jordan was regarded as one of the great early bebop pianists, the sound that he helped to create in the postwar era was something new, and it remains a cornerstone of jazz.”
- www.allaboutjazz.com


“Steve, I had the pleasure of working with Duke Jordan when we were on Stan Getz’s quintet and quartet. We became a quartet, with Kenny Clarke, when Jimmy Raney left.  I was a beginning bassist at the time, and Duke’s playing helped me be a much better player, just by listening to him.  His four bar introductions to tunes were little gems of composition, and sometimes they were so beautiful, we hated to come in for fear of spoiling the mood.  His elegant touch put him in a class with Hank Jones, Al Haig and Ellis Larkins.  His knowledge of harmony and form gave me a lot to work with, and I appreciated every moment we played together.  When Miles Davis trashed his playing in his autobiography, I was terribly offended.  Duke always came to play as well as he knew how, and he certainly knew what he was doing. I was very pleased when, a few years after our time with Getz, he called me to play a few gigs with him when Teddy Kotick, his first choice, was unavailable.  He was a fine person and a fine musician.”
- Bill Crow, bassist


For those of you who are familiar with pianist-composer-bandleader Duke Jordan’s writings, the subtitle of this feature will readily remind you of one of his most famous and often-played compositions - Flight to Jordan.

Besides the play-on-words in the song’s title associated with Duke’s familial name, “Flight” was to have a continuing and important connotation in Duke’s career, as well.

You see, Duke was one of the Jazz musicians that gave impetus to Jazz writer and historian Mike Zwerin’s assertion that “... Jazz went to Europe to live.”

Following some early recordings under his own name in the late 1950s and early 1960s the most famous of which was his one and only recording for Blue Note - Flight to Jordan [1960] - and after scuffling to find music gigs and being forced to drive a cab in Manhattan for a while to make ends meet, Duke made some trips to Europe and eventually moved to Denmark.

There he was to make 24 recordings for Nils Winther’s Steeplechase label from 1973-1985 and to tour and perform through Europe and Japan until his death in 2006.

Duke was an imaginative and gifted pianist who was a regular member of Charlie Parker’s quintet from 1947-48. He also worked with Miles Davis, Sonny Stitt and Stan Getz before performing regularly and recording occasionally in a trio format.

Duke Jordan's career has an odd trajectory. At 25, with an apprenticeship under Coleman Hawkins behind him, he was thrust into the limelight with Charlie Parker and proved himself an able and frequently resourceful accompanist. Thereafter, though, his progress has been curiously elided, wilh long disappearances from the scene. Perhaps as a consequence, he is by far the least well-known of the bebop pianists, surprisingly diffident in performing manner and little given to solo performance, Though he is a fine standards player, he has from time to time preferred to rework a sizeable but tightly organized body of original compositions.

Of Jordan’s two dozen recordings on Steeplechase Richard Cook and Brian Morton have said:

“These have been documented by the Danish Steeplechase label with a thoroughness bordering on redundancy and seemingly quite inconsistent with the pianist's rather marginal reputation ….

What all this amounts to is very difficult to judge. Jordan's annus mirabilis had been and gone. Nils Winther of Steeplechase was a sympathetic and attentive patron, but it must be said that few collectors will want more than two or three of these discs at best, and none of them makes a genuinely pressing demand on the casual listener. This is a vast body of work, with only the most obvious reference-points in the shape of oft-repeated themes and compositions. Doubtless there are aficionados who can speak with authority on the question of their respective merits.”

[N.B. - annus mirabilis literally means “The Wonderful Year” although it is also defined as “several years during which events of major importance are remembered.” It can also be used as a phrase to refer to an artist’s period of peak performance.]

Yet, one wonders after reading the Alun Morgan, Jazz Monthly and the Mark Gardner Jazz Journal articles below about the heart-rendering and gut-wrenching scuffling that Duke had to endure in New York during until his relocation to Europe and his permanent residency in Denmark in 1978 whether Richard Cook and Brian Morton aren’t being a bit too harsh in their assessment of Jordan’s prolific output on Steeplechase.

I remember talking with drummer Ed Thigpen about Duke's relocation to Denmark [Ed also took up residence there] in general and the many recordings he made for Nils Winther's Steeplechase label in particular and Ed cautioned that I had to keep in mind the context of Duke in New York, struggling to find work, driving a taxi to make ends meet and then, going to Europe and all of a sudden being treated with respect as a performing artist and also being accorded a long-standing recording contract.

The editorial staff at JazzProfiles is deeply indebted to internet Jazz mates in England and Australia for making possible access to the Mark Gardner and Alun Morgan essays. While I recognize that because of the reliance that Mark Gardner writing in 1967 has on the Morgan piece results in some duplications, I wanted to maintain the integrity of both essays due to their rarity.


Duke Jordan - An Introduction and Discography by Alun Morgan, January, 1957 edition of Jazz Monthly.

“Duke Jordan was born on April-fool-day 1922. It seems that Fate decided to make it a long-term joke, because Jordan's career has been furthered only through his own perseverance and hard work: luck has played only a small part in Duke's musical life. A survey of his past history shows that he has spent a large proportion of his thirty-four years in casual. insecure employment with only occasional regular engagements to break the monotony. The jazz story runs true to form in the respect that the degree of talent possessed by a musician is no measure of his success. If it was then Jordan would be one of the busiest men in Jazz today.

Born in Brooklyn. New York. he earned the name "Duke" at the age of fourteen through his fanatical hero-worship of Duke Ellington via a carefully hoarded collection of Ellington records. He was seventeen when he played in an amateur band which won a prize at the New York World's Fair in 1939: one of his colleagues m this band was trumpeter Jimmy Nottingham. In 1941 Duke joined a sextet led by Clarke Monroe and later worked with the band that Coleman Hawkins fronted at Kelly’s Stables. A year with Al Cooper's Savoy Sultans preceded a return to the New York clubs where he spent some time in Jay Jay Johnson's group.

Guitarist Teddy Walters tillered Jordan a job with his Trio, an innocent-sounding beginning to what was to become one of the most cherished periods of the pianist's life. Charlie Parker was looking for a new pianist and happened to hear Duke play with the Walters Trio. He came over to the piano between sets ughi and offered Jordan a job with his Quintet which resulted in an association which lasted nearly three years. During this period Parker made most of his "Dial" records and it was Duke who was to be heard on piano. His melodic introductions, (always a strong point on any record which features Jordan) and solos tend to be overshadowed by the masterly brilliance of Parker, but their inclusion does much to enhance the value of the records.

At the beginning of 1949 Parker was temporarily out of work and Jordan filled in with an accompanying job in Detroit. When Parker was offered an engagement at the first Salon du Jazz in Paris during May of that year he sent for Duke to rejoin the Quintet. Jordan answered the telegram by returning post-haste 10 New York only to find that in his anxiety not to fail the French concert promoters Parker had already hired pianist Al Haig.

Duke remained in New York and played on a few isolated record sessions. He spent a short time with the rocking Gene Ammons-Sonny Stitt band the following year then, in 1952, he joined Stan Getz’s Quintet. He told pianist Henri Renaud (vide Jazz Hot magazine for June, 1955) that his nine months with Getz were not entirely satisfactory.  "Stan is a difficult man to work with,”  Duke told Henri,  "he rarely let me take a solo and on top of that, Jimmy Raney used to play guitar accompaniment at the same time as I was playing piano". When Jordan mentioned to Getz the problems of feeding piano chords which, at the same time, did not conflict with Raney’s harmonic interpretations, the tenor man informed him that his job was to play piano and that the Quintet leader was Stan Getz.

In the early part of 1954 Renaud looked up Jordan at his home in Brooklyn amd found a business card in the window. "Irvine Jordan, Modern Piano Teacher". Jordan told Henri that he had had no regular engagements since his departure from the Getz Quintet and to provide a living for his wife Sheila and daughter Tracey he had been giving piano lessons at home. Henri was surprised to find a musician of Duke's capabilities was not only reduced to such circumstances but had no prospects of a record date under his own name in the offing. A projected Trio session for "Savoy" had come to nothing. Jordan was immediately interested in Henri's suggestion that he, Renaud and George Wallington should make a three piano LP for "Prestige" using arrangements provided by Renaud.

A search commenced for a recording studio which contained three pianos and the only location which filled the bill was the hall belonging to RCA Victor. On the day of the session the three pianists accompanied by Curley Russell and Art Taylor recorded the first Renaud arrangement when an official of the AFM entered and asked for proof of Renaud's authority to record in America. What had promised to be a helpful gesture to Duke in his hour of need was quashed bv bureaucracy..

Jordan did record a Trio album for Renaud however (Vogue LDE 099) but its release was confined to France and Britain, although it was offered to a number of American record companies. Vogue LDE 099 contains some typically charming Jordan piano and the prototype versions o! three originals, Minor Encamp, Scotch Blue, and Wait and See. Under the later title Jor du a play on the composer's name, Minor Encamp has emerged as one of the best jazz tunes of recent years and the fact that the tune has already been recorded by several prominent groups is an indication of its popularity amongst musicians. Forecast and Flight to Jordan promise to become standard material in the better-class jazz libraries of the future.

Of late Jordan has been working with the Art Farmer and Gigi Gryce Quintet and played on what is undoubtedly the group's best record session (Prestige PRLP 70I7). In the summer of 1956 Duke accompanied trumpeter Rolf Ericsson to Sweden for a season in the country's National Parks. An unpublicised incident cut short the Scandinavian tour for Jordan, baritone saxist Cecil Payne and bass player John Simmons, but not before Ericsson’s Quintet had recorded for the "Metronome" company in Stockholm.

The LP issues from these sessions contain fresh-sounding small group jazz with Jordan playing a major role both as composer and pianist. He creates the atmospheric setting on Flight to Jordan for Ericsson’s best recorded solo and plays extremely well on his own Forecast, Visby Groove Alley and Vaca Flicka (a twelve bar blues).

Duke Jordan has professed a great liking for the work of Thelonious Monk, although his own plasing is less esoteric and more conventionally melodic. His touch is brilliant and definitive, his use of notes economic and the overall effect is one of complete instrumental control at all tempos. He swings prodigiously but in a way which eschews the use of heavily overstressed chordal work and unnecessary displays of technique. As an accompanist it is no exaggeration to say that he comes close to the standard set by one of his idols. Teddy Wilson: his supporting work is full and reliable as exemplified by the four tracks on Signal S 101, the most successful rhythm accompaniment record yet produced.

For the "student participation" side, alto saxist Gigi Gryce, wearing headphones, was placed in a separate cubicle so that although all four musicians could hear each other only the rhythm section was actually recorded. Duke's best record to date is Signal S 102 issued under his own name. The lirst side contains trio versions of Jordan's own Sultry Eve and Forecast as well as a beautiful solo version of Summertime prefaced by a brilliantly conceived introduction.

Duke Jordan. Al Haig, John Lewis and Tadd Dameron form the core of a lamentably small school of modern jazz pianists. They have shown that the piano is more than a mere percussive extension to the contemporary rhythm section. They have in common a love of melody and an extensive knowledge of harmony, qualifications so necessary to the accompanist. It is saddening to find that with the exception of John Lewis (through his work with the Modern Jazz Quartet) none of these pianists has been well represented on record in recent years. The jazz public at large continues its tradition of preferring superficiality and sensationalism to genuine talent. Meanwhile, men like Duke Jordan find that regular, secure employment is still one of life's most evasive necessities.”

[Alun’s Duke Jordan Discography is not reproduced here because the references are too archaic some 60 years later. Most of Duke’s recorded output from 1945 to 1957 can be found by searching under the names of Roy Eldridge, Charlie Parker and Stan Getz for the years in question.]


Mark Gardner, Duke Jordan: Forgotten Pianist? JazzJournal xvi/11, [1963], p. 15

“It’s no secret that Duke Jordan, the pianist who first jumped into the spotlight with Charlie Parker's Quintet of 1947 has been unemployed for long periods under-recorded and generally neglected by the Jazz public at large, save for the recognition accorded him by a handful of perceptive individuals like Alun Morgan and Henri Renaud.

Indeed, were it not for the fact that Jordan composed the frequently-played Jordu, it is doubtful whether his name would be known at all. Aside from an occasional appearance as a sideman on record dates, relatively very little has been heard from Jordan in the last few years. One of my main objectives on visiting New York, therefore, was to seek out, meet and hear Duke, if at all possible. Cecil Payne, one of Duke's close friends and associates, who was acting as my pilot around the hectic Manhattan and Brooklyn scenes, was none too sure of the pianist's whereabouts and had not seen him for several months.

So we were momentarily hung up. Then, one evening, passing by the Metropole Cafe, we had a lucky break. Bassist Franklin Skeet, a bouncing little man in his ochre band jacket, hailed us from the stand .where he was performing with Henry Red Allen's outfit. By way of hand signals, we arranged to call by later in the evening and sure enough, when we returned from Birdland a couple of hours later, "Skeets" was waiting outside the Met. After hearty introductions, we got round to gossiping about various musicians and their situations. "Skeets", an excitable fellow, was literally raving over Duke Jordan whom he had heard playing solo piano at a small club the previous night.

"Duke was something else. He was playing such beautiful things I could have stayed listening all night," reported Franklin. He understood that Duke was playing nightly at a certain 50th Street location. So we were at last on the scent. The following evening Cecil and I headed for the club in question — a place called "Jazzland." Cecil sported Duke taking a between-sets breather in front of the nightspot and we were quickly introduced and soon deep in conversation.

A slightly-built man with a lean face, which bears the marks of the years of pain and frustration he has suffered as an uncompromising artist, Jordan is understandably bitter. He spoke of the Roger Vadim film Les Liasons Dangereuses for which he wrote a beautiful and fitting score, yet received not a penny piece or any credit, the music being credited to a fictitious "J. Marret." Jordan also talked of his troubles with a certain record company, "X", which started business in a blaze of publicity claiming it would treat musicians in a fair manner. To date, the company has failed to give the pianist any royalties whatsoever. So much for the new deal proclaimed by the two directors of label 'X".

Duke said he had not worked steadily for months and had only recently landed the "Jazzland" job where he began by playing on Sunday nights only. But the owner, bless him, had been pleased with Jordan and had decided to hire him for seven nights a week.

"Due to lack of playing, my fingers are pretty stiff and having to play solo, without even bass and drums, means I have to get around the piano a lot more. Already my fingers are loosening up, but if I was with a band the comping would make them stiffer than ever," Duke said.

Although  Jordan's life has been filled with anguish, he has not allowed self-pity or anger to creep into his music. Essentially a melodist, he plays in a dry, sparse manner which embraces a welcomed sense of humour. Seated at the tiny upright piano, without even the benefit of a microphone, he treated the Jazzland audiences to some of the most intense, solo piano it has ever been niv privilege to hear. But, alas, he might as well have been practising in his Brooklyn home for all the impact it made on the club's clientele. The noisy patrons were far too busy drinking, laughing and chatting up the visiting chicks to pay any attention to the lonely pianist, perched on his box-shaped stool. The customers were probably blissfully unaware that they were listening to Jordan, for he had been given no billing outside the dim-lit cabaret.

"It  gets to be a bit of a drag here." Duke explained apologetically. "Some of these chicks come up and try to sing. And most of them are so bad, you know, really out of metre. Still, I have to make bread the best way I can.”

Disillusioned with the continuous scuffle that is New York, he wants to move to European climes. “When I was  last over in Paris, Kenny Clarke took me over to his pad. He seems to be doing pretty well for himself. If I make it to Europe again I won't come back." he affirmed.

Talk of Europe led to Duke to ask if knew what had happened to drummer Al Jones. Receiving a negative reply, he explained that Jones, Jackie McLean, Michael Mattos and himself had toured Europe in 1962 with the Living Theatre's production of The Connection, but at the conclusion of the trip Jones vanished in Belgium and did not return to the States.

Both Cecil Payne and Duke expressed their admiration for Barney Wilen, the young, Paris based tenor saxophonist who made a couple of records with Jordan and Kenny Dorham in Paris four years ago. [These were reissued as CDs on Vogue under Barney’s name]. "I heard that Barney suffered a collapsed lung and is hanging out in Switzerland now. That’s an awful thing to happen to a promising kid of that age,” sympathised Duke, who has experienced more than his share of misfortune. Jordan added that here was a distinct possibility that The Connection would return to Britain next year                  and he was hoping to make the gig. "You know I very much dig Ted Heath's band? I heard them a couple ol times when they came over here.

I mention Jordan’s trio date taped by Henri Renaud when he visited New York nine years ago and Duke replied: "I remember that well, I still have that record at home - it was issued on the Vogue label."

Queried as to the reason why Blue Note never recorded him in a trio setting —Duke cut one quintet album for the company with Stanley Turrentine, Dizzy Reece. Reggie Workman and Art Taylor —he said: "I guess the quintet line-up was pretty fashionable at that time. But I would like to do another trio date sometime."

Jordan collectors will know that his only other trio recording apart from the excellent Vogue set he mentioned, were waxed for the now defunct Signal Record Corporation in 1956. One half of an album was devoted to five selections by Jordan, Percy Heath and Art Blakey. The other side comprised numbers by the trio augmented by Cecil Payne (baritone sax) and Eddie Bert (trombone). But the record, in spite of its exceptional quality, failed to sell, like all the Signal issues. Perhaps the company was too ambitious in expecting a fickle public to accept non-commercial music from horn men of the caliber of Payne, Jordan,  Red Rodney, Gigi Gryce and Thelonious Monk. In   any event, Signal went under and their slim catalogue of half a dozen   outstanding albums was taken over by Savoy, who have since I understand, deleted the Jordan LP.

The Blue Note release, titled Flight to Jordan, is by far the best collection of Jordania available. All six of the compositions stems from the pianist's fertile mind and in this recording his composing abilities are shown to be exceptional. And his own playing and that of his sidemen is equally impressive

On the strength of his work on this session, and from what I heard at Jazzland, he must be ranked with Teddy Wilson, his old idol, as the most melodic pianists that Jazz has yet produced. Of the post-war men, only Al Haig can match him melodically and the two men have much in common. Both shun the cliches and are more concerned with beauty than ugliness. Each worked with Charlie Parker and both have been thrown into obscurity through indifference and the passing fads of the jazz public.

At the time of writing, the pianist is working at the Open End Club on 77th Street, New York and, the first record to be issued in this country under Jordan's name for nine years has just been put out by MGM. Duke leads Charlie Rouse (tenor), Sonny Cohn (trumpet), Eddie Kahn (bass) and Art Taylor (drums) in new interpretations of his film score for Les Liasons Dangereuses and the result is a consistently interesting album. Conn's horn is rather out of context, but the album features exquisite Jordan and powerful Rouse.

Born on April 1st, 1922, Irving Sidney Jordan started his musical career with Steve Pulliam's Manhattan Sextet, which won a prize as an amateur combo at New York's World Fair in 1939. He left the group and went to work in 1941 with Clarke Monroe in the sextet which later performed under Coleman Hawkin's leadership at Kelly's Stable, New York. He spent a year with Al Cooper's famous Savoy Sultans, but it was while he was with guitarist Teddy Walters' Trio at the Three Deuces that Charlie Parker heard him in 1946. In Robert Reisner's book Bird—The Legend of Charlie Parker, Jordan recalled that night in the -2nd Street Club:

"Charlie was seated at a front table, and I heard him say : 'Wow. listen to that guy,' and he was talking about me. Then he came over and asked me if I would like to work for him, and I jumped at the chance." Later, in the same interview, Duke said: "Working with Bird was one of the tremendous experiences. He always came on with a new musical line that would make my hair stand on end. He used to say to me: *lf you do something out of the ordinary between sets, when you come back to play you will have a different thought, and it will come out in your playing.'"

One night, Duke found Bird in front of the Onyx Club lying across a garbage disposal steel box, rolling back and forth. Apparently, Parker was just trying his in-between-sets experience experiments. Jordan also remembered that Miles Davis wanted John Lewis in the Parker Quintet instead of Duke, but Bird silenced him by quietly and firmly saying that he chose the guys and Miles could form his own outfit if anything displeased him. That was all that was heard from Miles. For three years, off and on, Jordan worked steadily with Parker. He is to be found on all the Dial recordings waxed by Bird's group in New York and he was present on one Detroit date for Savoy, as well as some air shots, taken down on a small tape recorded at the Onyx Club early in 1948. His last recorded appearance with Parker, as far as I know, was a Birdland engagement in September, 1952. I possess an acetate on which there are two quartet performances by Bird, Jordan and an unknown bass player and drummer. They are Ornithology and 52nd Street Theme and both include beautiful solos by the saxophonist and pianist. Perhaps these items will be made available to a wider public in due course.

Duke's next job of importance, after a brief spell with Gene Ammons-Sonny Stitt Band, was a nine-month stint with the Stan Getz Quintet. "Stan is a difficult man to work with. He rarely let me take a solo and on top of that, Jimmy Raney used to play guitar accompaniment at the same time as I was playing piano,” Jordan told Henri Renaud in 1954. It seems that when the pianist mentioned the clash between his chords and Raney's, the tenorist informed him that his job was to play piano. In other words: Mind our own business.

After quitting the Getz group. Duke spent four months with Roy Eldrige whose big band he had played in just after the war for a brief period, and apart from a stav with the Art Farmer-Gigi Gryce Quintet, he has since functioned on a freelance basis, being often out of work for months at a time. A Spring visit to Paris in July enabled Jordan to record the soundtrack for a French movie Witness in Town. Kenny Dorham and Barney Wilen also appeared on this soundtrack which was released on a French Fontana LP. These three musicians were also taped at the Lett Bank Club St. Germaine. This record, cut in front of an enthusiastic audience, contains some of Duke's finest work— on his own Jordu and Tadd Dameron's Ladybird he is nothing short of brilliant. His assimilation of aspects of Horace Silver's style enhances, rather than detracts from, his usually more reserved approach.

I do not think it is an exaggeration to say that Jordan has never recorded a bad solo. His work has always been above accepted standards, no matter what his personal hardship. And it is a tribute to his unswerving belief in his own music that he has not once pandered to popular tastes. His rewards have been few: One can only wish that it will not always be so.

Acknowledgement*: Some of the material used in this article has been drawn from Leonard Feather's New Encyclopaedia Of Jazz; Robert Rentier's Bird-The Legend of Charlie Parker and an article on Jordan by Alun Morgan in the January, 1957, edition of "Jazz Monthly." I would like to express my thanks to all three writers.”


More about Duke and his background is also contained in the following detailed insert notes that the distinguished Jazz writer, critic and historian Leonard Feather wrote for Flight to Jordan [BNST-84046; CDP 7 46824 2]. One of the great things about Leonard’s notes, at least during his early years of writing them, are his descriptions of how tunes are musically structured.

"JORDAN, Duke. Piano. Born Brooklyn, N.Y., 1922. An early bop pianist, a swinging one, still very much part of jazz."

This very brief biography, from Barry Ulanov's A Handbook ol Jazz (Viking Press, 1957), is Duke's only individual mention as far as I have been able to determine, in any American textbook on jazz other than the Encyclopedia of Jazz.

In all the other books you will find either no mention at all, or passing references lumped together with several other names (my own Book of Jazz and John Wilson's Collector's Jozz were guilty in this respect).

Yet  Irving Sydney Jordan, son of Brooklyn, has been paying his dues as a professional musician since shortly before World War II, and those of us who have heard him intermittently during most of the past two decades con hardly be unaware by now that this is no run-of-the-mill musician.

Duke was born of musically inclined but non-professional parents who, when he was eight, placed his musical education in the hands of a private teacher. He continued to study piano until he was 16, playing in the school band at Brooklyn Automotive High. After graduation in 1939 he joined the septet of trombonist Steve Pulliam, a group that included Jimmy Nottingham, now a top studio trumpet man. This combo, appearing in an amateur contest at the New York World's Fair that summer, won a prize and earned the attention of John Hammond, who was impressed by the teen-aged efforts of young Mr. Jordan. The unit stayed together for a year or two, after which Duke entered what was almost certainly the most important formative phase of his career.
Jazz was undergoing a quiet but vital upheaval in 1941.

Around the time when Duke Jordan went to work ot a club called Murrain's, on Seventh Avenue in Harlem, the experiments that were to crystalize in the form of bebop had gotten underway at several uptown clubs. The group in which Duke now worked was led, in effect, by me tenor saxophonist Ray Abrams, but it was under the nominal leadership of Clark Monroe, the veteran night club host who was involved in the operation of a series of clubs, including his own [Monroe’s] Uptown House where Charlie Parker first worked in New York.

Thus, though Duke gained his first experience in jazz through Ihe records of Teddy Wilson, Art Tatum and their contemporaries, he was exposed early to the work of Bud Powell and Thelonious Monk, as well as to Gillespie and Parker. As I recall it, when bop burst full-fledged on the downtown scene, Duke was one of Ihe very first to play in what was then a revolutionary new style; in fact the only other bop pianists of any note on itie 52nd Street horizon, aside from Powell himself, were Al Haig, Billy Taylor and George Wallington.

For a while Duke played with Coleman Hawkins at Kelly's Stable, in a combo similar to the one that had been organized by Clark Monroe. After this he returned to the uptown front, working for a year with a "jump band" called the Savoy Sultans, which functioned as a part-time house bond ol the late lamented Savoy Ballroom. But it was when he was downtown again, playing in the trio of guitarist Teddy Walters at the Three Deuces, that Charlie Parker was sufficiently impressed by Duke to hire him for his Quintet. Duke worked intermittently for Bird during Ihis period (1946-8), the other members of the group being Miles Davis, Max Roach and Tommy Potter.

"Working with Bird was a fantastic experience," says Duke. "He was such an inspiration and often I heard him play things that were greater than anything he could do in a recording studio. My greatest regret was that I missed a chance to go to Europe with him. Bird had no work at one time, so I look the chance to go to Detroit with Paul Bascomb, and while I was there Bird was invited to France for the first jazz festival. As it turned out, I didn't get another opportunity to visit Europe until 1956, when I went to Sweden with Rolf Ericson."

During the Bird years Duke played for a few months with Roy Eldridge, recording on a big band date with Roy. Later, after leaving Bird, he worked with the Stan Getz combo in 1949. During the 1950s he free-lanced around New York, gigging with Oscar Pettiford, with off-night groups at Birdland, and also spending some time with Gene Ammons' band. In 1958 he was in Europe for a time with Kenny Dorham, Don Byas and Kenny Clarke.

It was about 1954 that Duke began lo develop as a composer. His first and best known original, Jordu, was recorded first by the Max Roach-Clifford Brown quintet soon after. Duke cut it as a sideman with a Julius Watkins group for a ten-inch LP on Blue Note. He has written many attractive lines since then, of which the most successful have been the title tune of this album, already very popular in English jazz circles, and Scotch Blues, which was recorded by Kenny Burrelll (Blue Note 1596}.

This is the first album composed entirely of Duke Jordan compositions. To interpret his work Duke used a carefully selected combo of mutually sympathetic sidemen. Dizzy Reece had already impressed him through the Blue Note LPs under Dizzy's own name; more recently he played a few nights with Dizzy at the Left Bank in midtown Manhattan, in a combo that also included Reggie Workman, the promising young bassist on these sides. Stanley Turrentine, a 26-year-old tenor man from Pittsburgh, worked with Ray Charles and Earl Bostic, but is best known in jazz through his dates in the post couple of years with Max Roach. Arthur Taylor, a 31-year-old New Yorker, has been on many Blue Note scenes with Bud Powell et al.

Flight To Jordan is a minor-mode theme melodically patterned along the lines of the spiritual Joshua Fit the Battle of Jericho. The 32-bar chorus has an A-B-A-B pattern. Veteran Jordan fans will recall that Duke recorded it originally for a now-defunct label. The new treatment has a brighter tempo and maintains a consistent groove throughout the solos by Reece, Turrentine and Jordan. The mood established by Turrentine puts to valuable use both his tonal reflection of Coleman Hawkins and his stylistic debt to Sonny Rollins. (He names Hawkins, Rollins and Byas as his favorites and early influences.)

Of Starbrite Duke says, "I noticed that Dizzy has a fine, big sound on slow tunes, so l wrote this with him in mind." Dizzy has the spotlight throughout the first chorus, outlining the simple, pretty, largely diatonic melody. Duke's own solo is gentle, pensive and relaxed, leading logically to a sinuous tenor passage in which Turrentine reveals both the breathiness and the warm, tender quality of a Ben Webster. Dizzy takes over again for the close, displaying his fine sustained tones and well-controlled vibrato all the way to the tasteful unpretentious coda.

Squawkin' was inspired by an incident that occurred one day not far from Duke's home: "I saw a scene on the street in Brooklyn, a cab-driver and some other cats squawking away, and I thought of writing a theme to express the mood." It's a 12-bar blues with Turrentine at his most fluently impressive, and it cooks all the way, with Dizzy muted and Duke playing long, flowing single-note lines.

Deacon Joe, the longest [and, to these ears, the most impressive] track in the album, was also inspired in this manner, when Duke passed by a storefront church in Brooklyn. There is in this performance none of the pseudo-funk, crypto-gospel music of which we have heard so much during the past year. After Duke's two-chorus opening solo we hear the theme expressed as a simple, blues-drenched unison line. Dizzy ot his most lyrical offers a solo that shows the qualities of a truly sensitive musician: simplicity and complexity, direct rhythmic statements and oblique implication, are ingeniously interwoven to produce a performance that ranks among his best on record to bate. Duke, too, shows the depth of his feeling for the blues and even ends the performance with a delightfully basic four-bar tag, complete with a C-13th-Flat-5 final chord.

Si-Joya has no deep significance in its title. Duke confesses that he doesn't know Spanish too well and merely wanted to convey this flavor in the name of the tune, which, as you'd expect, is a Latin-type affair. Opening with slicks-on-cymbal by A. T. it progresses to the exposition of the theme followed by solos from Turrentine, Reece and Jordan. Notice, throughout this track- and for that matter throughout the entire album - the steady and supple support offered by A, T., who has been an intermittent associate of Duke's for some years and was a member of the group in which Duke visited Scandinavia. "I just wanted a really happy feeling for this one," says Duke, and there's no doubt that he achieved his objective.

It is good to find Duke Jordan so well represented by an album thai displays his dual talents as composer and pianist. For those who are reading these notes before deciding whether to embark on the flight to Jordan, may I recommend that you get your passport validated right now.”                      
-LEONARD FEATHER

(Author of The New Encyclopedia of Jazz]

[“Diamond Stud and I Should Care are previously unreleased and complete this session and are added to this CD.” - Michael Cuscuna]


Remembering The Mastersounds

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Appearing as it did on 5/31/2008, this feature was one of the blog's earliest. And despite the difficulty in navigating the Blogger platform to "leave a comment," this feature has garnered a dozen comments over the years. Who knew that the Mastersounds were as widely popular and highly regarded by the general Jazz public

As was often the case in those "early days," the piece was posted without a video which exemplifies the music under discussion. That has now been corrected with the addition of a not-very-easy-to-find montage of images of the group and its recordings at the conclusion of this profile in the form of a Playlist

It was always been a "tough go to find enough regular work to keep a small Jazz combo with local or regional appeal going."

Given these circumstances, the miracle of The Mastersounds is that they lasted as long as they did and left such a relatively rich recorded legacy.

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


The Mastersounds were formed in 1957 and included Charles Frederick “Buddy” Montgomery on vibes, Richie Crabtree on piano, William Howard “Monk” Montgomery on bass [originally a Fender electric bass, but later an upright string bass] and Benny Barth on drums. The Montgomery Brothers were natives of Indianapolis, IN as was their more famous guitar playing brother Wes, who was to join with them on two of their group LPs.

Monk Montgomery developed the idea for the combo while living in Seattle after he got off the road with the Lionel Hampton Big Band in 1956. According to Ralph J. Gleason, a down beat columnist at that time: “Monk, from his experience in Seattle, was convinced a good jazz group would have a chance to work in that city and he was right.”

The Mastersounds opened at Dave’s Blue Room on January 14, 1957 for a successful three month engagement. However, a dearth of work followed prompting the group to pool its meager resources and send Monk Montgomery on a trip to San Francisco and Los Angeles looking for gigs and a recording contract.

Shortly after arriving in San Francisco, Monk Montgomery stopped by The Jazz Showcase, a then newly formed club on venerable Market Street with a unique “soft drink only” policy. Dave Glickman and Ray Gorum, owner and manager of the club, respectively, upon hearing the Mastersounds tapes Monk Montgomery had brought along, booked the group into the room beginning in September, 1957 for an unlimited engagement.

The fairy-tale quality of Monk Montgomery’s California trip was to get even better when he continued his ‘quest’ down to Hollywood. There he met fellow bassist Leroy Vinnegar whose immediate reaction to listening to the Mastersounds demo tapes was to call Dick Bock, president of World Pacific Records. Upon hearing them, Bock signed the group to a contract that would result in six albums being produced for the World Pacific/Pacific Jazz Series until The Mastersounds disbanded as a performing group in December, 1959.

Sadly, none of the Pacific Jazz recorded legacy of the Mastersounds has found its way onto compact disc. Ironically, the group reunited in the recording studios of Fantasy Records on August 10 and November 2, 1960 and the two albums that group made on these dates [Fantasy 3305 and 8862] have been combined and issued as The Mastersounds Fantasy FCD 24770-2. The cover art for this CD is by Ray Avery and is shown as the graphic lead-in to this article.

The CD tray plate annotations offers the following comments about The Mastersounds:

"Because their instrumentation of vibes-piano-bass-drums mirrored that of the contemporaneous Modern Jazz Quartet, one of the finest and most celebrated groups of all time, the Mastersounds may have been somewhat overlooked. Moreover, the Mastersounds best known members, vibist-arranger Charles “Buddy Montgomery [b. 1930] and William “Monk” Montgomery [1921-1982], who pioneered the electric bass in jazz, were the younger and older brothers, respectively, of Wes Montgomery, merely the greatest jazz guitarist of the post-bop era. (The ensemble was completed by drummer Benny Barth who, like the Montgomerys, was from Indianapolis and pianist Richie Crabtree). Still, the West Coast foursome’s coolly soulful, tastefully-arranged approach won them their share of fans, as well as the 1959 Down Beat Critic’s Poll for Best New Group."

At World Pacific, The Mastersounds first LP – Jazz Showcase … Introducing the Mastersounds [PJM-403] incorporated many tunes and arrangements that had become staples of their repertoire during the group’s tenure at the club including a spirited [an oft-requested] version of Bud Powell’s Un Poco Loco, Wes’ Tune by Wes Montgomery, and Dexter’sDeck by tenor saxophonist Dexter Gordon. This debut album also offers intriguing Buddy Montgomery arrangements on such standards as Lover, If I Should Lose You, That Old Devil Moon and Spring is Here.

Fortunately or unfortunately, depending upon your point of view, what followed this initial release were three Mastersounds albums on World Pacific which were intended to capitalize on the Jazz-Impressions-of-Broadway-Show craze that swept the country in the late 1950s.

In the span of about two years, Dick Bock was to release The King and I: A Modern JazzInterpretation by the Mastersounds [PJM-405], Kismet: An Interpretation by theMastersounds [WP-1243] which included Wes Montgomery, and Flower Drum Song: A Modern Jazz Interpretation by the Mastersounds [WP-1252].

These three LPs were a commercial success for Dick Bock’s label and helped to enhance public awareness of the Mastersounds. Somewhat surprisingly, given the inappropriateness or unwieldiness of much of the material for Jazz treatments, each does contain some interesting music.

The King and I offers intricate arrangements by Buddy Montgomery particularly on Getting to Know You and Shall We Dance; Kismet has a lovely interpretation of Baubles, Banglesand Beads and some fresh ideas on how to syncopate the usually stodgy Stranger inParadise; Flower Drum Song with tunes such as Love Look Away, Grant Avenue, ChopSuey and I’m Going to Like it Here provide many opportunities to employ pentatonic scales, modal vamps and even a Max-Roach-tympani-mallet extended drum solo by Benny Barth.

It wasn’t until late in 1958 with the issuance of Ballads and Blues [WP 1260] that the Mastersounds returned to its jazz roots.

This album includes a captivating Blues Medley made up of Milt Jackson’s Bluesology, Dizzy’s rarely heard Purple Sounds, and John Lewis’ Fontessa, as well as, first-rate interpretations of Miles’ Solar and Dizzy’s The Champ.

In late 1958 and throughout 1959, the Mastersounds became a frequent fixture at the JazzWorkshop in San Francisco, while also appearing that year at the Blue Note in Chicago, Birdland in New York and Rhode Island’s Newport Jazz Festival.

With their return to Southern California in 1959 for a stint at Jazzville in Hollywood, Dick Bock picked their April 11th concert at Pasadena Junior College to record an issue their only in-performance recording – The Mastersounds in Concert [WP 1269].

As C.H. Garrigues, jazz critic of The San Francisco Examiner at the time comments in his liner notes for the recording:

“From the opening of ‘Stompin’ at the Savoy’ through the tongue-in-cheek sentimentality of ‘In a Sentimental Mood,” into the flying carpet of ‘Love for Sale,’ through the thoughtfully lyric development of ‘Two Different Worlds,’ … it would be difficult to find any area of sincere jazz feeling in which they are not at home.”

And, in celebration of their warm reception as artists-in-residence at their beloved North Beach San Francisco bistro, The Jazz Workshop, at the end of 1958, World Pacific released The Mastersounds Play Compositions of Horace Silver at the Jazz Workshop [WP-1282].

With their sensitive interpretations of Horace’s Ecaroh, Enchantment, Nica’s Dream, Doodlin’, [the-all-too-rarely-heard] Moonrays and Buhania, as Richard Bock points out in his liner notes:

“The music of Horace Silver provides a perfect vehicle for the Mastersounds to project their very earthy concept yet sophisticated jazz conception. The group has never been recorded in better form. …

The Mastersounds have reached a jazz maturity that has developed from over three years of playing together. This collection of the music of Horace Silver, one of Jazz’s greatest new composer-arrangers, represents a high point in the Mastersounds’ career.”

For a variety of reasons both personal and professional, the Mastersounds decided to disband as a performing and touring group in 1960, although the fact that they all took up residence in the greater San Francisco area after this decision made it easy for them to regroup later in the year to record the two sessions for Fantasy.

From the standpoint of what might have been, and to my great delight since these are their only recordings in a digital format, the Fantasy recordings made on August 10 and November 2, 1960 which have been combined and issued as The Mastersounds [Fantasy FCD 24770-2] show the group to be in exceptional form both individually and collectively.

The ensemble work is superb, the arrangements are intricately complex, and their improvisations are, to a man, their best on record, especially those of Benny Barth who had developed into a inventive and technically adroit drummer over the 4 year span of the group’s existence.

Unfortunately, the Mastersounds existed during a time when the World of Jazz, unlike today, basked in a surfeit of riches making their superb contributions to the genre all too easy to overlook.

And, with all due respect to Messer’s Jackson, Lewis, Heath and Kay, the Mastersounds during its brief life, were the equal musically, of anything offered by the MJQ with the exception of its longevity which, in and of itself is not always the ultimate standard of judgment.

The problem in any “Age of Excess” is that the star that burns the longest is not necessarily the brightest.

And yet, the existence of the Mastersounds made my formative days in the World of Jazz all the better for having not missed the opportunity to know them and their music.

It is always important to remember those who helped "make you as you go,” thus - a remembrance of the Mastersounds.

[The Jazzprofiles editorial staff wishes to acknowledge Ralph J. Gleason, Russ Wilson, Nat Hentoff, Richard Bock and C.H. Garricules whose Mastersounds liner notes provided much assistance in the factual and interpretive material contained in this feature.]


OSIE JOHNSON: An Undistinguished Distinctive Drummer

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


“In studio work, you’re always under the gun. You’re expected to play the parts right no matter how difficult they are …. It’s a matter of being precise and right, all the time. It’s brain surgery, that’s what it is. And every operation has to be a success. There are no failures – a failure and you’re gone.”
- Alvin Stoller, drummer

Burt Korall, a writer who, among his other significant writings about Jazz, authored two books on Drummin’ Men: The Heartbeat of Jazz, only makes one reference to him when he cites him as “… the gifted drummer, Osie Johnson,” on page 200 of the second volume, The Bebop Years.

There is also a reference to Osie in Gary Giddins’ Vision of Jazz: The First Century where in the context of talking about Bud Powell and the drummers he performed with he notes: “He worked only with the best: Max Roach, Kenny Clarke, Roy Haynes, Art Blakey, Art Taylor, Osie Johnson – percussionists who complemented his dynamics, speed, and shifting rhythms.” [p. 321]

Outside of incidental references such as these, you’d be hard-pressed to find any information about Osie other than in the ever-reliable Encyclopedia of Jazz.

The lack of mention of Osie is made even more striking by the fact that this was a drummer who was everywhere, and I mean everywhereapparent, on the New York studio and Jazz scene especially in the 1950s and mid-1960s.

Osie worked with all of the top arrangers –Manny Albam [with whom, he was close friends], Quincy Jones, Oliver Nelson, Bob Brookmeyer, Hal McKusick, Al Cohn, Gerry Mulligan, George Russell – the list is endless. The Lord Discography cites Osie’s name as having appeared on 670 recording sessions!

He toured with pianists Earl “Fatha” Hines, Erroll Garner and Dorothy Donegan as well as tenor saxophone legend Coleman Hawkins and clarinetist Tony Scott. Osie, who made his own album as a singer – A Bit of the Blues [RCA CD 74321609832] -  was a favorite of vocalists Carmen McRae and Dinah Washington, both of whom he wrote arrangements for in the 1950s.

Osie had studied theory and harmony in high school in Washington, D.C. and privately, so he knew music and was an excellent reader, both of which may help explain why he was so heavily in demand at recording sessions.

He was the staff drummer for extended periods of time on both the NBC and CBS studio orchestras in New York City and he appeared as a freelance percussionist on a slew of independent TV commercials and radio jingles.

Perhaps, part of the reason for his obscurity was due to the fact that he died in 1966 at the relatively young age of 43 from renal system infections that led to kidney failure.

Fortunately, Georges Paczynski in the second volume of his prize-winning Une Histoire de la Batterie de Jazz has three entire pages devoted to Osie and his style of drumming. Fortunately, that is, for those who read French as the work has not [to my knowledge] been translated into English.

Paczynski includes Osie along with Harold “Doc” West, Rossiere “Shadow” Wilson, Gus Johnson, Gordon “Specs” Powell and Alvin Stoller in his chapter entitled – La fin de l’ère swing - les batteurs charnières.  With charnières translated to mean “hinge” or “pivotal,” the author is grouping Osie among those drummers whom he considers to be among those who made the successful transition from the Swing Era to Bebop.

Many better known Swing Era drummers never did make this transition, among them Davy Tough and Gene Krupa.

To be able to do so was a considerable accomplishment as it required getting out of playing down into the drum kit [think hands on snare and an incessant bass drum beat] and playing up, onto the cymbals using the snare and the bass drum for accents.

Keeping time in this manner involved a total reorientation in the way in which a drummer thought about time.


Drummers like Osie and the other transition drummers in Paczynski’s grouping who accommodated the change in style did so by keeping things simple.

They became, first-and-foremost, timekeepers with a steady ride cymbal beat and an accent here and there.  Nothing complicated requiring the independence and heightened coordination of a Max Roach or a Philly Joe Jones or a Joe Morello.

More drumming to establish a pulse and to keep things moving along. Clean, simple, and staying out of the way; Osie just blended in with the musical environment instead of trying to dominate it – it was a style of drumming that was more felt than heard.

In fact, Osie’s drumming bordered on the indistinct and yet, everyone loved playing with him precisely because as Paczynski explains:

« En fait, il est absolument impossible d'identifier Osie Johnson. A l'inverse d'un musicien qui ne peut investir son jeu trop personnel et « engage » dans tous les contextes musicaux, il est capable de s'adapter avec plus ou moins de bonheur a toute proposition musicale, et est constamment sollicite en tant que tel. »

A very loose translation of which would read:

“In fact, it is absolutely impossible to identify [in the sense of classifying] Osie Johnson. He was the opposite of those who try and interject their personality into the music. Instead, he tried to contentedly fit himself into all musical contexts, and he was sought out by other musicians precisely because of his willingness to do so.”

A number of times in his essay, Paczynski stresses the fact that Osie emphasized drumming “fundamentals” in his playing: a rock solid beat, precision in the placement of accents, a perfect placement of kicks and fills and a clear and uncomplicated sound from both the drums and the cymbals.

Oh, and he was an excellent reader for as Alvin Stoller, Osie’s counterpart as an in demand studio drummer on the West Coast stated: “In studio work, you’re always under the gun. You’re expected to play the parts right no matter how difficult they are …. It’s a matter of being precise and right, all the time. It’s brain surgery, that’s what it is. And every operation has to be a success. There are no failures – a failure and you’re gone.”


More indications of what makes Osie’s style so distinctive can be found in the following question that was put to the online drummer chat group:

What do you all recommend for tuning a 5x14 brass snare to capture a tight, crisp sound with minimal after ring? The snare sound I'm after is similar to the following:

1. Osie Johnson's playing on "Please Don't Talk About Me When I'm Gone" from Sonny Stitt's Now! (mp3 attached). The first 20 seconds of the track provide a good snapshot of Johnson's crisp snare sound.

In order to achieve that kind of sound, do I need to have

a) both top and bottom heads tuned the same
b) the top head tuned higher/tighter than the bottom head
c) the bottom head tuned higher/tighter than the top head
d) ??

At the moment, I have my Tama 5x14 brass snare tuned with top head close to 90 and bottom head a little over 80, I believe (according to my Drum Dial). I have a standard Remo Coated Ambassador on the batter side.

Thanks in advance for any help anyone can offer!”

An answer to this question might also serve to explain the title of our piece on Osie –An Undistinguished Distinctive Drummer.”

The title is not a Zen koan [an insoluble intellectual problem: think – “What was your true nature before you mother and father conceived you?”]

Osie Johnson was unfortunately undistinguished as a drumming stylist, and yet, his drumming was immediately discernible. He was distinctive without trying to be so.

Most of Osie’s distinctiveness did begin with the sound of his snare drum, which he tightened to within an inch of its "life." How he kept it from tearing in two is beyond me.


So the choice from the chat group options would be – “a) both top and bottom heads tuned the same”  - although a much more complete answer might address everything from the quality and composition of the maple shell that formed Osie’s snare drum to the type of drum heads he used, ad infinitum.

The most instructive portion of the chat group question is the example that was sent along with the annotation - The first 20 seconds of the track provide a good snapshot of Johnson's crisp snare sound.

We have used the very same track - "Please Don't Talk About Me When I'm Gone" from Sonny Stitt's Now! - in the video below, but we would rephrase the chat group statement to read: The first 20 seconds of the track provide a good snapshot of Osie Johnson's approach to drumming.

For in addition to his distinctively crisp snare sound, this short segment reveals Osie playing time on the hi-hat before switching to the ride cymbal, his gentle but insistent sense of swing and the lightness of his touch which allowed him to fit into the music almost seamlessly.

This is a perfect illustration of the drummer as an accompanist and also the reason why melody and harmony guys loved working with Osie: his drums are not resonating and booming, his accents are not distracting and he isn’t calling attention to himself with complicated drumming figures.

On this track, Osie is a musician among a group of musicians intent on making music and therein lies the key to his success and to his distinctiveness.

Whatever the musical context – piano trio Jazz, small group Jazz or big band Jazz – Osie always sounds just right; he fits in.

And he always nails it, characteristically.

For all of his blending in, I would venture to say that anyone – musician or not – that is familiar with Osie Johnson’s playing would recognize it … “after [listening to] the first 20 seconds” of a recorded track.

Very few drummers have ever been as distinctively undistinguished as Osie Johnson.




"John Cassavetes" by Tim Hagans and the NDR Big Band

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


“John Cassavetes was a jazz director, a visionary who knew that all humans desire love and acceptance. He understood that our life actions are improvisations based on the influence of our environment, the impulses received from those close to us, and the constant flux of our emotions. He also knew that our imperfect human state often hinders us from achieving what we most desire; the attempt, however, with its immense failures and magnificent successes must be observed, documented, and honored.”
-Tim Hagans, New York City, 2017


"Fetchingly situated between Brownian blasts and Milesian murmurs, the trumpeter's lines cover lots of emotional breadth. It makes for a straight-ahead quintet approach that is quite willing to bend the rules to suit a tune's forgotten corners. His poetry with standard ballads might hush this room. Evidently he does know what love is."
- Jim Macnie, The Village Voice

“Tim Hagans was nominated for Grammy awards for Best Instrumental Composition for "Box of Cannoli" from The Avatar Sessions (2010 Fuzzy Music); Best Contemporary Jazz CD for Re: Animation (2000 Blue Note); and Animation*Imagination (1999 Blue Note). In addition to his own bands, he has performed and recorded with Thad Jones, Ernie Wilkins and Dexter Gordon. For fifteen years Tim Hagans was artistic director and composer-in-residence for the Norrbotten Big Band, traveling to Sweden to perform, conduct and arrange projects with guest artists such as Rufus Reid, Randy Brecker, Peter Erskine, Dave Liebman and Joe Lovano. The Avatar Sessions CD features music he created during that tenure. Tim Hagans is the featured soloist on the soundtrack by Howard Shore for the movie The Score, starring Robert DeNiro and Marlon Brando.”
- Michele Brangwen, Media Release, Waiting Moon records


John Cassavetes [1929-1989] was an actor, writer and director and a pioneering independent filmmaker. His work paralleled that of the trailblazing group of French New Wave cinema directors [Nouvelle Vague] who exploded on the film scene in the late 1950s.


French directors such as Louis Malle, Francois Truffaut, Claude Chabrol, Jean-Luc Godard, Alain Resnais, Jacques Rivette and Jacques Demy revolutionized cinematic conventions by marrying the rapid cuts of Hollywood with philosophical trends [auteur theory].


The French New Wave and the New Hollywood directors of which Cassavetes was a member saw film as a product of the director’s absolute imaginative and inspired aesthetic vision.


These directors brought about the cult of the director as an artistic icon on a par with writers, painters and other intellectual artists. To them, the director was the artistic creator who implements his or her own aesthetic and narrative vision to the screen.


Trumpeter, composer, arranger Tim Hagans has a new CD out on his Waiting Moon Records entitled Faces Under The Influence: A Jazz Tribute to John Cassavetes on which he is joined by the Hamburg, Germany-based NDR Big Band.


Background information about how this recording came about as well as the structure for the music on this recording is explained by Tim in the following insert notes to the CD:


“When I first viewed - actually the more accurate word is witnessed - John Cassavetes’ cinema realite film Faces in 1977, I was disturbed, confused, inspired and excited. I remember walking from the theater without any immediate destination, wandering the night streets chilled by an early autumn mist. I examined why I was experiencing consternation and intense joy. As a young adult, many of the film's emotions were foreign to me, and the motivations propelling the events seemed unnecessary and destructive. After forty more years of life and countless viewings of Cassavetes' films, I realize that his characters brilliantly portray the complete emotional pallet of humanity, with its fears, desires, failings and most importantly, its victories. With each film, I feel I have been given access to a story that began long before the first frame and is presently continuing. I am an undetected visitor viewing actual events being lived by actual people, and from my voyeuristic involvement in the drama, I hear music.


Charles Mingus and Shafi Hadi wrote incidental music to Shadows, Cassavetes' first film from 1959. Bo Harwood also wrote sparse music for some of the films. I entertained the notion of how would the unwritten soundtracks sound, and with that rumination, Faces Under The Influence, A Jazz Tribute To John Cassavetes was conceived. I decided to write music that describes the emotional development that each character experiences rather than compose episodic descriptions. Many of the compositions are through-composed with melodic and harmonic developments that reference the characters earlier emotional states, states that are present before the film begins. Many of the final passages hint at what may happen to the characters after their film's conclusion.


I have chosen characters from Cassavetes' first six films: Lelia from Shadows (Lelia Goldini); Richard Forst from Faces (John Marley); Harry, Archie and Gus from Husbands (Ben Gazzara, Peter Falk and John Cassavetes); Seymour Moskowitz from Minnie and Moskowitz (Seymour Cassel); Mabel Longhetti from A Woman Under The Influence (Gena Rowlands); and Cosmo Vitelli from The Killing Of A Chinese Bookie (Ben Gazzara). The final composition, John Cassavetes, is a tribute to the vision and genius of his oeuvre, and is influenced by the passion of his directing and acting style. The themes and harmonies in this work are derived from the first six compositions.


John Cassavetes is heralded as the progenitor of independent film. To finance his films, he used his own money from mainstream acting jobs, and over the years mortgaged his home multiple times. His initial experience making films within the Hollywood system left him disappointed and outraged, so he vowed he would never have his artistic vision compromised in that way again. In 1957, one could say he initiated crowd source funding by going on Jean Shepherd's radio show Night People and asking for small donations to finance Shadows. He surrounded himself with a gang of artistic fellow travelers that included Gena Rowlands, Peter Falk, Ben Gazzara, Seymour Cassel, Val Avery, Tim Carey and Al Ruban. From the very beginning, Cassavetes was creative in getting what he needed with the limited resources available to someone not a part of the studio system. New York street shots for Shadows were made through windows or guerilla style on the streets of New York with a taxi driven by a friend waiting to whisk the camera to safety if they were caught. Although Shadows was based on improvised scenes performed at the acting school that Cassavetes founded with Bert Lane (there is a credit describing this at the end of the movie), Shadows and his other films, were actually fully scripted and included his acute observations of human life, relationships and the consequences of choice. His propensity to always allow actors to riff on his dialogue and go with their instincts, gave his films an improvised feeling that is both immediate and engrossing.


Faces Under The Influence, A Jazz Tribute To John Cassavetes was commissioned by the NDR Bigband. It is an exceptional orchestra. The band swings, roars and tips, and is technically impressive and supremely nuanced. Every musician is a soloist and the combination of their innovative and distinct voices make this ensemble a true jazz band. I have collaborated with the band many times and knowing the band so well, composed this suite with each musicians' sound and vibe in mind. I implemented John Cassavetes' methods into the compositions and recording process, and the musicians became the characters from the films. The soloists integrated their character's emotional base and developments into their improvisations. There are composed sections that sound improvised because they are "scripted" but there is interpretation granted to the soloist/actors. The NDR Bigband gloriously embraced this concept. I am elated with the results and eternally grateful for the opportunity.


John Cassavetes was a jazz director, a visionary who knew that all humans desire love and acceptance. He understood that our life actions are improvisations based on the influence of our environment, the impulses received from those close to us, and the constant flux of our emotions. He also knew that our imperfect human state often hinders us from achieving what we most desire; the attempt, however, with its immense failures and magnificent successes must be observed, documented, and honored.”


-Tim Hagans, New York City, 2017


Order information for Faces Under The Influence: A Jazz Tribute to John Cassavetes can be located by going here.


Click on the red dot to listen to a sample of the music on display in this recording.

On "Expedition" with Denny Zeitlin and George Marsh

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


“Our goal has been to approach the music without a score or any preconception; to be as fully present as possible, "riding the moment," and allowing the music to go where it wants — without any constraint of genre, or fixed harmonic, rhythmic, or melodic structure. We hope that what emerges are spontaneous compositions that have freshness, beauty, excitement, internal logic, new sounds, and a sense of journey — an "expedition."”
- Denny Zeitlin

This piece gets it title from the recently released Sunnyside CD Expedition [SSC 1487] that features keyboard artist Denny Zeitlin and percussionist George Marsh, which is a follow-up, or perhaps a better way to phrase it would be a follow-on to their critically acclaimed Riding the Moment which was issued by Sunnyside in 2015.

The common element in both of these recordings is spontaneous improvisation [or what Denny refers to as “spontaneous compositions”] by Denny and George in a quest for new sounds, what Stan Kenton termed “neophonic” music some years ago. Of course, the entire history of Jazz could be considered the ultimate neophonic musical progression as the sound of the music was constantly in flux due to the changing styles in which it is played.

The same holds true today and alterations in Jazz are even more dramatic now that it has assumed international proportions.

But while Kenton’s neophonic Jazz was predicated on arranged and written out compositions that select soloists used as a point of departure for their improvisation, Denny and George have opted for a more immediately responsive, almost reactive, basis for their improvisation by essentially interacting with one another while playing their instruments over a span of time or what Denny refers to as “real time.”

There are compositions on Expedition, thirteen of them, in fact, but I suspect that their real purpose is to basically set the mood for what is referred to as the duo electro-acousticimprovisations.

This is mind-centered music, which is not as redundant or obvious a description as it might seem, in that all musical performance requires a mental preparedness to execute along with trained muscle memory and breathing techniques depending on what instrument is being played.

Heard in the mind or intellectual music seems to be the central orientation of the music on Expedition which makes it no less interesting than that which is generated from the heart or the emotions.

This emphasis on the mental process of what author -journalist Arthur Koestler termed “the Act of Creation” is not coincidental because paralleling Denny Zeitlin’s career as a Jazz musician has been his professional life as a former Clinical Professor of Psychiatry at University of California at San Francisco and currently as clinical psychiatrist in private practice.

The Process of Creation is one that Denny has taken part in personally and professionally so he is on intimate terms with Koestler’s axiom that
creative activity can be described as a type of learning process where teacher and pupil are located in the same individual.

He and percussionist par excellence George Marsh continue to explore the dynamics of creation at an exciting level of interaction on Expedition. And what’s more, while doing so, they heed bassist Bill Crow’s admonition about the purpose of Jazz - they have fun. You can sense the thrill of adventure in the music they are making as the music is alive; boundless; unpredictable - just they way it should be at this stage of their long careers in music.

You know they know the rules, the conventions, the patterns associated with making Jazz, and the follow them to some extent to keep their bearings in the musical journey that they are undertaking together. But what you don’t know is where the music is going because you’ve never heard music that sounds like this before.

The luxury of being able to create unfettered music in this manner is as it should be at this point in their respective careers: these men have paid their dues; they have become accomplished musicians; the least we can do is accord them the privilege of listening to their not inconsiderable, yet unconventional, musical musings.

Interestingly, I found that of the thirteen tracks on the CD, I could listen to them as self contained units or as a suite in 13 parts; in other words, individually or as a continuum. These are not melodically memorable pieces but they do evoke moods some of which are almost introspective and meditative.

Track sequencing is a matter of taste so while I deferred to the manner in which the music is arranged on the CD during my first listening, I subsequently tried listening to it using the Random feature on my disc changer and this revealed further surprises in the music.

While listening to the music on Expedition, I became aware of the level of technical mastery that Denny and George have on keyboards and percussion which allows them to maintain an inner core of discipline in order to keep such freely created music from becoming a train wreck.

There is a constant balancing going on in the music - a tension and release - that requires Denny and George to come together at times, pull apart at other times and also parallel one another at other times as the music evolves through spontaneous improvisation.

Denny offers more insights into the “how and why” the music on Expedition came together in the following insert notes to the recording.


A Note From Denny Zeitlin... In the two years since Sunnyside's 2015 release of Riding The Moment, George and I have continued our expedition into new territories of spontaneous composition, and this CD chronicles what has been an exciting and enriching evolution. For listeners having a first contact with our duo, I'll repeat my remarks from our first album, since the set and setting remain the same.

This album, like Riding The Moment, has roots going back to the late sixties, when I began a decade of exploring the electro-acoustic integration of jazz, classical, funk, rock, and free-form music. My trio included Mel Graves or Ratso Harris on bass, and throughout, the incredible drummer/percussionist George Marsh. We recorded and toured the West Coast, concluding this period with my electro-acoustic-symphonic score for the 1978 remake of Invasion of the Body Snatchers.

I then returned to a focus on acoustic solo, duo, and trio music for a couple of decades, and George went on to numerous other projects. With the passage of the millennium, synthesizer and recording technological advances lured me back into a major and ongoing studio upgrade.

Both/And(Sunnyside 2013) was devoted to the electro-acoustic domain as a soloist. And since 2013, George and I have musically re-united, and have been exploring the potential of duo electro-acoustic free improvisations — the co-creation of what we often refer to as "sound paintings."

Our goal has been to approach the music without a score or any preconception; to be as fully present as possible, "riding the moment," and allowing the music to go where it wants — without any constraint of genre, or fixed harmonic, rhythmic, or melodic structure. We hope that what emerges are spontaneous compositions that have freshness, beauty, excitement, internal logic, new sounds, and a sense of journey — an "expedition."

Over 95% of this music was recorded in "real time" with one pass. On those occasions where I didn't have enough hands to play what I was hearing, I over-dubbed some orchestration or a solo voice. And in those instances, I typically went with the first take, to preserve the spontaneity of the project.

I believe you will hear in our interaction that George is a full partner in the co-creation of this album. To preserve acoustic separation during recording we were unable to see each other; we were carried by our shared musical vision, trust, and a rapport that seems telepathic. We often feel like we are some kind of galactic orchestra.”

And Bret Sjerven at Sunnyside sent along the following media release about Denny, George and Expedition:

“For longtime collaborators Denny Zeitlin and George Marsh much of their enthusiasm for music lies in exploration of new terrain. Their recording Expedition finds them continuing their journey into the worlds of sound and spontaneous composition.

Pianist Denny Zeitlin has long been in the vanguard of musical innovation. His 1960s acoustic trio was one of the first to advance beyond the concepts of Bill Evans, and his genre defying electro-acoustic experiments were some of the most intriguing from a jazz musician.

Zeitlin always wanted to develop his ability to be more expansive with his sound. As a child, the pianist dreamed of being able to control an orchestra with a single device. Zeitlin was obviously ready for the advances in synthesized sounds that developed, especially during the 1960s and 1970s, which put an orchestra at his fingertips. He quickly adopted synthesizers and sound design into his musical language, creating classic records like Expansion and the soundtrack to Invasion of the Body Snatchers.

Innovative percussionist George Marsh was there through all of these electro-acoustic professional musical excursions, offering a sympathetic and advanced sense of what percussion could add in these widely varying situations. His egoless approach makes him a perfect partner for Zeitlin, as everything they do together serves the music.

During the past four years, Zeitlin and Marsh's collaboration has been reenergized. Meeting regularly at Zeitlin's home studio, the two have explored new topographies in collaborative music making. They both see their meetings as a privilege, as there are no pressures of time, finance or extraneous purpose to impede their enthusiastic music making.
Zeitlin's studio, with its array of keyboards, synthesizers, grand piano, pedals, outboard gear, computers, and monitors, evokes images of Mission Control at NASA.

Setting up to preserve track separation while recording, Zeitlin and Marsh are unable to see each other, and depend upon a rapport that seems telepathic. They have focused on free improvisation — spontaneous compositions that arise with no preconception. With their shared vision, the music is allowed to bloom on its own accord; there is a fluidity within the sound as harmonic and rhythmic textures weave themselves in and out. Times signatures often do not apply, as many of the pieces find the collaborators switching and blending continually.

The initial presentation of some of the fruits of their labor was the critically acclaimed Riding The Moment (Sunnyside, 2015.)

Two years later, their follow-up recording. Expedition, shows just how profound their relationship has become. The music demonstrates the very feeling of delight that the musicians take in the freedom they have in conjuring their music.

The music presented is inspired and stylistically varied. There are atmospheric pieces, like "Geysers" and the quietly surging "The Hunt," and ballad-like ruminations, like the ambient "Thorns of Life" and "Spiral Nebula." The pulsating uptempo tracks are rhythmically fascinating, like the skittery percussion highlight "Shooting The Rapids" and the driving "Sentinel." The triumphant "Expedition" is a perfect example of the duo's goal of creating a succinct composition with direction and arc, all spontaneously in the moment.

Zeitlin and Marsh's forward-thinking collaboration spans 50 years. Their connection has only gotten stronger as they have invested themselves in expanding their vocabularies in electric-acoustic and improvised music. Expedition brilliantly displays what two highly attuned and flexible musicians can create on the fly.” www.sunnyside.com

You can locate order information about Expedition and sample the music on it by visiting Denny at www.dennyzeitlin.com.


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