Gerry Mulligan: Interview 3

Bobby Brookmeyer and I never had it that easy because he was always stuck into that role of being a substitute trumpet player and like, trying to play lines against himself. These are the kinds of things that there’s no reason for people to be aware of, I suppose. But that strain always hampered Bobby with the group, and it was something we were always conscious of as well. We tried to do everything we could to alleviate it, but the only real solution would have been to have the trumpet with us.

Ultimately we got into that with the sextet. When the sextet worked in clubs, we had the kind of freedom with it that we had with the first quartet. That band used to roar in clubs. The second album that we made, some of the things were an indication of what it felt like, but never really to the full extent. Somehow we couldn’t capture it in the studio. In our live performances, we used to do kind of remarkable things; it would sound like such a big band. We’d have that presence, that big, wide spread–out sound of many instruments, when it was just the four horns, really. It’s such an emotional thing; if you can record it when it’s like that. And a couple of times we did, you know; it really sounded quite big.

We used to do a thing with the sextet that we never planned out, or thought about, or said: “We’re going to do this.” But by the end of the night, we would wind up with the four horns spread out across the stage. Jon Eardley would be over here, Zoot would be here, Bob would be here and I’d be here—like, ninety feet apart. And it’s a presence of sound, you see. It happened so naturally, because we’d start out: here we are, the four horns in front of the microphone. As we went along, the whole thing just opened up.

Sure, Bobby and I have parallel thinking, especially playing together. The kinds of things that we can do with improvised counterpoint, or improvised accompaniments, we can serve the function that a piano player does with his left hand. It’s easy for the piano player, because he knows where his thumb and his little finger are; it’s not so easy with a pair of horns, but Bobby and I can do that, and it’s second nature. You know, it’s not all that remarkable; it’s a facility and a function that’s always been there. It’s the kind of thing that the Dixieland ensemble has always been based on. That’s the reason for my kidding around at times about being a Dixieland player; the whole ensemble idea is based solidly on exactly the things those guys understood so well. Boy, you hear a really first–rate Dixieland ensemble and it’s such a pleasurable instrumental sound. It makes you say “Yes—I love jazz.” Or “I love life”, if that’s where it is.

Take Johnny Hodges and Ben Webster  they’re not Dixieland players at all; but what they are, what they have a sense of, is the ensemble player. Both of those albums that I made, with Johnny and with Ben, there’s that feeling of ensemble playing in everything we do. To me, it’s the thing that carries it over and gives it point and meaning...

I don’t know—to me, solos make sense in relation to the whole ensemble. If you’ve only got one horn playing, I still want the sense of ensemble. It’s the difference between line writing and solo playing which, if you have an ensemble sense, you can do.

Writing for big bands—that’s some thing I’ve spent years trying to put together; I’m still trying. Like wanting to be an arranger and a composer, wanting to orchestrate. I’ve learned a great deal about composing from playing, and I’ve learned a great deal about playing from arranging. And they keep feeding each other.

For instance, I spent last summer writing five arrangements which I haven’t even heard yet. The real problem is: I’d love to be writing. In order to write, I must keep hearing what I do. I would try anything if I had the facilities to play them. It’s ironical; I’m offered all kinds of opportunities to write, but it’s always linked with that terrible feeling: they’ve got to be right the first time. I did a movie score and I felt like that. I wanted to go in, try it, and say: “Man, I don’t like that. Let’s tear it up and I’ll start over again.” But there’s too many guys saying: “Bring it in and don’t mess around.”

The Cincinnati Symphony asked me to write a piece for them. Well, I really would like nothing better, except I’m scared to death. If I could spend six months writing something, take the things down, try ‘em and say: “That’s nice—that’s nice—that’s terrible,” then go back and make the necessary corrections, maybe I could do it. If I could figure out how to live, to support myself for six months. Writing is like a luxury habit which I have to pay for.

In a way, I had this desired facility with the Concert Band. When that band first started, we put a lot of time into it in rehearsal. And I think all that rehearsal time was the thing that we rode on the rest of the time. Because once we put the band to work, we hardly ever got to rehearse again. The kind of marvellous rapport we had in the approach to section playing and all the rest of it was established in rehearsal. There was a handful of guys in the band who filled the function of lead men in the symphony or any band. Like, a lead man takes care of his section. There was tremendous musical discipline in that band, no matter what went on. We had Bobby in the trombones. Nick Travis in the trumpets, Mel Lewis in the rhythm section. I suppose I sort of took care of the saxophones, except they were also a section independent of me.

You put the thing to work, and then there’s not the time any more, you see. My whole thing was that should have a band I wanted to write for. When I had it. I was working so hard, I think I only wrote five arrangements for the band all the time it was together. So as a vehicle for writing for me, it was ultimately a disappointment. But it did a lot for me in playing, because I loved playing with the band. It was like exercising a whole other writing facility night after night; I could play against the arrangements. Instead of having Chet Baker or Bob Brookmeyer as one voice against me, I had all these possibilities. A lot of times, the ensemble was serving the alternate function that Chet served in the quartet; and we dealt with arrangements like that. I think a lot of the things worked out very well and it’s the same as I still feel about the ten–piece business; it was like, scratching the surface of possibilities of approaches. And I’m glad we did it.

We would have things, too, like suddenly you’ve got bars of 5/4 and a bar of 7/4. But it wasn’t going into somebody else’s rhythmic/ethnic bag. The point is, it broke out because it was a melodic necessity. That’s exactly what Bacharach is doing today. His songs are beautiful; they’re great. Who could ask for anything more? Now, that Limelight album that I did a couple of years back was scratching the surface of what can be done with the present–day songs. What I did there was just say: “These are songs, and I will use them the way I use a song.” I didn’t think about what or where those songs came from. The title of the thing was meant to be kind of a put–on; it was a laugh, to say “If You Can’t Beat ‘Em, Join ‘Em.” We never intended that to be in the least bit condescending. But I was to some extent criticised for that, after the fact. I said: “Well, you can’t account for everything. We thought it was funny, and if you didn’t, then maybe we failed to see the whole scene.”

Since then, quite a lot’s been happening. People are approaching electronic levels in music; although not all of it happens to tickle my fancy. I’m fascinated with the electronic devices that we can mess around with. You can make a saxophone into an electric organ; you can do everything with it. And it’s a lot of fun—to play octaves with yourself, make it sound like a bassoon. I’ve played on some of these devices, but I don’t think I’d ever carry any of that stuff with me. In terms of the kind of groups I play with, it doesn’t make any sense to me.

Orchestration is a natural by–product of putting together the instruments that we have, in my groups. We’re not thinking primarily in terms of orchestration; the thing is that you make it work, whatever combination it is. With electronic devices, you’re preconceiving your orchestration, I’m playing along and I’ve got to turn the dial and say: “I’m going to sound like a bassoon now.” I don’t plan out what I’m going to do like that, and I have the feeling that if I did. it would spoil the spontaneity that I can bring to a performance.

New York is still where I live most of the time. With my wife, Sandy Dennis, making films out in Hollywood occasionally, over the past three years or so I guess we’ve spent maybe three or four months a year out there. It doesn’t really feel like living out there; it’s like being on the road, away from home for a while. We’re not really Los Angeles–orientated at all.

Actually, it is a fact that I’ve been doing more writing than playing in recent years. It is by choice: very much so. But the choice is one that is dictated by a kind of necessity. This life of being a transient human being has gotten to a point when it’s very hard to bear. It’s exhausting, and I find myself drinking and smoking a lot. I spend so much energy reacting to people, I just feel washed–out a good deal of the time. And you have to put up with that in order to live the life where it is. Which, of course, is when you put your horn in your mouth on stage in front of an audience. So that’s what performers have had to cope with ever since there was such a thing as a professional performer. How do you live the transient life? That’s always the question, because the necessary thing is the playing.

As a player, in our youth–orientated society, it’s a kind of funny thing to hear such remarks as: “Isn’t that marvellous? As a fellow gets older, he’s got more to say.” Well, you know, that’s where life is. Of course, as you get older, if you don’t have more to say, then you’re a fool. There must be some advantage to being older, God knows. Youth goes; you have to protect its vestiges as best you can. As you get older, you get tired. It’s not easy.

If people would think, all they’re reacting to is youthful vitality. It’s worshipping at an altar, and, I’m afraid—it’s missing the point of the basic morality of life. Maybe in time we’ll get back to the thing that the Ancients knew. Some of the Oriental religions are based on ancestor worship, you know. And in its way it relates directly to the thing of worshipping a God who is in your image.

This is the perennial conceit of man, that he makes what he worships in his own likeness, whether it’s your ancestors or Big Daddy in the sky who made the world and looks like me.

Copyright © 1969, Les Tomkins - All rights reserved