Though my piano skills were minimal and I had merely a songwriter’s voice, I soon attracted a following of other dedicated showtune enthusiasts, guys who knew the history and the provenance: Who introduced the song? In what film or show? In which year? All the way down to Who designed the gown? Where else could you hear the names Travis Banton (Designer, 20th-Century-Fox) or Conrad Salinger (Orchestrator, M-G-M) being flung about with such abandon? And there I sat, playing musical trivia (What’s the song from Marjorie Morningstar? Who played her? What year?) Donald, one of my coterie, liked to test me: “Do a Columbia medley–” he’d shout, naming the studio. Well, I was up to that: Rita Hayworth had worked at Columbia, so I could sing Long Ago and Far Away (can you name the picture?) and Put the Blame on Mame (pic here)and Fire Down Below (name the pictures) and Let’s Stay Young Forever (name the picture) and then there was You Can’t Run Away From It (what was this picture? Based on what previous picture?) and finally, as a topper, I’d sing The Re-enlistment Blues and the title tune (not used in the film, but recorded by Frank Sinatra) from From Here to Eternity. “Do Betty Grable!” “Do Ginger Rogers!” Well, I could meet all these challenges. I’d been watching these films on Million Dollar Movie (can you name the TV channel that broadcast this show?), taping the sound tracks to learn the songs. In fact, my ambition was to write songs like these, with all their wit and harmonic invention, and meanwhile, to share this glorious output with my audiences. I never thought of myself as a performer: I was a songwriter who was merely demonstrating the material…and it was this modesty, coupled with my intense devotion, that made me an appealing entertainer. In addition, because I was so entranced with Broadway and Hollywood lore, I could annotate almost every selection with a story about the composer, the lyricist, the producer, whatever. 
Then, one weekend in January, for some reason the black community discovered me. Geoffrey Holder, the dancer/choreographer came in, took a seat at the piano-bar. “I’ve been hearing good things about you,” he said, in his resonant baritone. I couldn’t imagine from where, but I launched into the score from House of Flowers, in which he’d appeared. This delighted him. I played the title tune, I Never Has Seen Snow, Don’t Like Goodbyes, and finished with Sleepin’ Bee –lingering over Harold Arlen’s rich harmonies, the blue notes, the flatted fifths. Geoffrey sang along, joining in, seemed to have a good time, left with a smile on his face. 
Couple nights later, in came Luther Henderson, who’d arranged and conducted one of my very fav’rit albums, Anita Ellis’s I Wonder What Became of Me?
TO BE CONTINUED
Mulligan gestured toward Treva’s piano: “Who plays?” he asked. “Treva and I both play,” I replied, going to the keyboard; “And we both write songs.” I waited for him to say, Okay, let’s hear one, but he didn’t. I didn’t want to seem presumptuous and launch into an original without being asked, so I picked out a phrase from an Arlen tune, As Long As I Live. “Oh yeah,” he said, as he recognized the song. He rose. “Lemme go get the ax.” he said. Inside myself, I experienced a huge grin of anticipation -he meant his instrument! Wow. A moment later, he was back, carrying a huge, golden Sohmer saxophone -a baritone. “You know Devil and the Deep Blue Sea?” he inquired. I nodded. “What key?” “Can you do A Flat?” Hmm. I pondered it. I wasn’t that comfortable in A Flat, but I didn’t want to say so and appear unprofessional. “Okay.” He began popping his fingers in a medium tempo. “About here,” he said. I played a four-bar introduction, and he began sending big, breathy phrases into the room, filling the space with what felt like huge marshmallow logs of sound. Treva came out of the kitchen with a smile of astonished joy. We exchanged a conspiratorial look: we had one of the jazz greats in our living room, performing. Treva put her fist to her mouth. “Oh my god,” she murmured.
Finishing the A Flat chorus, I moved through a Cm7 to an F7, taking the tune to B Flat, an easier key for me. Mulligan slipped into it with an easy swing. Sandy was choosing to remain in the bedroom, monitoring the cat’s delivery; hearing Gerry play was obviously old hat to her. Well, not to us, me and Treva. We finished the rendition, and Gerry then asked me, “D’you know The Things We Did Last Summer?” I was thrilled that I did happen to know this rare Juley Styne song, and, as we launched into the ballad, I tried to split my concentration between playing the right notes and trying to define precisely what it was that made Gerry’s playing so compelling. He had an ascetic precision mixed with a breathy sensuality… and the tension created by this…this dichotomy made you hang on his every utterance. 
Added to this was a fine intelligence -you could tell he understood every word of the lyric, he was there for every emotional beat -even without any words. It was a complete delineation of the song. This I’d heard only once before with an instrumentalist -another wind player -Benny Goodman. On clarinet. A rehearsal for a Lincoln Center benefit concert -three-fifteen in the afternoon, I was in the wings, watching, and he picked up the stick and very gently, very off-the-cuff, blew softly into his mouthpiece the opening phrase of Rodgers & Hart’s Easy to Remember. YOUR SWEET EXPRESSION….THE SMILE YOU GAVE ME…THE WAY YOU LOOKED WHEN WE MET…there was a tender ruefulness, a soothing yet plaintive quality to his tone. And again, you could not turn your ear away. This was the kind of genius talent I was hearing now with Gerry. “You know,” he said, “I used to write songs with Judy.” 
I developed my own style at the piano -never had a lesson. I was an auto-didact (that always sounded dirty to me). So it’s amazed me that I’ve been able to play with a couple of serious jazz musicians. I posted about Wynton Marsalis earlier. Here’s another one: 
Treva and I were in line to pay for groceries at the Ralph’s supermarket on Fairfax. It was six-thirty on a typical Los Angeles evening, with the big orange ball of sunset dipping into the Pacific. Suddenly Treva clutched my arm -“Sandy!” she cried. “Oh, hi, Treva,” said the woman in back of us. I looked and, behind her large, dark Hollywood sunglasses, I recognized Sandy Dennis, the actress. Behind her stood a tall, red-headed guy. Sandy peered inquisitively into our shopping cart: “What’re you having for dinner?” she inquired. “Well,” Treva responded, Johnny’s going to cook chicken breasts in a cream sauce with shallots.” 
Sandy gave a short, smug smile: “That wouldn’t be for me,” she said, “I don’t do cream.” With only the faintest hint of irony in my tone (I mean who the hell asked her?) I said, “Well, I could make it with yogurt…” Sandy nodded judiciously. “That’d work,” she finished -and that’s how we all went back to Treva’s -in two cars- and I put dinner together for the four of us. Sandy was immediately entranced/concerned with Treva’s cat, who was in the beginning stages of labor, about to deliver a litter. After paying merely cursory attention to the conversation at dinner, Sandy ran to the bedroom to be with the cat, leaving Treva and me alone with…Gerry Mulligan. 
John Meyer 