© Copyright ® Steven Cerra, copyright protected; all rights reserved.
“Get people talking. Learn to ask questions that will elicit answers about what is most interesting or vivid in their lives. Nothing so animates writing as someone telling what he thinks or what he does—in his own words.
His own words will always be better than your words, even if you are the most elegant stylist in the land. They carry the inflection of his speaking voice and the idiosyncrasies of how he puts a sentence together. They contain the regionalisms of his conversation and the lingo of his trade. They convey his enthusiasms. This is a person talking to the reader directly, not through the filter of a writer. As soon as a writer steps in, everyone else's experience becomes secondhand.”
- William Zinnser “Writing About People:The Interview” from On Writing Well
Writing in the January 1989 issue of Down Beat, it would appear as though Michael Bourne has taken Mr. Zinnser’s advice to heart as Gerry opens-up on a variety of subjects during this interview.
Although his comments about the early years of his career have been included in previous articles, it’s nice to “hear” Gerry giving a career retrospective in his own words. What’s particularly important about Michael’s piece is that it includes about Gerry’s description of events that took place in the 1980s, the last full decade of his career [he died in 1996].
Finding a piece [Down Beat, January 1989] with Gerry talking about his work in a candid and relaxed manner is a joyous occasion and I thought I’d share it with you on these pages.
“When I was a kid growing up, there was a lot of music on the radio," states composer/arranger and baritone sax great Gerry Mulligan, "and I loved the bands. There was a lot of variety among the bands. They ran the gamut. And for a kid growing up it was an exciting time. The bands were important. The leaders were famous, respected. I liked the music from the time I was little; everything, classical, jazz, show music, whatever I could hear."
Was there a moment when he'd known he'd become a musician himself? "It was conditioned in me from childhood to have a band, to write for bands, to play with bands. I have a feeling that no matter what era I lived in, a hundred years ago or a hundred years from now, I'd always be interested in orchestration. It's one of those things that's a mystery to anybody who doesn't have an ear or talent for orchestration: why does some kid come along and know how it's done? And when I was a kid I knew how it was done and I wanted to do it. I really wanted to go to music school and study composition but I never got the chance. My family thought I was crazy, that I was being cute and showing off. 'He'll come to his senses and someday want to be something real!' But, of course, I never did. I never came to my senses. To me the music was real."
Gerald Joseph Mulligan, the kid born in New York in 1927, became the celebrated orchestrator the kid dreamed of being — and also, coincidentally, has become the greater baritone saxist since Harry Carney. After travelling around for years, his family eventually settled in Philadelphia where Mulligan attended high school. "I started on clarinet, then bought an alto, later on a tenor. While I was still in school I bought a baritone but I never actually played it. I saved up and bought it because I liked it. It wasn't until after I was out of school and working professionally as an arranger that I started playing baritone, concentrating on it."
Mulligan played alto with dance bands around Redding and Philadelphia but worked as often arranging, in particular for Johnny Warrington's band on the radio. "I came to New York with Tommy Tucker's band. He'd hired me for three months and after the three months my writing was getting more and more out, more jazz-oriented than he wanted." Gene Krupa wanted what Mulligan was doing. "I wrote for Krupa in '46 and was with the band most of that year. I played with the band a couple of times, pressed into service to help out. Like a fool I always carried my horns with me, so if somebody got sick or got fired on the road I wound up playing. One time they fired an alto player, another time a tenor player. I learned a lot playing with those guys. I was out of my league as a saxophone player. They were really good."
He's the skinny, almost baby-faced alto player pictured with Krupa on the album Gerry Mulligan: The Arranger [Columbia 34803], featuring charts he'd written for Krupa on "How High The Moon" and "Disc Jockey Jump" in 1947. It was soon thereafter that the part-time alto-or-tenor player became a full-time (and all-time) baritone player.
"It must have been early '47, at some point after I'd been working and playing with bands for a while. I don't really know what I was thinking but I wound up selling my other horns and just kept the baritone. I don't know why but I spent a lot of time going to sessions and playing only baritone."
Because of Charlie Parker and Lester Young especially, the alto and tenor were more and more popular in the music evolving then. There wasn't so much competition on the baritone. "I don't know that I ever thought in terms of competition. I certainly picked the right instrument. We were up to our earlobes in alto and tenor players—and good ones." Harry Carney was an obvious inspiration. '"At that time there were some good baritone players with bands. Carney was an influence because the relationship Carney had to the sound of the band was essential to Duke's music. That had an effect on me. I never tried to sound like Carney. I couldn't, impossible, but the fact was that any band that used the instrument well, the baritone had an effect on the sound. Ozzie Nelson had a wonderful band, very musical, and the basic style of writing was the full ensemble playing with the baritone playing obbligatos. Deane Kincaide was the baritone player and wrote a lot of charts for that band. That had its effect on me. Ernie Caceres was a wonderful baritone player, then later Serge Chaloff came along. He was the first to incorporate the kinds of dynamic solos that came from Charlie Parker. Then other guys came along. I liked Leo Parker. I was out playing with my own group by the time I heard Pepper Adams and Cecil Payne."
It was in the latter 1940s that Mulligan became a sensation as both a baritone player and a writer, working with Miles Davis on what was called The Birth Of The Cool. The Miles Davis Nonet — featuring Lee Konitz on alto, J.J. Johnson or Kai Winding on the trombone, John Lewis at the piano, among others-performed memorably at the Royal Roost in 1948, then recorded classic sessions in '49-'50, which included Mulligan's arrangements of "Godchild" and "Darn That Dream," along with his "Venus de Milo,""Rocker," and "Jeru" and music by John Lewis, John Carisi, and Gil Evans.
"It was an arranger's band. I connected with Gil Evans because I loved the Claude Thornhill band [for whom Mulligan eventually worked]. I admired Gil and Claude and Bill Borden. The guys connected with that band were phenomenal. The sound of that band was so beautiful. Gil and I became good friends. He was always an inspiration to me. I was living in Philadelphia and Gil said, 'Enough already! You've got to come to New York where everything is happening! So I did.
"Gil's place used to be a gathering place for arrangers. There was always a parade in arid out of there: John Carisi, George Russell, Dave Lambert, John Benson Brooks, John Lewis. It was always a subject of discussion how to have the freedom and the dynamism you get from the little group, the soloist and rhythm section, the hot bebop groups we all liked, plus having the capabilities to orchestrate music that would be of interest to the writers. That's how we wound up with that instrumentation [trumpet, trombone, french horn, tuba, alto sax, baritone sax, piano, bass, drums]. It gave us possibilities in both directions, for both the writer and the player.
"Miles used to come down and listen to the conversations. We were the arrangers, but Miles was the one who went out and made the phone calls and reserved the studios; and with Miles as the lead trumpet sound, that gave us a stylistic direction to everything we did. If it had been somebody else, Clifford Brown or Fats Navarro, the sound would have been different. We would have approached it differently. We put into effect the lessons we'd learned, the idea that a band — any band but especially a jazz band — reflects the players that are in it, what we learned from Duke. Miles was perfect. Given his lead sound and melodic approach, everything else followed naturally. I really enjoyed writing for that band."
Working with a nine-piece ensemble became, in retrospect, a natural evolution for Mulligan away from the bands and into the combos. "I'd evolved aways from bands anyway, as soon as I started concentrating on playing. I still wrote for bands — Elliot Lawrence, among others—and was able to support myself writing arrangements so I could stay in New York and go to sessions. I evolved into a small band context more because all my friends were playing in small bands: Brew Moore, George Wellington, Kai Winding. It was logical. That was really the end of the big band era. Economically the bands were being strangled."
What with "entertainment" taxes, the Musicians Union strike, changes in clubs, changes in tastes, and all the other factors, Mulligan watched the bands he loved falling apart. "It made me so sad to see my heroes not being able to function anymore, especially to see what happened to Claude Thornhill. That band was so beautiful and was popular, and then next thing he's working with smaller and smaller bands trying to sound like a big band. It was heartbreaking."
Mulligan, struggling himself at the turn of the 1950s, ventured West and happened into what became a serendipitous success: the quartet he fronted with trumpeter Chet Baker. Mulligan's interplay with Baker was electrifying, all the more so as they worked without a pianist. And though the quartet lasted only a year, from '52 into '53, they were so popular that this "West Coast" jazz also became a musical phenomenon—though Mulligan himself didn't stay in California.
"I went out there because it got to be that there was no work around New York. It just died off around the late 1940s. And there were the drug problems then too. I had to get away from all of it, so I went to California. The first six months I worked wherever I could and went to a lot of jam sessions. That's where I met Chet; and when I got the chance I put together the group. By the time that whole "West Coast" thing started, I suppose what happened was that, based on the success of groups like mine, everybody wanted to jump on the bandwagon and make records. Musicians are delighted to make records!"
That he was so successful so young, only in his mid-20s, didn't stagger Mulligan. "When you're young and successful you say, 'Okay, that's the way it's supposed to be.' It's easy to accept success and recognition when you get it. I was lucky I got it and assumed that was right and was my due. I always expected to be a success anyway. I didn't know in what way. I always expected I'd become a successful bandleader. How was I to know there wouldn't be the bands anymore?"
That he and Chet Baker didn't stay together, in spite of success, was inevitable. "Chet and I never were particularly friendly. It really is amazing that our musical affinity was remarkable. We were different types of people. Chet always liked to travel in a group. He'd always have this pack around — Californians, surfer types — and there'd always be five or six of them. I've always been a loner or I'd have one running buddy. Over the years in New York it was either Zoot Sims or Brew Moore. We'd share apartments or I'd live alone.
"Chet was also very physical. We'd get done and those guys would drive up to the mountains to ski. By the time they got there the sun was up. They'd ski through the morning, then go down to the beach and sail. By then the day's gone by and Chet comes to the gig. He'd do that two, three days in a row, without sleeping, and his chops would dry out; he'd have trouble with chapped lips and he'd start missing notes. I'd say to him, 'Chet, have you ever heard of sleep? It's a wonderful thing for your chops.' It was funny except for what it was an indication of. Chet had a very misplaced set of standards, and this, more than anything, was why we ultimately didn't — I shouldn't say we didn't get along. We did. It's just that some people you like to hang out with and some people you don't."
Throughout the '50s, Mulligan worked more and more, fronting bands that featured Bob Brookmeyer or Art Farmer, among others; playing the festival circuit, especially Newport; performing on the legendary CBS telecast The Sound Of Jazz in 1957; winning all the jazz polls (including db's), and recording countless albums. "I have no idea how many records I've done," said Mulligan, amazed that two discographers (one French, one Scandinavian) have aspired to catalog his output.
Among his best albums were the "Mulligan Meets ..." albums that Norman Granz produced, encounters with several of his fellow masters. "I was lucky to have made contact with Norman Granz. He knew the kinds of things I liked to do and he liked to do those things too. Norman came backstage at Newport a couple of years in a row and he'd hear the conversation between Paul Desmond and me. Paul was always saying, 'We've got to record, do it like the quartet, only with the alto sax instead of the trumpet. I'll play Chet's part.' I'd say it was a great idea. Norman said, 'You guys are ridiculous. You'll talk about this for 20 years and never do it. Are you serious about doing it?' I said we were, and next thing we knew Norman set up the studio. That was the first one, with Paul." Other sessions featured Mulligan with Johnny Hodges, Ben Webster, and Stan Getz — the latter with a twist: Mulligan and Getz switching horns on one side. "I forget whose idea that was." Mulligan also recorded classically with Thelonious Monk, the sessions re-released as 'Round Midnight.
One sidelight of Mulligan's life happened about the same time in the latter '50s. He played and acted in several movies: I Want To Live, The Subterraneans, and Bells Are Ringing. "I've always loved the theatre but that doesn't mean I want to be an actor. I did just enough acting in the movies to know I'm not very good at it."
Even so, he's delightful in Bells Are Ringing, smiling through an awkward date with Judy Holliday, the wonderful comedienne Mulligan loved. "In some ways that was the hardest day's work I ever did. I had all the speaking lines. Judy was supposed to be tongue-tied, a nitwit around a man. So she sat there, trying to be nice; only she was clumsy, knocking glasses over." Judy Holliday died young and there was talk of doing a biopic, only "they couldn't find anybody to play Judy. Judy was widely imitated, but to do Judy in a film and just do an imitation wouldn't make it. There were so many things that she did that others picked up on — the voice, the mannerisms. So we never actually did it."Holliday With Mulligan [DRG 5191], a recording of songs they enjoyed and several they wrote together is still available.
Bells Are Ringing was released in 1960 and that same year Mulligan gathered a Concert Jazz Band in New York. Though he wanted to have a big band again, he didn't do all the writing himself. Bob Brookmeyer, John Carisi, Gary McFarland, and Al Cohn, among others, contributed. Mulligan's band became the forerunner of other bands that followed, especially the band Thad Jones and Mel Lewis started that's played on ever since. Mel Lewis was Mulligan's regular drummer and Thad Jones often composed for the band (sort of). "Thad was funny. Thad would always bring to rehearsal things to try with my band, but always just a chorus or fragments. He'd never bring a finished chart. I'd say it was nice and he'd thank me for saying so — and that so-and-so was trying out these charts for his band! I had no idea he was going to do that," Mulligan laughed. "I'd be flying Mel back and forth from L.A. for rehearsals. That's what I did with my money. Whenever I made any money, I'd spend it on music."
Mulligan once again gathered a Concert Jazz Band this past summer [1988] for a European tour. He's more often worked with a quartet through the years, memorably several years with Dave Brubeck. They played (and recorded) what was then the last set at Newport in 1971 when the festival was trashed by Woodstock nationals. Nowadays he's playing most often with piano-bass-drums. Why not another horn again? "I did that," Mulligan laughed. "It would be nice once in a while, but it becomes a thing that's dependent on the other horn and I wouldn't want that for playing every night."
He's also performing more as a soloist with classical orchestras and doing what he's always been doing: composing. Mulligan's newest recording, Symphonic Dreams [PAR CDP 703], features two familiar Mulligan works, "K-4 Pacific" and "Song For Strayhorn," in addition to The Sax Chronicles, a suite of pieces inspired by classical composers, and Entente For Baritone Sax And Orchestra, all recorded with Erich Kunzel conducting the Houston Symphony.
"It started about 10-15 years ago when I was playing with Brubeck. Dave had written a couple of pieces for orchestra that I played. We recorded Light In The Wilderness in Cincinnati. Erich Kunzel liked the idea of doing more with the orchestra, so I started to get the music together. I commissioned a concerto that Frank Proto wrote for me, and then Harry Freedman was commissioned by the CBC to write a piece for me, a piece called Celebration for my 50th birthday. As we did the things with orchestras I started to get the urge to write something for myself. Both of those concertos were heavy, full-scale, putting together jazz elements and orchestral elements. I wanted to write something that would be a lot more my own, that I could play in opposition to and in complement with the orchestra, with elements that worked against each other and with each other." Hence, an entente ....
"I work two ways with a symphony now. I'll do concerts as a soloist where I'll play part of the Chronicles and that's it. But a good many concerts, like the one with Zubin Mehta and the Israel Philharmonic last year, I'll work as a soloist plus have other music the quartet plays with me."
And what next? "I'm working on new things for the quartet and the Concert Jazz Band, a world premiere for the Glasgow Arts Festival and some music I wrote for the Sea Cliff Chamber Players." Hectic as all his projects and gigs often become, his wife Franca Mulligan keeps everything rolling, from the house they have in Connecticut to the apartment they have in Milan—and all along the road. "I've been very lucky in the women that I've known; fine, beautiful, interesting women. I've learned a great deal from them. I have no complaints. It's a great deal in life to have the kind of companionship that's inspiring as well. Otherwise it gets to be a lonely road out there." Franca often acts as his manager—though, Mulligan laughed, "not really voluntarily. Franca makes it possible for me to do a lot of things because she makes sure that the business responsibilities are in control. Sometimes it gets to be busy, but it all runs smoothly."
Gerry Mulligan is older now, 61 last April, yet what's most obvious when he's talking about music is that he's nonetheless that kid who listened to the radio and who dreamed of playing. "People don't always learn right away, and sometimes never learn, that to survive as a professional musician, or anything else for that matter, you have to maintain your enthusiasm. Without enthusiasm it really doesn't mean a damn thing. And don't be looking for things outside yourself to provide enthusiasm. It has to come from inside. You must be self-motivated to spend your life with music. Something as difficult, as stress-making as being a professional musician—if you don't have enthusiasm, if you can't keep it going inside yourself, look for something else.
"Another thing I try to get across to young musicians is: don't disregard your history. One of the things I liked about jazz, and this was 40-50 years ago, was that there was a tradition going on, and I liked the tradition. I admired very much the musicians who went before: Louis Armstrong, Jack Teagarden, the bandleaders, the writers, Sy Oliver, wonderful people like that. Everybody was putting in their best efforts. Everybody was trying to make his own mark but there was the feeling of a concerted effort for an overall excellence. People were trying their best, and I think they did it.
"There is a mainstream and each succeeding generation becomes part of the mainstream. But don't lose sight that the mainstream goes a long way back. I think it's a good idea to explore it and be able to understand why the music had the attraction it did. What is the magnetism that made the music what it is?"
Through the years he's played around that mainstream, played with everyone: Ellington and Monk, Dizzy and Bird, Coleman Hawkins. Name them and he's played with them. "Louis Armstrong, Jack Teagarden, Pee Wee Russell, Pres, Billie Holiday. They were nice people. I was lucky. That's what I wanted — to have the opportunity to play with those people and be accepted by them as a musician and a friend."
He's known the greats—and Gerry Mulligan has become one himself. db”