I'd Love to Turn You On #236 - Gerry Mulligan – Night Lights (1963)

            Growing up, I didn’t get to listen to a lot of jazz. It typically wasn’t played around my house by either of my parents and I certainly didn’t get exposed to it from any of my peers. I do recall later on a time when my mother developed an affinity for smooth jazz or “elevator jazz,” as I called it back then. Artists like Spyro Gyra (or, if she wasn’t in the mood for the rowdiness of Spyro Gyra, The Rippingtons), were a go-to. I fucking hated it. I still fucking hate it. It’s boring and soulless and reminds me of intercom music from the days of being dragged to musty grey department stores and schlepped around in a cart while my mom bought box fans and fondue pots and continually told me “no” when I would ask to get one single He-Man figure. But anyway, I digress.

That was my idea of jazz when I was growing up, is my point. And I wanted no part of it. So you can imagine my delight when I got older and discovered real jazz on my own and how wonderful and inspiring and truly creative the world of jazz could be. I started to check out all the greats: Bird, Diz, Miles… everyone. To this day, there are certain artists and certain records that I know I should enjoy, but I struggle with. Gerry Mulligan was one of these artists for many years. I’m a die-hard fan now, but it took a minute. The first one that I ever listened to was his 1963 record Night Lights and I instantly hated it. Obviously this has a happy ending because I’m writing about it, but when I first heard it I thought it sounded too much like the smooth jazz that made me resent my mom’s tastes years prior. But there’s more to this little gem than that and upon multiple listens I fell in love with its beauty and sheer sensuality.

Most jazz fans are no doubt familiar with the work of Gerry Mulligan and, in particular, his piano-less material with Chet Baker from the mid-to-late ‘50s cool jazz era. It was during this period where the baritone saxophonist cut his teeth with some of the most talented ensembles of the time. As an arranger, Mulligan worked with many jazz giants of the ‘50s, such as Stan Kenton and Miles Davis. Because of these associations, or perhaps in spite of them, Mulligan developed a bit of a reputation as perfectionist and often demanded center stage attention from his audiences. On Night Lights, however, Mulligan opts to take an unexpected back seat to his sextet of stellar players, including valve trombonist and longtime collaborator Bob Brookmeyer, Art Farmer on flugelhorn, Bill Crow on bass, Dave Bailey on drums and the inimitable Jim Hall on guitar. The result is one of the most breathtaking records of the 1960s.

For starters, Mulligan isn’t as present on Night Lights as he has been in previous sessions. Kicking things off is the title track, the first of three original compositions to appear on the album. Uniquely, old “Jeru” doesn’t even play his signature instrument on it, opting instead to lead the piece with a shimmering piano line that sounds as if it’s being played in a smoke-filled after-hours club. Other highlights include a rendition of Chopin’s “Prelude in E-Minor” with a distinct Latin flavor and an enchanting version of the standard “In the Wee Small Hours of the Morning.” Night Lights is a decidedly ballad-heavy album and plays at a very slow pace, which is not necessarily to its detriment. Although there are no real upbeat numbers to speak of here and it is markedly lacking any improvisation (something Mulligan excels at normally), it more than makes up for it in musical prowess and romanticism. Mulligan and company definitely capture a mood here and that mood is unmistakably “night life.”

At just over 30 minutes (not including the bonus CD track which is a fantastic alternate take of the song “Night Lights” recorded in 1965), this record is a short but sweet bachelor pad classic. Perfect for cocktails or for date night.

-         Jonathan Eagle

I'd Love to Turn You On At the Movies #84 - Let’s Get Lost (1988, dir. Bruce Weber)

If you go to the vinyl room of Twist And Shout and look up at the west wall near the big neon display for The Cure’s album Boys Don’t Cry you will see an odd photograph of two men sitting on a couch in a very casual setting. One of the men was an early Twist customer named Manzy, the other, a somewhat broken down old dude, is the jazz legend Chet Baker toward the end of his life. He spent a little time in Colorado, playing gigs where he could find them (a posthumous live album from Pueblo of all places was released) and, from what Manzy said, hanging out at his house, getting wasted and listening to jazz. Let’s Get Lost was released in 1988, the year I started Twist and Shout, and the coincidence of seeing the movie and meeting a real live connection to the man has given Chet Baker and this remarkable movie a special place in my life. Luckily, it happens to be one of the best music documentaries ever made.

I make that claim because it is one of the few films about a specific artist that not only informs about the artist, but also makes valid points about society and art in a larger sense. It is a profound experience if you are interested in Chet Baker, jazz, the nature of celebrity or the elusiveness of youth and beauty. It can be viewed in many ways - all successfully. Director Bruce Weber weaves together footage of Baker’s life, from angel-faced trumpet prodigy, to slightly scummy Italian B-movie star and sex symbol, to washed–up junkie jazz archetype, along the way interviewing his former lovers, abandoned children and bemused fellow travelers who paint the picture of a man who floated through life, getting by on his talent and youthful good looks, but who, like some Dorian Gray in reverse started to show the lines and cracks of his moral dissolution in his very countenance. In fact that ironic and painful counterpoint between the beautiful, almost perfect face of the young man and the tortured, caved-in puss of the old wreck stands at the heart of Let’s Get Lost. Weber creates a contemporary narrative framework for his movie by filming Baker at the very end of his life (he died just months after the final filming) in a couple of interesting situations. One time, he takes Baker with him to The Cannes Film Festival, allowing the once glamorous and still alluring star to make ghostly appearances amongst the currently beautiful people. One senses Baker’s own mixed feelings about the whole affair. He is allowing himself to be a prop in a film about himself. The other sequence finds Baker hanging around in Santa Monica with a group of young hipsters half his age (including a young Flea from The Red Hot Chili Peppers). They surround Baker with admiration and hero worship while, for his part, Baker slips in and out of an opium-induced reverie; eyes half closed, a smile dancing across his lips. It is powerful stuff - especially when intercut with his youthful face on screen, full of promise, blowing his trumpet and singing like a cross between Miles Davis, Marlon Brando and Frank Sinatra. He had everything it would seem.

The lasting value of Let’s Get Lost is in its exploration of the very nature of fame. Baker never seemed comfortable with his fame, he never felt at ease out of the world of the musician. His life was an endless one-night-stand, where marriages, children, stability and ultimately happiness take a back seat to the lightning thrill of the next gig and the only companion to be counted on is the needle. The portrait we leave this film with is that of a true artist - his remarkable gifts still intact even at the end of his life, housed in the body of a very imperfect man. Chet Baker wandered this world creating beauty and leaving sadness in his wake, but director Bruce Weber finds a way to bring redemption from this sad tale. Ultimately each of us must wrestle with the good and bad forces within ourselves, and seeing another human live this juxtaposition and leave a legacy of great art is all we can ask from another frail human being and more than we can ask from any film.

- Paul Epstein