Getting Into It - Grachan Moncur III

THE DOOR swung open, and a voice proclaimed: "J.J.Johnson is the baddest trombone player alive!" The tone brooked no doubt—this was a truth that no amount of argument could change. "J. J. has explored every facet of playing the instrument and continues to search—always listening and developing—and if I can cover a fraction of what he's already done in my whole lifetime, it will be a major accomplishment. It became obvious that the esteem in which Grachan Moncur III holds Johnson approaches the religious. Yet the extent and intensity of this homage has not deterred the young trombonist from seeking a road of his own, and for Moncur the immediacy of everyday experience pro­vides a dynamic musical force. He looks to television, movies, even the daily bombardment of natural sounds for ideas and a perspective. "There is much talk about the avant garde these days, and some people place my music in that category," he said. "Being avant garde is not necessarily my intention. I simply try to make music the best way I know how. There is a wealth of musical richness in the air—if we will only pay attention. For instance, the variations on the Ghost Town theme [one of Moncur's compositions] have been served up by movies and television for years. I see it almost every time I turn on my set. And I can't even begin to count the variations on Frankenstein [another of his tunes]. This is the sort of thing I refer to when I say it's in the air." Although he has studied at Juilliard, Moncur avoids the use of "legitimate" terminology when discussing jazz and refuses to use an inflexible technique in composition. Each piece is approached as an entity unto itself, he says. "If it's necessary to use an extended technique to express what I'm trying to say, I'll do it," he said. "If I have to bang on a dishpan with a stick, I'll do that too. "I'm working with Sonny Rollins now, and it's a marvelous experience. Besides the fact that he's a genius—he's also flexible. Men constantly rotate in and out of the band; this sustains a continuously changing mood. Bandleaders often complain that new men can't play their music. If they were like Sonny and their music weren't so stiff, they could find an abundance of musicians." Moncur was born in 1937, in Harlem, but grew up in Newark, NJ. From the beginning he was taught the sig­nificance of discovering an intimate personal mode of expression, a premise that remains at the heart of his musi­cianship. His father was a famous bass player, and "the scene" was a vital part of his first son's childhood. Before he was 5, young Grachan had already begun to experiment with the valve trombone. A few years later he discovered Lester Young. "In my fourth year of grammar school, some friends and I were having lunch at the local Cafe Spoon. Most of the kids were digging Bull Moose Jackson records. . . . Some­body played a Lester Young record—I couldn't believe the groove the band got—it had me turned around for weeks." On completion of grammar school, Grachan was sent to the Laurinburg Institute at Laurinburg, N.C. John Birks Gillespie, an earlier graduate, had left deep and lasting impressions on the faculty. "The staff at Laurinburg was extremely receptive and open to jazz," Moncur said. "They encouraged all forms of creativity and thus attracted a number of talented students. During my last two years I was producer-music director for an all-student theater group that gave performances in surrounding communities." It was in this period that Moncur began to speak in his own idiom. For the most part, he depended on the accepted musical vocabulary, but an unmistakable orig­inality broke through. Different keys were curiously juxta­posed to obtain an acrid polytonal effect; compounded rhythms emerged and complemented each other; harmonic colors expressed a spirit that was paradoxical—jazz, and at the same time the freedom he wanted. The next step was more determined. Moncur rejected a four-year scholarship to Clark College for an offer to return to Newark and join the Nat Phipps Band.

"Wayne Shorter was in the band and had written a num­ber of the arrangements," Moncur said. "During my sum­mer vacations we had discussed altered chords and scales. I was eager to know more. Nat had a beautiful band, and I realized that it would be a vital experience. I couldn't pass it up."

His arrival on the scene was modest and caused no stir. There was an opening in James Moody's band, and Moncur was called to fill it.

"It was an extremely demanding job," he said, "that I wasn't musically prepared to handle. After two weeks, I was fired. I needed to concentrate on musicianship and could think of no better place to do it than at my parents' home in Miami."

In the experience with Moody's band he had been hurt and humbled. He had to find something to offset this humil­iation, some compensation for the reality of the present. He found it in the past.

He went back to his childhood and to the time-tested concepts of his father—major and minor scales, a dark-vibrant sound, and a heavy pulsating swing. He became a trombonist of larger proportions, bringing the ghosts of an earlier generation to life in his music. He sought out the local musicians and played with them every time he could.

After 18 months in Florida, the Ray Charles organiza­tion came to town, and "after the concert, some of the guys from the band stopped in at the club," Moncur re­called. "They seemed to like my playing and said they would try to get me in the band. A few weeks later the straw boss called and asked me to join the band in New York for an engagement at the Apollo. I stayed for the next year and a half. Ray's a huge musician—the term genius is no mere cliche."

Big-band experience had strengthened his skills, and Moncur was becoming eager to employ them. When Tom Mclntosh left the Art Farmer-Benny Golson Jazztet, Mon­cur was asked to fill his chair.

"I wanted to play as a soloist, and this was a good opportunity," he said. "However, before I left Ray's band, he assured me that I could always return. . . . When the Jazztet broke up, I rejoined him for another six months."

At this point, Moncur decided to settle in New York City and pay dues for the goals he wanted to accomplish as a soloist. In the first weeks of freelancing, he recorded an as-yet unreleased tentet date with Horace Silver and another with Herbie Hancock. "I was a little reluctant to stay in New York," he said, "but the fact that these guys had given me record dates reaffirmed my confidence."

Shortly after the Hancock session, he received a call from altoist Jackie McLean, who already had heard favor­able reports and wanted Moncur to join his new group. McLean had been one of Moncur's favorite players for a long time, and "since he's interested in freer structures, we had no trouble communicating."

They did a series of concerts and some record sessions for Blue Note, and the trombonist used the nucleus of the group for his Evolution album. But things slowed up, and McLean left town to do a single in California. Moncur stayed behind and fortunately so; his next offer was an on-stage role in James Baldwin's Blues for Mr. Charlie.

"When I got the call to audition," he said, "my emotions were mixed—a jazz musician, being confronted with a situ­ation on the Broadway stage. I assumed that I'd have to play something 'stiff' for the audition, but to my amaze­ment, they wanted to hear my own music. I played for Burgess Meredith, and he was quite receptive. First I played Frankenstein and laid back a little. . . . He liked it but asked to hear more. When I played Riff Raff, I really opened up, and he was gassed. ... I had expected a stiff, professional job—nothing more. As it turned out, my judgment couldn't have been more in error.

"The people involved with the show were beautiful. They accepted (and respected) me for what I am—a jazz musi­cian. Not in a phony sense—but for real! The show really involved me and became my most serious obligation."

Underlying almost all Moncur's reflections one no­tices an almost compulsive need to come to grips with the everyday world. For this the tragic insight of Baldwin's play served as fertile ground. The challenge to create music about a deranged social action became more than a mere mechanical exercise; it had a therapeutic effect.

"Blues for Mr. Charlie was a demanding job because I was playing alone," Moncur said. "If I goofed, there was no rhythm section to pick me up. I had to blend with the mood and pitch of the actors—every nuance—every in­flection.

"When the theater was empty, I would go there and practice. I'd try to project my tone to every point in the house—inch by inch. The acoustics were my only support, and I had to know every phase of the reverberation. , . . The mood of the stage was always changing, and if I wasn't absolutely flexible, the whole performance could be ruined. If you don't think that's a responsibility, try it."

Saxophonist Rollins became impressed with Moncur last spring and asked him to join the group.

"I stopped by the Five Spot after the show one night, and Sonny asked me to sit in," the trombonist recalled. "He's always been one of my major influences, and the expectation of playing with him shook me up. However, on the bandstand, I found that I didn't have to force my groove—it was already there.

"Sonny can play everything, and consequently the men working with him don't have to waste creative energy asserting themselves. This allows a much broader range of expression."

Moncur was already committed—in all ways—to Blues for Mr. Charlie, and though the Rollins offer was attractive, his obligation to the play couldn't be set aside. But the offer remained open, and when the show closed, Moncur accepted. In addition to his work with Rollins, he also has been commissioned to score a dance program for the CBS Camera Three series, which is slated for viewing early in May.

Generally speaking, Moncur's approach relates to his basic instrumental orientations—a good technique,-a .re­spect for space as an element of form, and a rhythmic concept that reveals a deep commitment to a hard, deep swing. His lines are sometimes disjunct but always clear in their tonal relationships; his style could be called neo-bop, though not in the traditional meaning of the term.

The realization that free acoustical structure has its valid­ity side by side with specific harmonic design does not represent a departure from the heritage and tradition of bop but rather an intimate extension into a new language. In his private way to communicate, this is the cause to which Grachan Moncur III is dedicated.

By GEORGE BRIGHT