Young Man With A Reed

Modern, sterile John Hancock Hall is a far cry from the Haig, a tiny, dim-lit supper club across from Los Angeles' plush Ambassador Hotel. Yet, with just a few numbers from his low pitched saxophone, Gerry Mulligan, a lean-faced, red-headed young man with a "new sound," proved last night that he isn't far from home at all.

Mulligan's quartet took turns with George Shearing and Co. in a concert of new jazz, sponsored by Story ville's George Wein. And once more, Mulligan demonstrated that he has one of the most original minds in American popular music. Shearing, however, was disappointing. With a heavy swing beat pitched quite obviously at the crowd, he is no longer the exciting musician of a few years ago.

But Mulligan was great. Still using no piano, counting on drums and a bass to carry the rhythm, he skillfully traded melodic lines in fluid counterpoint with valve trombonist Bobby Brookmeyer. They played all the old Mulligan numbers--Motel, Lullaby of the Leaves, Sextet, My Funny Valentine--old because in only three years they have made their arranger famous for his style. The Mulligan sound is a low sound, a tense sound. Unlike Dixieland, it reaches no climaxes, and explodes in no blasting solos. Instead, it edges back and forth, finds harmony for a few lines, then slips off into exciting dissonance. Many times, the two voices of the sax and horn have been compared with their counter-parts in a Bach two part invention.

None of the three men who now play with Mulligan were with him on the Coast. Gone is Chet Baker, a trumpeter who got too good to play second fiddle. Together, Baker and Mulligan worked perfectly--the easy, sliver-like sounds of Baker's horn a perfect complement to the fullness of the baritone sax. Not until last night have I heard Brookmeyer do as well with Mulligan as Baker did.

After a short break, the thousand or so paying guests filed back in to hear George Shearing. What they heard, however, could hardly be compared with the old Shearing. It was a circus, with Shearing the ring-master. Whenever he played his old numbers--which was rarely--they had a heavy, dance-band beat. Most of his pieces were novelty selections, featuring everything from African drums to a high-pitched, over-amplified electric harmonica.

The whole thing ended with a unique little thing called Caravan. It had everything. Lots of noise, tom-toms, grandiose chords from the piano, and human moans. The moans were Shearing's.