Word: mulligans
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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...
...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...
...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...
Stately Buck Mulligan. Son of a Dublin physician, Oliver Gogarty finished his education at three universities-Oxford, and Dublin's Trinity College and Royal. He left Oxford a hero-the only undergraduate, he reports, who had ever drained at a draught the famed silver ale sconce of Worcester College (contents: "more than five pints"). Trinity College made a racing cyclist and physician of him, but the Royal gave him his chief claim to fame by bringing him in contact with an unknown student named James Joyce...
They were not alike. Student Gogarty was bibulous, ebullient, indulgent (or, as Joyce tagged him in the first sentence of Ulysses: "Stately, plump Buck Mulligan . . ."). Student Joyce was afflicted by "seedy hauteur" and rarely allowed "those thin lips of his [to] cream in a smile . . . the most damned soul I ever met." They shared rooms in an old tower outside Dublin until Gogarty upset the mutual trust one dark night by firing a revolver into a pile of saucepans that hung above the sleeping poet's pillow. In so far as he ever does, Gogarty blames himself...