Complete Quartets on Pacific Jazz

LINER NOTES

FROM "COMPLETE PACIFIC"

THE GEOGRAPHY OF JAZZ has never made much sense.

Then we come to West Coast jazz and our geographic bearings get really confused. We are left to explain, as best we can, how New York saxophonist Gerry Mulligan, joined by Oklahoma born trumpeter Chet Baker, could come to define the essence of jazz on the dream coast. Could it be that West Coast jazz was an import from colder climes?

Certainly Mulligan had hardly been out West long enough to get a suntan when he teamed up with Baker to form one of the most creative combos to ever 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. Mulligan's profile was so low that he had journeyed to California by hitch-hiking, rather than purchase costly plane or train tickets. But now the duo was poised to put California jazz on the map 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. And reversing a trend dating back to when Paul Whiteman left town a generation before, Mulligan showed that a jazz man could finally go west, without falling off the side of the globe, without leaving his career behind in Manhattan. Before long, the Los Angeles jazz community and would be packed with newcomers from Ohio, Indiana, Massachusetts and other states, even overseas, each anxious to bask in the glow of the nascent scene. And Mulligan, the catalyst, would reverse course, and head back to his East Coast roots.

But the musical relationships Mulligan forged during his half decade in California would be decisive, marking a turning point in his career and helping to create a seminal body of work. In particular, his collaboration with Chet Baker would come to stand out as one of the great musical partnerships of post-war jazz. Yet, like many such creative unions - from Gilbert and Sullivan to Lennon and McCartney - a rocky personal relationship eventually undermined the rare chemistry of the music. Rivalries, the pressures of success, the intoxication of notoriety and the notoriety of their intoxication-the usual suspects in such cases - eventually pushed the two apart, although they occasionally enticed jazz fans with brief reunions, which showed that the on-stage magic was still very much alive.

Despite these private frictions, the public image of the Mulligan Quartet was that of a well oiled machine. Each note rang true. There was no wasted energy or empty emoting. Seldom had a jazz combo played more effectively together. And not since the days of Jelly Roll Morton had a band showed such focus on creating a group sound, on collective achievement. The simplest ingredients underscored this success: active listening; an acute sensitivity to instrumental textures; a studied avoidance of the easy licks and empty cliches of bop and swing; in their place, fresh, uncluttered lines, cleanly played. Above all this band overcame a 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.

Mulligan was more than the leader of the band. He was the thinker, the visionary who crafted the combo's unique sound. This son of an itinerant industrial engineer (during the baritonist's youth the Mulligan family lived everywhere from New York to Chicago, Philadelphia to Kalamazoo) was himself a restless spirit and something of an engineer of musical texture. During his formative yeas he tried his hand at ukelele, piano, clarinet, alto saxophone and tenor saxophone before finally focusing on the baritone sax. In time, his skills as an instrumentalist would be rivalled by his ability as an arranger and composer. The mature Mulligan could seemingly take any combination of instruments - a nonet with exotic woodwinds, a turbo-charged big band, a pianoless quartet, a muscular tentette - and capture its essence, its ineffable uniqueness all the while putting the stamp of his personality on the proceedings.

Mulligan's involvement with the Miles Davis nonet, which came to a close shortly before his move to California, testified to this rare talent. Although Davis and Gil Evans received the lion's share of the praise lavished on the band - later celebrated as the "birth of the cool" style - Mulligan wrote more of the band's charts than either of them. Even earlier Mulligan had worked (as had Evans) with Claude Thornhill, whose band's impressionistic harmonies and diaphonous textures anticipated and influenced the Davis nonet. Indeed, if Davis represented the birth of the cool, Thornhill was at least its midwife. Many of the elements that contributed to the success of these early ventures, would come to play a prominent role in Mulligan's ensuing work on the West Coast. The pellucid instrumental shadings the preference for medium tempos, the balance between composition and improvisation; all of these would come to be recognized as Mulligan trademarks.

But the West Coast quartet presented Mulligan with a much greater challenge than the Davis nonet. With Davis, Mulligan enjoyed an expansive palette with which to paint his musical landscapes. The unusual makeup of the Davis band - which included French horn and tuba in addition to the more conventional jazz instruments - almost guaranteed that the results would be distinctive and provocative. With this new quartet, in contrast, Mulligan had the most limited means at his disposal. Only two horns,( Mulligan's baritone sax and Baker's trumpet, graced the bandstand, and the rhythm section consisted of only bass and drums, with no harmony instrument to provide chords. Critics soon dubbed the band the "pianoless quartet: in honor of this unusual choice.

But was it a choice? Although Mulligan was quick to point out the virtues of the pianoless approach, it may well be that these were virtues borne by necessity. The piano had already been moved out of the Haig, the tiny Wilshire Boulevard club where the quartet held sway, for Red Norvo's previous engagement (the Norvo band consisted of guitar, bass and vibraphone). The baritonist simply made do with the situation. At first, the band struggled with the hollow sound of the pianoless format. Snatches of brilliance were intermixed with uninspired stretches of bass and drum work. Within a few weeks, however, the combo had caught fire. Baker, relying on his uncanny ear and unmatched musical instincts, fit in perfectly with Mulligan. Drummer Chico Hamilton, one of the most subtle percussionists in the history of jazz, added a shimmering undercurrent in which rhythmic propulsion was balanced by a sense of texture, color and form. Bassist Bob Whitlock smartly varied his approach, sometimes pushing the combo with walking lines, at other points entering into melodic interplay with the horns.

Baker had caught the baritonist's attention when sitting in with Mulligan at the Haig's jam sessions. Despite his youth, the twenty-two year old trumpeter had already, like Mulligan, been pressure-tested in a high profile apprenticeship. The untutored Baker had eclipsed Southern California's best and brightest brass players, winning a much coveted audition to play with Charlie Parker during the bop master's 1952 California sojourn. In this role, Baker had emerged from virtual obscurity to be a prominent member of the local jazz scene, with word-of-mouth praise filtering back East. The collaboration with Mulligan would prove to be the final boost, pushing Baker further and forever into the limelight. His following soon came to rival Mulligan's own, and for a time Baker flirted with crossover stardom.

The Mulligan combo' early evolution is captured on several recordings made during the summer of 1952 at a small Laurel Canyon bungalow, the home of Philip Turetsky. The first two sessions found Mulligan trying out a trio format, as well as a quartet line-up which included piano but excluded drum. The band's work on these sessions, especially the trio date, reflects a marked bebop orientation that would become less pronounced with the later quartet. As a whole, these were interesting endeavors, but in hindsight were merely a prelude to great things to come. The third session broke new ground, featuring the classic Haig line-up of Mullligan, Baker, Hamilton and bassist Bobby Whitlock. Record producer Richard Bock launched his Pacifi Jazz label with the results of this landmark session, releasing "Bernie's Tune" and "Lullaby Of The Leaves" on a single that came out in the fall. A follow-up session from October produced a handful of classic sides, including "Nights At The Turntable," "Freeway," Soft Shoe" and "Walkin' Shoes."

The characteristic elements of the quaret sound were already evident on these early sides. "Bernie's Tune" opens with sax, trumpet and bass presenting the tautly constructed theme. Both horn players follow with concise, pristine solos. Mulligan underscoring Baker's contribution with a subdued accompaniment in the lower register. An inspired counterpoint exchange ensues, a deft give-and-take which would become a trademark of the band's sound, briefly interrupted by a sly, raindrops-on-the-roof drum solo. This glistening performance - so fresh, so right - seemed to break all the rules of jazz. Where other bands bellowed, it merely whispered. Yet the effect was as overpowering as the most vehement exhortation.

There were many magical moments on the quartet's 1952 recordings. No combo , every move. "Freeway" cruises along effortlessly in the fast line, supported by especially effective and assertive solos by both players. Even the all too brief "Utter Chaos #1", the quartet's live set closer, is an extraordinary effort in maintaining control while conveying a sense of musical anarchy.

Momentum was now building for the Mulligan Quartet. The band travelled north for an engagement at the Blackhawk in San Fransisco, glowingly reviewed by Ralph Gleason in the local press. During this trip the combo also recorded for the Fantasy label, at the urging of pianist Dave Brubeck, who noted the band's remarkable chemistry. Returning to Los Angeles, the baritonist formed a larger ensemble which recorded as the Gerry Mulligan Tentette. (Neither the Tentette or the Fantasy recordings are included here, although both are well worth seeking out.) Meanwhile, the Quartet was slated for a lengthy return booking at the Haig.

Word of mouth praise exploded into national renown when Time magazine profiled the quartet in an influential piece. Describing Mulligan as a "hungry-looking young fellow with a Jerry Lewis haircut, the amgazine went on to laud the combo's unique sound, comparing its music to everything from Bach to the Dixieland tailgate tradition. Crowds now lined up around the block to hear this new sensation of the jazz world. Visiting jazz artists of note were sitting in with the group. By all indications, the Haig's tiny bandstand now stood at the epicenter of the burgeoning West Coast jazz movement.

The Mulligan Quartet was again recording regularly for the Pacific label, undertaking at least one session per month through the Spring of 1953. The whole history of jazz now seemed compressed into this music. From the Dixieland feel of "Cherry" to the bop-like rhythmic displacements of "Motel," the Mulligan band covered all the bases. And though the Time article had made highbrow references to Stravinsky and Ravel, the baritonist was not above playing old pop chestnuts like "Makin' Whoopee" contributing a sweet, lingering ambiance to this piece, where other modernists would have tended towards tongue-in-cheek parody.

But, then again, Mulligan always stood out as one of the most eclectic and open-minded musicians of his generation. His early models the widest range - the Ellington band and Harry Carney were major influences, but Mulligan also was known raise eyebrows with his anything-but hip praise of the Ozzie Nelson (yes, baby boomers, that's right, Harriet's hubby). This was the same Mulligan who had studied musical modernism in every guise from Hindemith to Charlie Parker, but also nurtured a passion for boogie woogie piano. And in a series of memorable albums from the late 1950s, he collaborated with everyone from Thelonius Monk to Ben Webster, always fitting in with style and aplomb.

Grover Sales recalls a telling incident from the early days of the Monterey Jazz Festival. Mulligan was scheduled to play with a band of early Chicago/New York school titans, including the Teagarden brothers, Pee Wee Russell and Joe Sullivan. This was the baritonist's first encounter with these comrades-in-arms from an earlier jazz era, although they could boost of an accumulated century-or-so of collaborations amongst themselves. At rehearsal, Mulligan quickly entered into the banter, and within fifteen minutes he was calling songs, assigning solos and matching these jazz veterans note-for-note. Afterwards, pianist Sullivan was heard to remark: "the Irish kid can blow!"

Indeed he could! And despite these backward glances at the jazz tradition, Mulligan's music never sounde derivative. One listens to these early quartet sides, waiting in vain for the slightest imitative impulse, so common in jazz of the 1950s. Mulligan's playing is virtually free from the hackneyed or uninspired phrase. And his writing equally contributes to this sense of originality. His melodies - "Jeru," "Walkin' Shoes," "Nights At The Turntable" - literally sound as though they composed themselves, like they were given birth fully formed, so natural is the progression from opening note to closing cadence.

Yet the improvisational skill of the soloists is the other key ingredient here. Mulligan and Baker were two of the most original voices of post-war jazz on either coast. No baritone saxophonist of the previous era - not Harry Carney or Jack Washington - nor later players such as Serge Chaloff or leo Parker, quite prepares us for Mulligan. His tone is solid without being overly muscular, expressive but never theatrical, symphony hall pure with just a hint of downtown dirtiness. Like the bowl of porridge in the fairy tale, it was neither too warm or too cold, but just right. Baker, for his part, has often been compared to Miles Davis. Yet even a beginning student of jazz can hear the pronounced differences. Baker eschewed the tonal distortions and muted melancholy of Miles in favor of a cherubic sweetness, the sound the angel Gabriel might have proferred had he taken to cool jazz. There were many limitations to Baker the musician - his reading skills were poor, his range compressed, his technique solid but unspectacular - but one never noticed these inadequacies. Instead listeners marvelled at the remarkable inventiveness of his playing. His sense of melodic development, his ability to construct a flowing, improvised line were unsurpassed. True, the Mulligan band was known for its formalist tendencies, but the sheer creativity of both horn players as soloists demanded the highest respect.

These attributes increasingly distinguished the Quartet's work as 1953 progressed. The band was now drawing extensively on the American popular song repertoire - recording 'The Nearness Of You," "All The Things You Are," and "My Old Flame." The emphasis was less on Mulligan's architectonic vision, but more on the exceptional playing and soloing skills of the participants. Two sessions from the close of April produced a number of especially memorable performances. Two Mulligan compositions - "Swinghouse and "Jeru" - are featured in tight, hard driving renditions, but the rest of these dates was devoted to standards. Baker always excelled at lingering ballads, and crafts delicate, almost fragile solos on the master take of "Darn That Dream" and on "My Old Flame." Mulligan's work from this period offers a more overt contrast to the trumpeter. His lines are longer - hear the complex, breathless phrases in "Tea For Two" - and his rhythms more assertive. His improvisations with their surprising use of wide intervals, take on a gripping, angular quality. On his two takes of "I'm Beginning To See The Light," Mulligan forges especially compelling solos with these tools, and Baker is clearly inspired to emulate the skips and leaps of the baritonist's approach.

Standards were also the material at hand when visiting jazz stars graced the bandstand at the Haig. Many of these encounters live on only in memory or second hand accounts. Fortunately Lee Konitz's 1953 impromptu session was captured on tape. Konitz had worked alongside Mulligan in the Davis nonet, and now,was serving a stint with the Stan Kenton orchestra. The Haig performances are primarily solo vehicles for the altoist, and he rises to the occasion, playing at absolute top form throughout. "Lover Man" was one of Konitz's feature numbers with Kenton - in fact he recorded this piece with that ensemble in Hollywood at the close of January 1953, the same time when this performance is believe to have taken place. Konitz sounds energized by the absence of piano, and contributes some of his most harmonically advanced playing. He is equally effective on "These Foolish Things" - note the brilliant double-time work Mid-way through his solo, and recall that this cool acolyte was also a dazzling technician - and "All The Things Your Are" where he constructs a masterful exercise in playing behind and ahead of the beat. A handful of studio performances by this same ensemble were made around this time, and feature more intricate arrangements and a more equitable sharing of solo space. The three horn counterpoint is especially effective, as witnessed by Mulligan's splendid "Sextet."(Don't be fooled by the name - the band is only a quintet.)

The quartet successfully dealt with changes in peronnel around this time. Drummer Larry Bunker replaced Chico Hamilton, who left to pursue a better paying gig with Lena Horne, and West Coast journeyman bassist Carson Smith took over for Bob Whitlock. However, Mulligan's arrest on narcotics charges, and his subsequent six month stint at the Sheriff's Honor Farm, was an irreparable shock. Not only did it break up the nabd, but threatened to put a permanent end top the collaboration between Mulligan and Baker. During Mulligan's absence, Baker's career flourished. After his release, Mulligan tried to rehire the trumpeter, but Baker balked at the financial terms offered. Both players went their separate ways, Mulligan hiring valve trombonist Bob Brookmeyer to fill Baker's role in a new combo, while Baker led a quartet with pianist Russ Freeman, and branched out into vocal work.

These were successful endeavors, but jazz fans refused to forget the ethereal interplay of the original Mulligan/Baker combo. It luminous recordings had spanned less than a year - from mid-1952 to mid-1953 - but had left a lasting mark as defining statements of the cool genre. Mulligan went on to record for other labels, but at the close of 1957 he was reunited with producer Richard Bock on a series of projects. These included a new quartet recording with Baker, as well as a collaboration between this reconfigured combo (which now included bassist Henry Grimes and drummer Dave Bailey) and vocalist Annie Ross.

The former effort, release under the name Reunion, was anything but a nostalgic effort to recreate the sound of the Haig band. Both Mulligan and Baker took a more assertive stance. The chamber jazz ambiance of the earlier period is replaced by looser blowing date attributes. The solos are longer and more of a focal point to the music. The material is mostly standards, except for Mulligan's "Reunion" which, for its part, is based on the familiar chord changes to "There Will Never Be Another You."

Although some listeners were disappointed by this new approach, the Reunion date ultimately succeeds due to the strength of the soloists, the vitality of their interplay. A subtle game of one-upmanship colors the proceedings. Just listen to the spirited horn work on "Ornithology," an energetic performance which dispells any myths about cool players' inability to play hot. The two longest tracks, "I Got Rhythm" and "All The Things You Are," also benefit from this uninhibited approach. Mulligan's solo on the latter is a brilliant excursion in melodic improvisation, while the horn counterpoint on the former ranks with these instrumentalists' finest work. Baker is especially persuasive on "jersey Bounce" (hear the propulsive stop time section) and in his deconstruction of "The Song Is You." Mulligan lets down his guard on "Stardust" putting aside jam session jousting in favor of an unabashed prettiness.

If Mulligan-Baker fans found this effort to be uncharacteristic, the collaboration with Annie Ross must have sounded like it was out of this planet. Anything but a cool chanteuse, this English-born vocalist had dabbled in acting, performed in cabaret settings and toured with various bands before making her mark in the area of vocalese, an extroverted style, something of a cross between patter song and scat. While Mulligan and Baker were garnering praise in LA during the early 1950s, Ross was causing a sensation with her undulating multi-syllabic mastery on recordings such as "Twisted" and "Farmer's Market." Her later work with Dave Lambert and Jon Hendricks built on this skill in a series of popular albums. The three singers would duplicate big band charts and mimic horn solos, all done with a zest and energy which captivated audiences.

With Mulligan and Baker, Ross found herself involved in a very different type of three person front line. And the recorded evidence suggests that she found the setting to her liking. She plays down the vocal theatrics that made her reputation in favor of a more subdued sensuousness. Although her voice was sweet and pure in the high register, it takes on a conversational directness in the lower range, as well as a bluesy quality which finds Ross sliding from note to note with the determined ease of Maury Wills gliding into second base. In an era of girl-next-door singers, she wasn't afraid to adopt a more fast-and-loose attitude, at times pushing the limits. On the first statement of "How About You," she coos "Frank Sinatra's looks give me a thrill." The last time through she substitutes "Billy Eckstine" (the "Sepia Sinatra," as he was sometimes called) for Ol'Blue Eyes, coyly tweaking the racial sensitivities of the Eisenhower era.

In contrast to Ross's tightly arranged work with Lambert and Hendricks, these performances are mostly spontaneous efforts. Certainly the horn parts sound like they were improvised on the spot. Yet the absence of formal charts gives the music an open, unfettered quality. A number of the pieces adopt the type of straight ahead grooves that Mulligan rarely used with the earlier quartet - ranging from the up tempo driving beat of "It Don't Mean A Thing (If It Ain't Got That Swing)" to the loping two step strut of "Between The Devil And The Deep Blue Sea." Mulligan takes on most of the soloist chores, and his playing is highly inventive. Memories of Lester Young - the quintessential jazz saxophonist for vocal settings - are evoked by the baritonist's touching work on "You Turned The Tables On Me" and "This Is Always." And on "It Don't Mean A Thing," he careens off the chords in a sweeping solo. Baker, for his part, holds on to the cool school approach, contributing especially incisive interludes on "How About You" and "My Old Flame."

Mulligan and Baker would once more go their separate ways after these sessions, and many years would pass before they again recorded together. Both would become involved in other notable partnerships. Mulligan's late 1950s pairings with a range of jazz giant (Getz, Webster, Monk, Desmond) rank among the finest projects of his career. Baker's recording career would prove to be even more wide-ranging and extensive. It encompassed both stunning - and all too brief - front line encounter (with Desmond, Getz, Konitz), as well as litless dates which even the trumpeter no doubt came to regret.

Yet amid all this gloss and dross, neither would ever find a partner that would make jazz fans forget these early vintages. There were odd contradictions in this music. It was a mixture of innocence and worldliness, cool reserve and heart-on-the sleeve immediacy, West Coast laid-back married to East Coast intensity. It was experimental and forward-looking, yet immersed in the tradition. And undergirding it all were these two divergent personalities, the focused Mulligan and the diffused Baker. But when their horns were in their hands and the tempo was counted off, these seeming oppositions melted away, and the majesty and magic of the music took over. Few legacies of the jazz of that period have aged so well, effacing the distance of almost half a century with an integrity that does not diminish, a depth that defies categorizing and a freshness that refuses to fade.

- Ted Gioia

FROM PJ - 351 & 246 & LP - 1

Accustomed as everyone has become to thinking of the piano as an indispensible member of the band, it is not unusual that a band without a piano should evoke much questioning as to why and wherefore of the omission. I wish to take this opportunity to explain the reasons and to give credit where credit is due.

The idea of a band without a piano is not new. The very first jazz bands didn't use them (how could they? They were either marching or riding in wagons). I don't consider the piano as an indispensable part of the rhythm section. I think it is more habit than logic that it is standard practice to use the piano thusly.

The piano is an orchestra and as such naturally wonderful possibilities both as a solo instrument and also in conjunction with an ensemble. The piano's use with a rhythm section, where its function is to "feel" the chords of the progression to the soloist, has placed the piano in rather an uncreative and somewhat mechanical role. By eliminating this role from the piano in my group, I actually open whole new fields of exploration and possibilities when I do choose to use one. When a piano is used in a group it necessarily plays the dominant role; the horns and bass must tune to it as it cannot tune to them, making it the dominant tonality. The piano's accepted function of constantly stating the chords of the progression makes the solo horn a slave to the whims of the piano player. The soloist is forced to adapt his line to the changes and alterations made by the pianist in the chords of the progression.

I consider the string bass to be the basis of the sound of the group; the foundation around which the soloist builds his line, the main thread around which the two horns weave their contrapuntal interplay. It is possible with two voices to imply the sound of or impart the feeling of any chord or series of chords as Bach shows us so thoroughly and enjoyably in his inventions.

It is obvious that the bass does not possess as wide a range of volume and dynamic possibilities as the drums and horns. It is therefore necessary to keep the overall volume in proportion to that of the bass in order to achieve an integrated group sound.

- GERRY MULLIGAN

Philadelphia born Gerry Mulligan at 25 years of age has left such a large impression on jazz music that he has emerged as somewhat of a legend. Early Mulligan compositions recorded by the orchestras of Claude Thornhill, Elliot Lawrence and Gene Krupa ("Elevation," 'Swinghouse," "Disk Jockey Jump" and others) indicate a direction that led to the monumental Miles Davis Capitol Records date. Out of this session came "Jeru " and 'Venus De Milo," Mulligan originals; "Godchild" and "Darn That Dream," Mulligan arrangements, records that have been praised throughout the world. Mulligan's contribution to these records play an important part in their success. He not only participated as a composer and arranger, but equally important as a baritone sax soloist.

When Gerry Mulligan arrived in Los Angeles early in 1952 he took command of the Tuesday night Jazz Concert at the Haig, a small, intimate music spot, home of such groups as the Red Norvo Trio and the Dave Brubeck Quartet. Under his influence a quartet with an unusually subtle approach to jazz took shape that has earned high critical praise. As Ralph Gleason in Down Beat magazine so aptly put it: "The Gerry Mulligan Quartet is certainly the freshest and most interesting sound to come out of jazz in some time."

- Richard Bock

FROM "ORIGINAL QUARTET"

The geography of jazz has never made much sense.

Most of the great recordings of New Orleans jazz were made by bands residing in Chicago. And much of what passes for the history of Chicago jazz transpired, believe it or not, in New York. Of course, jazz lore tells of the music travelling up the Mississippi from New Orleans to Chicago. A nice story-except for the fact that Old Man River neatly skirts the Windy City by a wide margin. Then we get to West Coast jazz, and our geographic bearings get really confused. We are left to explain, as best we can, how New York saxophonist Gerry Mulligan, joined by Oklahoma born trumpeter Chet Baker, could come to define the essence of jazz on the dream coast. Could it be that West Coast jazz was an import from colder climes?

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 Seal 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. And reversing a trend dating back to when Paul Whiteman left town a generation before, Mulligan showed that a jazz man could go west, without falling off the side of the globe, without leaving his career behind in Manhattan. Before long, the Los Angeles jazz community would be packed with newcomers from Ohio, Indiana, Massachusetts and other states, even overseas, each anxious to bask in the glow of the nascent scene. But Mulligan, the catalyst, would soon reverse course, and return to the East Coast.

Mulligan's later career would be filled to the brim with musical highlights, yet his half decade in California carries a special glow. It was a decisive interlude - both for him personally and West Coast jazz in general. In particular, his partnership with Chet Baker would come to be recognized as one of the great tandems of modern jazz. But as with many fertile creative unions - from Gilbert & Sullivan to Lennon & McCartney -a rocky personal relationship would come to undermine the rare chemistry of the music. The usual culprits-rivalries, the pressure of success, the intoxication of their notoriety, the notoriety of their intoxications - eventually pushed the two apart, although Mulligan and Baker would tantalize fans with occasional reunions in later years.

Despite these private frictions, 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 cliches 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.

The Mulligan combo's early evolution is captured on several recordings made during the summer of 1952 at a small Laurel Canyon bungalow, the home of sound engineer Philip Turetsky. The first two sessions found Mulligan trying out a trio format, as well as a quartet lineup that included piano but excluded drums. The band's work on these sessions, especially the trio date, reflects a marked bebop orientation that would become less pronounced in the later quartet. On the whole these were interesting endeavors, but with the benefit of hindsight we can see that they were merely a prelude to greater things to come. The third session broke new ground, featuring the classic Haig line-up of Mulligan, Baker, Hamilton and Whitlock. Record producer Richard Bock launched his Pacific Jazz label with the results of this landmark session, releasing "Bernie's Tune" and "Lullaby of the Leaves" on a single that came out in the Fall. A follow-up session from October produced a handful of classic sides, including "Nights at the Turntable," 'Freeway," "Soft Shoe' and "Walkin' Shoes."

The characteristic elements of the Quartet's sound were already evident on these early sides. 'Bernie's Tune" opens with sax, trumpet, and bass presenting the tautly constructed theme. Both horn players follow with concise, pristine solos, Mulligan under-scoring Baker's contribution with a subdued accompaniment in the lower register. An inspired counterpoint exchange ensues, a deft give-and-take which would become a calling card of the band, briefly interrupted by a sly, raindrops-on-the-rooftop drum solo. This glistening performance - so fresh, so right-seemed to break all the rules of jazz. Where other bands bellowed, it merely whispered. Yet the effect was as overpowering as the most vehement exhortation.

There were many magical moments on the band's 1952 recordings. No combo has ever been better in capturing a sense of hushed moodiness, exquisitely realized on 'Lullaby of the Leaves" and "Soft Shoe." On "Nights at the Turntable," Mulligan and Baker's horn lines engage in a serpentine dance, each player deftly matching the other's every move. "Freeway' cruises along effortlessly in the fast lane, supported by especially effective and assertive solos by both players. Even the all too brief "Utter Chaos #1" is an extraordinary balancing act, maintaining control while conveying a sense of musical anarchy. Word of mouth praise for the band exploded into national renown when Time magazine profiled the Quartet in an influential piece. escribing Mulligan as a "hungry-looking young fellow" with a Jerry Lewis haircut, the magazine went on to laud the combo's unique sound, comparing its music to everything from Bach to the Dixieland tailgate tradition. Crowds now lined up around the block to hear this new sensation of the jazz world. Visiting jazz artists of note were sitting in with the group. By all indications, the Haig's tiny bandstand now stood at the epicenter of the burgeoning West Coast jazz movement.

The Mulligan Quartet undertook at least one session per month for the Pacific label through the Spring of 1953. The whole history of jazz now seemed compressed into this music. From the traditional two-step feel of "Cherry" to the bop-like rhythmic displacements of "Motel," the Mulligan band was covering all the bases. And though the Time article had made highbrow references to Stravinsky and Ravel, the baritonist was not above playing old pop chestnuts like "Makin' Whoopee," contributing a sweet, languorous quality to this piece, where other modernists would have tended toward tongue-in-cheek parody.

Despite these backward glances at the jazz tradition, Mulligan's music never sounded derivative. One listens to these early quartet sides, waiting in vain for the slightest imitative impulse, so common in jazz of the 1950s. Mulligan's music is virtually free from the rote or hackneyed phrase. And his writing equally contributes to this sense of originality. His melodies "Jeru," "Wakin' Shoes," "Nights at the Tumtable" literally sound as though they composed themselves, like they were given birth fully formed, so natural is the progression from opening note to closing cadence.

Yet the improvisational acumen of the soloists is the other key ingredient here. Mulligan and Baker were two of the most original voices of post-war jazz on either coast. No baritone saxophonist of the previous era - not Harry Carney or Jack Washington, nor later players such as Serge Chaloff or Leo Parker -quite prepares us for Mulligan. His tone is solid without being overly muscular, expressive but never too sentimental, symphony hall pure with just a hint of downtown dirtiness. Like the bowl of porridge in the fairy tale, it is neither too hot nor too cold, but just right Baker, for his part, has often been compared to Miles Davis. Yet even a beginning student of jazz can hear the pronounced differences. Baker eschewed the tonal distortions and muted melancholy of Miles in favor of a cherubic sweetness, the sound that the angel Gabriel might have proffered had he taken to cool jazz. There were many limitations to Baker the musician - his reading skills were poor, his range compressed, his technique solid but unspectacular - but one never noticed these inadequacies. Instead listeners marveled at the remarkable inventiveness of his playing. His sense of melodic development, his ability to construct a flowing, improvised line were unsurpassed. True, the Mulligan band was known for its formalist tendencies, but the sheer creativity of both horn players as soloists demanded the highest respect.

These attributes increasingly distinguished the Quartet's work as 1953 progressed. The band was now drawing extensively on the American popular song repertoire-recording well known works such as "Tea for Two," "The Nearness of You," and "My Old Flame." The emphasis was less on Mulligan's architectonic vision, but more on the exceptional playing and soloing skills of the participants. Two sessions from the close of April produced a number of especially memorable performances. Two Mulligan compositions - "Jeru" and "Swinghouse" - are featured in tight, harddriving renditions, but the rest of these dates was devoted to standards. Baker always excelled at melancholy ballads, and crafts delicate, almost fragile solos on the master take of "Darn that Dream" and on "My Old Flame." Mulligan's work from this period offers a more overt contrast to the trumpeter. His lines are longer - hear the complex, breathless phrases in "Tea for Two" - and his rhythms more assertive. His improvisations, with their surprising use of wide intervals, take on a angular urgency. On the two takes of "I'm Beginning to See the Light," Mulligan forges especially compelling solos with these tools, and Baker is clearly inspired to emulate the skips and leaps of the baritonist's approach.

The Quartet successfully dealt with changes in personnel during this period. Drummer Larry Bunker replaced Chico Hamilton, who left to pursue a better paying gig with Lena Horne, while West Coast journeyman bassist Carson Smith took over for Bob Whitlock, who decided to attend college. However Mulligan's arrest on narcotics charges, and his subsequent six month stint at the Sheriffs Honor Farm, was an irreparable shock. During Mulligan's absence, Baker's career flourished. After his release, Mulligan tried to re-hire. the trumpeter, but Baker balked at the financial terms offered.

Mulligan and Baker would overcome their differences and join forces on a few magical occasions in later years. From now on, most of their musical couplings would be with other partners. Yet neither would ever find a partner who could make listeners forget these early vintages. There were odd contradictions in this music. It was a mixture of innocence and worldliness, cool reserve and heart on-the-sleeves immediacy, West Coast laid back married to East Coast intensity. It was experimental and forward looking, yet also immersed in the tradition. And under-girding it all were these two divergent personalities, the focused Mulligan and the diffused Baker. But when their horns were in their hands and the tempo was counted in, all the differences inelted away under the heat of the house lights, and the majesty of the music took hold. Few legacies from the jazz of that period have aged so well, effacing the distance of almost a half-century with an integrity that does not diminish, a depth that defies complete probing, and a freshness that refuses to fade.

-Ted Gioia

FROM "BEST OF"

Gerry Mulligan as certainly well established with his credentials in order by 1952. He had written and arranged for the orchestras of Gene Krupa, Claude Thornhill and Eliot Lawrence and had played on a number of excellent small group sessions for Prestige as a sideman and a leader. He was a prime mover as a player, composer and arranger on Miles Davis BIRTH OF THE COOL.

Serendipidously, Mulligan entered the heavyweight classification in the summer of 1952 when he was holding down the Monday night slot at The Haig in Los Angeles, experimenting with various combinations of musicians each week. Meanwhile, Dick Bock, a young apprentice producer - at Discovery Records, was starting his own Pacific jazz label and Gerry was his first artist. Through some happy circumstances and some serious experimentation, Gerry formed a pianoless quartet with Chet Baker, bassist Bobby Whitlock (later to be replaced by Carson Smith) and drummer Chico Hamilton (later to be replaced by Larry Bunker).

Through their appearances it 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 fall 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. It seems hard to imagine that such an influential group, still revered in nostalgic and historic circles, lasted a mere 11 months. There was a reunion session in 1957, one tune of which is included here. And in the seventies, Gerry and Chet were brought together again, but the spirit and ideals of the quartets were long gone. More to the point, Baker and Mulligan went their separate ways in June of 1953 and each achieved a variety of extraordinary accomplishments. Still the eleven month life of the Gerry Mulligan Quarter with Chet Baker changed lives and changed music. Here, 39 years later, is a comprehensive collection that explains what all the fuss was about.

- Michael Cuscuna

FROM "REUNION" - CD

The original Gerry Mulligan pianoless quartet with Chet Baker grew out of several circumstances in the summer of 1952. One year later, it was over. But in that time, the group had recorded prolificly for Pacific Jazz as well as 8 titles for Fantasy and 6 for GNP.

Mulligan's first session with Pacific Jazz was the label's inauguration. It took place on June 10, 1952. It was to be a quartet with Jimmy Bowles, Red Mitchell and Chico Hamilton, but Bowles never showed up. So the trio recorded anyway with the only piano coming from Mulligan during the bass solos. Mulligan's next session a month later had Chet Baker, whom he had only recently met, Bowles on piano and Joe Mondragon on bass. No drums this time.

A week or so later, The Haig, where Mulligan had become the Monday regular, hired the Red Norvo trio for an extended engagement. To make room for Norvo's vibes, the club's piano went into storage. Mulligan formed a quartet with Baker and bass and drums to accommodate the new set-up. In August, this group made its first sides for Pacific Jazz. Within a few months, Pacific Jazz, Gerry Mulligan and Chet Baker were overnight successes with the records selling like pop favorites and articles in every music magazine and such mainstream press as Time Magazine. Lines at the Haig were around the block.

In early June of 1953, it was all over as Gerry ran afoul of the law on a drug charge and had to serve several months in jail. Chet Baker kept the lamp burning at The Haig, but he was now developing his own superb quartet with pianist-composer Russ Freeman.

When Mulligan returned to the scene, he stood fast to the idea of a pianoless group that would allow more improvisational directions and freedom. Most often he has a quartet with valve trombonist Bob Brookmeyer (in which they both played occasional piano) and a sextet with trumpeter Joe Eardley and tenor saxophonist Zoot Sims.

In December of 1957, Mulligan, who had since gone on to record for Emarcy and Verve, and Pacific Jazz's Dick Bock were reunited in New York for a heavy recording schedule of special projects by Mulligan, which were all completed in a matter of two weeks. One was an album with Annie Ross, another was an unissued lp with the Vinnie Burke string quartet, another was "The Gerry Mulligan Songbook" arranged for an all star sax section, and finally a reunion with Chet Baker.

For the "Reunion" album and most of the Annie Ross material, Mulligan and Baker were joined by bassist Henry Grimes and Gerry's regular drummer Dave Bailey on December 3, 11 and 17. On those three days, ten titles with Annie Ross and thirteen with just thequartet were completed. Of the instrumental material, two additional alternate takes have also survived.

Although some have criticized this Mulligan-Baker session as not very successful, the results are actually quite excellent. Admittedly, some of the spark and spunk of the original quartet is not evident in these performances, but then these are men whose music is five years older and five years more mature. Also, it is quite obvious that neither man was attempting a'revival'or a'recreation' merely a'reunion. None of the material taped was in the original quartet book.

If the sass of youth is gone, here we find in Mulligan a much more assured and mature improviser with a greater sense of the whole in his solos and more ability to construct it with a minimum of fuss. Chet Baker at this point in his life came unnecessarily under the influence of Miles Davis in some respects. The lift and pure originality of his ideas, phrasing and spontaneity were tempered briefly. But he still outplays most of the pack by a long shot. And his empathy with Gerry in the wonderfully inventive and unique Mulligan-Baker arrangements and in the counterpuntal and solo sections is still completely intact.

Of the fifteen performances here, eight were issued on the original album, two appeared on Playboy Records anthologies, three more titles and two alternate takes are issued on this, Compact Disc for the first time. What is most striking is the uniform quality of all the material, which must have made the original lp selection quite difficult.

The program is equally balanced with standards, older jazz tunes and modern jazz classics. And in each case, Mulligan fashions delightful, intricate arrangements that extract the most from the compositional materials and from the instrumentation at hand.

Thanks to the CD format, we can now enjoy these sessions in their entirety. Ile vocal portions of the December 11 & 17 dates can be heard in full with previously unissued material on Annie Ross Sings A Song With Mulligan on CD.

- Michael Cuscuna

FROM "REUNION" - LP

Charlie Parker, whose total contribution to mankind is staggering, both in potential and in the degree to which it is allowed to lie fallow by a subverted humanity, whatever sickness he may have had, com pared to the sickness of the society in which he flourished, was the picture of rampant health. He may never have blown a single answer, but he certainly blew the right questions.

Jazz, being the most incisive modality to ply the personal psychodynamic, is also first to threaten the repressed patina with which society has covered its guilt-systems, the remobilization of which, since the individual can no longer brook Kierkegaard's anxiety or Riesmann's nerve of failure tends to provoke his flight into group resubmergence. But like Rilke and Kafka who ask Was Ist Wurklich Im All? - what is real in the world? - Mulligan and Co. pursue this exegesis with dedicative tenacity and ingenuous articulation.

The mind of Mulligan, insofar as it subserves this purpose, is in many respects unique. His music is peerlessly organic. Within its terse crucible so very much is happening. The provocative tensions that interweavingly and multi-thematically present both themselves and their infinitely possible resolutions, so tangibly sift through its textured dimensionality that it is difficult to believe the vertical moment will be invariantly reconciled to the horizontal totality.

Mulligan is not mainstream (an interesting position shared by but one other, musician of comparable significance, the redoubtable Theolonious Monk). His music, although dynamically balanced to a fault, remains singularly polymorphic and portends at all times an exciting nascency into directions yet unnamed.

His compositional method (like his piano) being totally without precedent is trying of description. But it is above all deceptively simple and would seem strangely enough to take origin more in the inspired salvaging of pre-existent possibilities left untouched, than in a prescient access to thoughts yet to be. Stranger still, one gets the impression that at times he simply borrows structural relations of points in space - having nothing whatever to do with music - and then, without any recognizable effort at conversion, suddenly blows them into being.

Also, it just so happens that he is a hard swinger.

There is no music more suggestive of multiple coordinates of both time and space, as well as the recurrent ephemeral conversion of the one into the other, than that of the Mulligan Quartet. A music of context, its imagery is such that it becomes impossible to tell whether two voices have just crossed or are just about to. This is especially so when the second horn belongs to Chet Baker. Together they illustrate with almost mathematical purity a system wherein the whole is indeed greater than the sum of its parts. Quartet Reunion permits of this dyadic for the first time since 1953.

Nor are Dave Bailey's drums or Henry Grimes' bass (more percussive and a little less sustaining than is usual) simply external additives. They are internal coherents of the organic whole. By consummated treatment of dynamics, laconic presentation of phrase, and inspired concept of imaginately controlled voicing, there is no musical hinterland the quartet can not either explicitly state or unmistakably imply. From huge blocks of uncontaminated sound to the most subtly colored adumbration - the punctuation becomes as articulate as the prose.

-Tristram C. Colket 3rd, M.D. Silver Lake, May 12, 1958.

FROM "MULLIGAN AND BAKER"

You don't have to live in Hollywood or San Francisco or Calexico to appreciate West Coast jazz. For this is one of the most popular forms of jazz to emerge from any part of the country in a long, long time. It's light and breezy and airy and yet it's by no means vapid. In fact it consists of some of the finest "thinking" jazz to be blown in many a West Coast, East Coast or Wabash moon!

Another reason you don't have to live in any of those three spots or assorted suburbs is that you can hear some great samples of West Coast jazz on records such as these, and many others, like those produced by Pacific Jazz, from whose exceptional files these renderings were drawn. One side of this record is brand new, never before released. The other consists of tracks taken from one of the most memorable of all West Coast sessions, and which until now had never been made available on any twelve inch long-playing record.

GERRY MULLIGAN QUARTET AND GUEST

That never-to-be-forgotten session is the one in which the amazing Lee Konitz picked up his trusty alto sax and marched right into the midst of the famed Gerry Mulligan Quartet. This group was, and still is, one of the foremost leaders of the West Coast jazz school. Actually, Gerry was born in New York and got his early training in Philadelphia with Elliot Lawrence's band and small groups. But it wasn't until he organized his quartet on the West Coast, after having played and arranged for Gene Krupa and Claude Thornhill, and played and composed for Miles Davis' nine-piece group, that everyone in jazz began to take notice of this lanky red-head. In addition to Gerry's arrangements and baritone-playing, the chief ear-perker was his drastic deletion of the piano from his group, which consisted of drums, bass, trumpet and baritone sax. Without the insistent stating of chords by the piano Gerry felt less hampered and freer to explore more in his ad lib wanderings, finding and using notes that might not be in the accepted chords which the piano was playing. The only guide was the bass, with the drums lending a percussive lift, and the horns free to go where they wished.

Young Chet Baker was the trumpeter; two young West Coast musicians recently out of high school, who were to become West Coast jazz stalwarts later on, played bass and drums, San Francisco's Carson Smith and Long Beach's Larry Bunker, that day Lee Konitz recorded with the group. Lee was then, as he still is very much today, one of the most probing, one of the most respected and also one of the most unorthodox of jazz musicians. A serious Chicagoan with a fantastic ear, a unique sense of time, and a magnificent mastery of his horn, he was and has since remained the avant gardist of his instrument, a steadfast individualist whose musical ways have so captured the fancy of his fellow musicians that they have, just as they have Gerry so many times, voted him their favorite in many of their own polls.

The results of Lee's lone recorded appearance with the Mulligan Quartet (he sat in with the group in a club for several nights before the date) are intensely absorbing and, in many instances, require more than just a cursory listening. There's a great deal of inter-play between the three horns that's just as musical as it is just plain fascinating.

SIDE ONE

I Can't Believe That You're in Love with Me opens with a trumpet lead, around which Mulligan and Konitz weave their own melodies, though, you'll notice, that at the end of each phrase the three horns get together harmonically for a few bars. Mulligan takes the second chorus, exhibiting his down-to-earth, funky rhythmic sense and his fine control of the difficult baritone sax. Next comes Baker, with his soft, velvety tone and tentative attack, after which Konitz enters blowing thoroughly unexpected notes in extremely irregular, rather than the usual four or eight bar, phrases. The finale is a return to the first chorus, except for a release featuring another West Coast favorite, former Woody Herman bassist Joe Mondragon, who subbed for Smith on this and the last track of this side.

Broadway is a relaxed, riffing piece with an easy-loping first chorus by the ensemble, in contrast with which Konitz's multi-noted second chorus seems to be out of tempo-but isn't! Chet plays the first half of the next chorus, with some rhythmic encouragement from Gerry, who then blows the rest of the chorus on his own. Three different melodies engage in friendly competition for the first half of the final chorus; Lee takes the release, and then all go out together.

Almost Like Being in Love was a brand new Mulligan arrangement for this session. The group played it more slowly on this date than it might play today, thus enabling Lee to achieve an amazingly rich, relaxed sound on the lower part of his horn. Gerry and Chet weave around Lee's lead, with Baker taking the release. Gerry and Chet divide the second chorus, and then Konitz solos, again seemingly out-of-tempo. Chet takes the lead in the release and then all three horns return to the original opening strain.

Lover Man features Konitz completely. His liquid alto lilts along in long, flowing lines, supported by sustained harmonies from Gerry and Chet. This is an excellent example of Lee's style.

Sextet shows the very rhythmic Mulligan, his pungent baritone punctuating the attack of the first chorus, then galloping gayly through the second. Chet's fluffy trumpet flounces through chorus #3, easy and relaxed, in contrast with the more nervous, multi-noted Konitz phrases that follow. Again the finale is a repeat of the opening.

Lady Be Good spots typically happy Mulligan writing in the scored sixteen opening bars, interesting counterpoint for the release, and then eight more joyous-sound measures. Next Lee skips lightly and ingeniously, after which Baker enters swingingly for his chorus. Then comes a romping Mulligan passage, after which Lee, Chet and Gerry, and Lee again blow four bars apiece, then revert to the release and the happy measures that opened this Gershwin classic.

FROM "QUARTET: PJ1207" & "Fontana"

A little less than ten years ago, a peculiar, abrupt schism-caused by the unexpected and inescapably brilliant meloic lines and dervy rhythms of Dizzy Gillespie, Charlie Parker, Lester Young and Bud Powell - split jazz neatly in two. The older musicians the hot, simple men, suddenly went into obscurity, and were replaced by a host of ignorant young imitators who poured cooly from every wood to follow unquestionably the new pied pipers. Louis Armstrong became old hat. Benny Goodman was put to pasture. Art Tatum became as obsolescent as the great auk. Then, about tour or five years ago, another group of young jazzmen, revolutionary reactionaries all, began springing, as it were, from a stone. Some of their names were Oscar Peterson, Gerry Mulligan, Louis Bellson, Ruby Braff, Urbie Green, Bobby Brookmeyer, Frank Wess, Joe Morello, and Howard Roberts. In their earliest interviews, they spoke of how they, too, had been influenced by Parker, Gillespie and Powell, but they also mentioned Nat Cole, Tatum, Jo Jones, Davy Tough, Armstrong, Buddy Rich, and Ben Webster.

It soon became clear that one of the most imposing and persuasive of these musicians, all of whom unfashionably combined an awareness of the new Cadillac-lengthened lines with the bearish old warmth of Bergian or Hershal Evans, was Gerry Mulligan, an original melodist , a creative, arresting arranger, and the first baritone saxophonist of sufficient breadth to challenge the immemorial tenure of Harry Carney. For it had been Mulligan, with the arranger Gil Evans, who had been at the bottom of the handful of rebellious, questing Capitol recordings issued under Miles Davis' name in 1949. These warm, moving efforts were notable for their then unique small-band instrumentation - trumpet, trombone, alto saxophone, baritone saxophone, French horn, tuba, piano and drums - as well as the integrated, loosely swaying ensembles that were as important as the solos. ( It was a kind of smaller version of Claude Thornhill's band.

Mulligan said recently. "If there had been a good clarinet around at the time we probably would have used him too.") Three years after the Davis session, Mulligan started a second, if more minor, upheaval by organizing in Los Angeles, a pianoless quartet composed of his baritone saxophone, a trumpet, bass, and drums. Almost instantly the piano became as popular in modern jazz as the bowler in Texas, and innumerable quartets, which attempted the same deceptively simple mobile counterpoint and soft, melodius movements, sprouted with every conceivable combination of instruments. Mulligan became famous, moved out of debt, got married, and eventually took an apartment on Central Park West. And the schism began to heal.

Mulligan himself does not somehow look much like the ordinary revolutionist. At twenty-eight, he is tall, as thin and stooped as a new moon, has a monkish cap of red hair, a pale face that goes balloon-red when he is playing, and a broad, relaxed mouth. In fact, if it were not for his nervous, voluble, direct, and sometimes snappish way of speaking, and hands that continually shape air, Mulligan would resemble Uriah Heep. His dress, however, can be a quite accurate reflection of his inner broiling.. Recently, in Boston, when he was off duty, he sauntered unselfconsciously down grey old Boylston Street in a flapping flag-colored checked coat that seemed to frazzle and sputter in the sun of that city of tired tweeds and brown hats. Mulligan is, as well, about as articulate as any reasonable man should be. This articulateness is composed of sharp, stable judgments and a pleasant, almost aggressive honesty. As he said recently and variously: "A lot of people say that I'm arrogant, and I suppose I am. But I haven't got the time to make these people feel differently." "At any given time I'm liable to play differently than at any, other given time. I have no control over this. I react to any group I'm with." I don't think I'm playing well now. You can't put your horn down every six months and expect to." "I live a crazy life. In fact nothing in my life is normal except me." "These experiments within modern jazz for new, extended forms are fine, but no form at all is not a new form. And who wants to memorize all those progressions anyway?"

Mulligan's birthplace has been given as in many places. He was, however, born a Catholic in Queens, New York, the fourth and youngest son of an industrial engineer. Before he was a year old his family had moved to Marion, Ohio, and when his schooling was over at the age of seventeen in Philadelphia, he had lived, in addition, in New Jersey, Chicago, Kalamazoo, Detroit, and Reading. His first instrument was a ukelele. He also took piano lessons which were terminated rather suddenly after an overly hesitant recital. Following this, he learned the ocarina family, then the clarinet, although he had asked his father for a trumpet. When, in 1944, Mulligan left school, where he had led several bands, he went to work as an arranger for Tommy Tucker, turning out in the three months that he stayed a trunkful of material, some of which is still in use. He spent the next six months or so as an arranger and sometime tenor saxophonist with Elliot Lawrence,joined George Paxton, and eventually, for a year, Gene Krupa. During the next few years, he worked as a freelance writer and sideman around New York, made his first recordings, with Brew Moore and George Wallington (he had just taken up the baritone saxophone seriously ) had various rehearsal bands, which occasionally practiced in Central Park because no one had money for a studio, and, shortly after the Miles Davis date, hitchhiked, over a period of months, with waystops at Reading and Albuquerque, to Los Angeles, where he stayed more or less permanently until his recent move east. On the West Coast he wrote for Kenton, and worked marathon twelve-hour gigs on Saturdays and Sundays at the Lighthouse, Hermosa Beach. In 1951 he landed a Tuesday night job at the Haig, in Los Angeles, where he did some experimenting with a trio composed of guitar, his instrument, and drums. Then, almost inadvertently, after he had met Chet Baker, he hit upon the instrumentation of the quartet and was recorded by Richard Bock of Pacific Jazz, the cream of which can be heard in the twelve reissues, recorded between 1952-53, that make up this record.

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, a great many of whom began in 1940 or so the interesting practice of writing their own material. Out of these hundreds of tunes, one remembers, perhaps, such things as Move, Four Brothers, Swing Street, Subdivided in F, Lullaby of Birdland, Now's the Time, and Trickleydidlier. ) Listen on this record to ]eru, Nights at the Turntable, and Swinghouse, and elsewhere to Walkin' Shoes. In his writing for both small and big bands ( Mulligan is, of course, one of the finest big band arrangers in the business today), he is no innovator in the sense that Teddy Charles or Lennie Tristano presently are with their adventures into extended forms, free improvisations, and left-field harmonies. On the contrary, the quartet side, with their warmth and narrow brushes with a kind of dixieland impulse, often sound strangely old-fashioned. In the way of the modernists, htough, Mulligan believes in controlling firmly through rehearsals and his writing the voices he had at hand, adding, for instance, counter lines and organ chords - with human voices, his own instruments, or with several instruments - to the clanking, spiritless void that can appear behind the soloist who has nothing but a rhythm section for support and impetus. He also feels that humor (I'm Beginning to See the Light here), rather than the owl-heavy musings of so much modern small-band jazz, has a definite place in jazz, which he grants a happy music. Mulligan's talents as a baritone saxophonist are equally capacious, but at the same time more erratic than his writing. His solos are apt to repeat earlier choice phrases, his tone sometimes goes thin, his constructions sound strained. His style is a wide one, and ranges from the delicate sonorities present on most of these sides to a damn-the-torpedoes booting that, when it first was manifested to the public at large during the 1954 Newport Festival, surprised those who had docketed him as nothing more than a miniaturist. Above all, when Mulligan is in form, he is quite capable of producing one of those rare improvisational statements that move the listener as no other instrumental music can. Witness, for example, his solos on Little Girl Blue on the recent Gerry Mulligan Pacific Jazz album PJ-1201.

Mulligan, who can be as high strung and moody as a cloudy, snowless November day, is now feverishly at work with still another group which, although it will not cause any tremors like those that followed the Davis and quartet sides, will continue to lessen the needless gap between the "modernists' and the "traditionalists." A sextet with trombone, tenor saxophone, trumpet, bass and drums, and the leade's occasional, disturbing piano and more frequent baritone saxophone it builds quite complex structures that feature fluidly written contrapuntal ensembles, meaningful cradles for generous amounts of solo work, and a bristling, omnipresent swing. And sometime soon Mulligan napes that he can rehearse still another group that will combine older musicians with younger ones. If he succeeds, he will have a music as fascinai:ing as would be a structure designed by the Roebling brothers and Le Corbusier.

-WHITNEY BALLIETT

Revelation by Nat Hentoff

In the 1950's, the presence of Bird was, of course, pervasive. He had, after all, discovered a new hemisphere. Some musicians, whatever horn they played, tried to be Bird. Others, fusing what he had taught them with their own backgrounds and aspirations, tried to find their own musical selves. Miles Davis had gone that route in the late 1940's with what came to be called his "birth of the cool" recordings. Among other diverse searchers were Lennie Tristano, Charles Mingus, John Lewis, and the musicians in these 1953 and 1957 performances. The music in this set had a briskly fresh impact at the time; and now, it turns out, the music had staying power as well.

The two key conceivers were Gerry Mulligan and Lee Konitz. Gerry's special originality was as the creator of a thoroughly distinctive small combo gestalt (particularly the quartet with Chet Baker but also in terms of the quintet and the larger ensemble here). There was a collective Mulligan sound and interweaving mobility that tended to be cool on the surface, hot at the center, and unusually deft in the aura it often conveyed of highly poised wit (sort of like a younger Fred Astaire, had he been a jazzman).

Central to the highly original Mulligan ambience - it comes through as original now as it did two decades ago - was Gerry's writing: the arrangements, the originals, and the "heads." He had, and still has, a remarkably resilient sense of linear invention and continuity. His scores are spare and all of a part. That is, they keep building toward, and finally achieve, an authentic whole - and that's a quality which explains why musicians like to play in a Mulligan combo or big band. He neither overly constricts them nor leaves them so free that they get lost. I've always wished Gerry had written more in recent years, but at least we do have his work of the 1950's to indicate how organically he was able to have writing flow into improvising so that each buoyantly enhanced the other. There is also Mulligan the soloist, of which more anon.

Lee Konitz's jazz odyssey has been one of the more justifiably stubborn in the history of the music. He first impressed musicians with his work while in Claude Thornhill's band (1947-48). Even then the Konitz sound was like no one else's and the conception, while shaped in part by Bird, was going somewhere else. Then came Konitz's long association with Lennie Tristano, a period during which he learned a great deal about stretching, refining and distilling harmonic language as well as about extended linear improvising. Tristano is a very powerful force, and yet Konitz finally moved out of his orbit as well. Now, in the mid-1970's, Konitz is one of the most consistently original, challenging and continually surprising soloists in jazz. He is, in Duke Ellington's term, beyond category.

In view of Lee's present stature, which is bound to grow even higher, it is all the more arresting to hear where he was in these recordings. An illuminating guide to the thinking then of Lee - and other Tristano colleagues - is a statement by bassist Peter Ind, himself part of the Tristano group. He didn't write this about Lee specifically, but it applies to Konitz during these years:

"We can follow an idea as it develops and echoes, sometimes in multiple rhythm, rolling over the basic time, like a ball on an ocean breaker. As this occurs, so also does the original idea change, subtly confirming the underlying harmonic flow. As [the] line flows it indicates also the plasticity of the underlying harmony, sometime so far as to almost lose the inexperienced listener - but always resolving, often in a most unexpected way."

As you'll hear in nearly every Konitz solo in this set, the unexpected is just about the only predictable element in Konitz's music. When these sessions were made, by the way, the "dry ice" nature of Lee's tone was still strange in concept to some listeners and he was accues of being insufficiently intense, too cerebral. Listen now, however, and it's evident that Lee, always committed to spontaneity, played them too with great (though controlled) intensity.`

Of the other horns that figure in these proceedings, Zoot Sims, then as now, is the instant swinger who never flags. Lester Young first shaped Zoot, but the latter has steadily, almost inexorably, developed his own style and sound. Zoot is not only one of the most reliable players in jazz, but he is also able to fit into a wide range of contexts without diluting his own robust individuality and without obtruding on the spirit of the gathering. In a way, he's like the spirit of pure jazz. What I had forgotten about Zoot, until reminded on a number of these tracks, is the lithe, incisive quality of his alto saxophone playing.

Al Cohn, for many years a regular co-director with Zoot of an itinerant swing machine, tends to be less vibrant a swinger than Zoot - although at times, he too can shake a room from note one - but he is just as consistent as well as being an invaluable spur to a swinging ensemble.

The presence of Allen Eager in a number of these performances is a reminder of the considerable potential of this alto and tenor saxophonist who was an ubiquitous figure in New York City's modern jazz scene in the mid-and-late 1940's. Like Zoot Sims and Al Cohn, Eager had been a disciple, in part, of Lester Young; but he had gone farther than Al and Zoot toward transmuting his style into that of Charlie Parker-directed modern jazz. Listen to his solos closely; Eager's was an intriguing voice.

As a baritone saxophonist, Gerry Mulligan emerged in the late '40's and early'50's as the most important soloist on that instrument since Harry Carney. Gerry's playing, like his writing, focuses on fluid form. The structural dynamics, as is clear in his solos in this set, are lucidly, blithely designed in flight and in retrospect, make for an object lesson in improvisatory logic and wit. Gerry does not engage in baroque ornamentation or flashy rhetoric. Furthermore, he can make the baritone saxophone sound more nimble, more limber, more quicksilver, than anyone I've ever heard on the instrument.

I can't fully characterize Mulligan's music without also underlining the spirit he brings to a performance - of any kind. He loves to play, and it's an infectious enthusiasm. It was around the time of these recordings, as a matter of fact, that Gerry was adding significantly to his reputation as an insatiable jammer. I remember a couple of after-hours parties at the Newport Jazz Festival in the mid-1950's when Gerry, after having worked his way into several quite diverse sets toward the end of the concert itself, then proceeded for the rest of the night to jam with anyone - of whatever style and period -who wanted to play. And because his composer-arranger's mind is always working when he improvises, he would actually create differently apt ensemble scores in mid-flight for each different jamming situation.

It is Gerry's unabashed passion for the act of jazz that makes his participation in a session as near a guarantee as is possible that it won't collapse into cliches. It doesn't always work that way, but when he himself is in charge, the session usually does cohere, for he has little patience for coasting - his own or anyone else's. In fact, he is a genuine natural leader, and one of my great musical regrets is that Gerry was not able to continue as a big band director for he, along with Dizzy Gillespie, would have been two of the most sempiternally exciting big band leaders in modern jazz history.

As a small combo leader, as here, Gerry was always arresting to watch as you listened to his group. With body language, with meaningful, if not imperious, glances, he kept everything in functional motion, with particular attention to dynamics. Listen, for instance, to the tracks with Konitz, Baker, and rhythm section, for marvelously variegated illustrations of mulligan's finely nuanced ensemble leadership.

Chet Baker, who was still new-in a national sense-on the jazz scene when the first of these sessions were made, entered the consciousness of most of us as a unique phenomenon. I'm not saying everyone liked what he was doing. At first, I thought his tone too tentative and introverted, and his conception narrow. What happened, however, was that he stayed in the mind-after the music stopped. What he was saying was that personal, and cumulatively, the Baker sound and style became almost hauntingly necessary, once you'd been fully exposed to it. It's not enough to describe his playing as lyrical. The lyricism is a fusion of sometimes seemingly contradictory qualities - a vulnerability that nonetheless was often more closed than open, a considerable sounding of hurt and yet also of anticipation, a sensuality that was all the more challenging because of its lack of clear definition. There have been many more vital jazz trumpeters, but Chet Baker is surely his own man on that horn, and this is no small accomplishment.

Baker, as has been widely publicized, paid some horrendous dues - many of them of his own making in the years after these recordings, and I wondered if he could ever make any kind of substantive mark again in jazz. He was frail enough, to start with; and the battering, physical and psychic, he absorbed all these years, led me, and a good many others, to underestimate the man's dogged determination. For, as of the writing of these notes, Baker has been appearing in clubs and on recording sessions with increasing assurance and with no diminution of that strange, somewhat eerie singularity of sound and conception that you can hear on these sides when he first ascended to what was to be transient fame. Musicians who have worked with him tell me that Baker's time may have come again; and in view of the experiences he's had since the last ascent, he may now have a longer and more satisfying second career.

With regard to the rhythm sections, on the ten 1953 tracks, Larry Bunker is on drums and the bassists are Joe Mondragon or Carson Smith. There is no piano. The absence of a piano was at first rather disconcerting to some listeners when the Mulligan-Baker Quartet initially appeared. But Gerry, although himself a sometime piano player, wanted, as a hornman, relief from having the chordal directions continuously stated by a pianist or guitarist.'Why not have the harmonic design implicit in the lines of the horns?

The result, for the horn players, was more freedom for the imagination. (The pianist was not continually sounding road signs over their shoulders.) At the same time, of course, the horn players had to sharpen their ears, and keep them sharp. They had only each other, and the bass, to depend on for those harmonic signposts. And that led to very subtle harmonic interplay between Mulligan and Baker - and on these sides, Mulligan, Baker and Konitz. So subtle and absorbing that if you think about ft as you listen to these recordings, a pianist would have been an intrusion.

An additional benefit of Mulligan's pianoless combos was that they stimulated listeners to hear more sensitively, more sophisticatedly. The pianist, after all, had served as chordal road mapper for the listener as well as the players. With the pianist gone, it was instructive, and at times rather exhilarating, to realize how far you, the listener, could stretch your own ears as you were drawn into the Mulligan microcosm. And once they were stretched, they stayed that way. It has not often been remarked, but I think the Mulligan Quartet provided invaluable ear training to a lot of listeners who went on to be able to enjoy other groups - including those with pianos - much more knowledgeably than they had before.

On the seven 1957 sessions (with the four saxophones), there is a guitar, but the guitarist is Freddie Green, the man who has, for so long, been in charge of what he calls "the rhythm waves" for the Count Basie band. Freddie, while chordally precise, is primarily a master of moving time. So on these tracks too, the Mulligan penchant for suggested rather than explicit harmonic directions prevailed.

Note here, by the way, that except for Crazy Day, which was scored by Mulligan, all the other arrangements were by Bill Holman. The latter was an apt choice because his predilection too was for lean, open, but crisply ordered charts which maximized swinging without being so loose as to be sloppy.

I have not annotated each track because I didn't think it necessary. The music, both in score and in solo, is so clear that each listener can provide his own verbal responses. It seemed to me more worth your reading time to place these sessions, and their principal figures, in a historical and stylistic context.

At the time the sessions were recorded, however, I doubt if any of the participants were thinking twenty and more years ahead and wondering what the music would sound like then. Few jazz musicians do look ahead in that way. The essence of jazz is still immediacy, spontaneity, now. Even Duke Ellington, by far the most creative of all composers in American history, refused to speculate about the place of his music in the future. He was too eager to continue the next work, to hear it played, and then go on to the work after that.

Essential to the jazz spirit at this emphasis on immediacy is, nonetheless it's always beguiling for the listener to wonder what will last and then, decades having gone by, to re-listen to past enthusiasms and see if they have indeed lasted.

The music here has. More so, I confess, than I thought it would then. I knew Mulligan's worth, but I somewhat underestimated Konitz at the time, and I did not know how refreshing all of this would sound now. It swings and it breathes and it can still surprise. This is now part of classic jazz. It has more than survived.

Lee Konitz Meets Gerry Mulligan CD

The Gerry Mulligan Quartet with Chet Baker despite its prolific recorded output and its impact on jazz and the American public lasted for less than one year. Ensconced as the house band at The Haig in Los Angeles and able to record at its own discretion for Pacific Jazz (as well as single sessions for two other labels), this revolutionary, pianoless quartet crafted its own repertoire and arrangements and built a solid, prolific legacy.

Midway through its existence, the quartet settled on its finest bassist and drummer, Carson Smith and Larry Bunker respectively. At this junction, Mulligan, who had formed this unit through serendipity, luck and circumstance, sought to expand his musical horizons beyond this foursome, which had been an unexpected and overnight success well beyond the bounds of the usual jazz audience. He assembled and recorded on Capitol Records a tentette that was an outgrowth of the famous Miles Davis Nonet, which also recorded for Capitol, and for which Gerry had been a player, composer, arranger and founding member.

Another diversion from the quartet grew out of that group. By January of 1953, when he recorded the tentette, Mulligan felt confident that his quartet was ready to record live at their Los Angeles home The Haig. Dick Bock started bringing down his portable tape recorder to capture the band for possible record releases. One night, Lee Konitz, who was then a member of the confining, pompous, ponderous Stan Kenton Orchestra, came to the club to sit in. Konitz and Mulligan had worked together in '47 with Claude Thornhill's band and in 1949 and '50 with Miles Davis' Birth Of The Cool Nonet. And they would work together again in December of 1957 on a Gerry Mulligan Songbook recording.

The sequence of events that January of 1953 are not clear. The results are that Konitz sat in with the Mulligan quartet at The Haig for a night for six tunes and went into a studio with the quartet for three more tunes and also to the studio at Phil Turetsky's house with Joe Mondragon subbing for Carson Smith for two tunes and an alternate take. Because of liner note information given by producer Dick Bock, it was assumed that these three sessions took place in June of '53. But actually, several of the titles were released months before then. And in June, Konitz was thousands of miles away from Los Angeles earning his living with the Stan Kenton Orchestra.

Regardless of dates, this series of recordings was a major event. Lee Konitz had already become a major voice because of his rigorous training and experience with Lennie Tristano and because of several triumphant record dates that he had led including a version of George Russell's "Ezz-thetic" with Miles Davis. But on these sessions, Lee Konitz excelled and soared with an inspired fluency and lucidity that had never before been fully realized in his work.

Essentially, the Mulligan quartet with Baker provides with its own very distinctive identity a backdrop that highlights and inspires Konitz as the principal soloist. The Haig recordings start off this Compact Disc collection, and they include a previously unissued version of "Bernie's Time" which was first discovered by and issued on Mosaic Records in 1983. As one might expect, the repertoire here is a set of standards that any professional musician should know. But what they do with it is something else again. The first two titles "Too Marvelous For Words" and "Lover Man" are especially stunning vehicles for Konitz.

"Almost Like Being In Love," Mulligan's "Sextet" and "Broadway" are by the same working quartet and Konitz and were recorded at a professional Los Angeles recording studio, while "I Can't Believe That You're In Love With Me" (another Konitz "spectacular) and both takes of "Lady Be Good" were done at Phil Turetsky,s homemade studio with Joe Mondragon in place of Carson Smith.

It may have been that after several months with Kenton, that Lee Konitz was starved to play some real creative music or it may be that Mulligan's creative atmosphere and Baker's raw, instinctive talent inspired Konitz to greater heights. Whatever the circumstances or motivations, this is one of the finest bodies of work by Lee Konitz, a consistent and immensely creative jazz artist. It is also a testament to the Mulligan-Baker quartet which was as vital and innovative as any New York band of its time.

Now on CD in complete form for the first time is the full encounter between soloist Konitz and the Gerry Mulligan-Chet Baker Quartet. A rare and special musical occasion indeed.

- Michael Cuscuna from Vogue Vol 3 - 031

IN presenting this third LP volume by|the Gerry Mulligan pianoless Quartet, the Vogue company is bowing to an overwhelming demand on the part of a record-buying public which has boosted Gerry's earlier Vogue set to the position of highest-selling LP of its type in the up-to-date history of Britain's record industry.

It will be noted that one change took place in the California foursome's personnel during the few months that elapsed between the waxing of its first disc and the making of this one. Bassist Bob Whitlock was replaced by Carson Smith.

But in addition to this permanent alteration, a special attraction has been added here in the person of alto saxophonist Lee Konitz, whom Gerry features as a guest star on four of the present eight tracks. A much-boosted member of the Stan Kenton band and previous associate of musical experimentalist Lennie Tristano, Lee is undoubtedly the most influential man on his instrument today, apart from Charlie Parker.

For the rest, trumpeter Chet Baker and drummer Chico Hamilton continue to complete the line-up, with Mulligan himself leading on baritone saxophone.

The four Konitz-less titles under discussion at this time are similar in general effect to those previously released, except that the r

Complete Quartets on Pacific Jazz

See Also: Annie Ross & Young Mulligan & Jeru(Proper)")

LINER NOTES