Previn has had a huge influence both as pianist and conductor. He has often conducted Garson’s good friend and collaborator in the group Free Flight, flautist Jim Walker, for example when Walker played with the Pittsburgh Symphony Orchestra. Another early influence was one-time PSO Concertmaster, Andrés Cárdenes. Previn had also written a jazz book with a song in it called ‘Like Young’ which helped to get Garson into jazz when he was about twelve or thirteen.
Together with Dave Brubeck, George Shearing and Erroll Garner, all of these inputs were key musical influences on Garson in his early teens. He recalls his early years as being very ordinary and peaceful. Despite working in alcohol sales his father hardly drank himself, though he may come home a tiny bit tipsy occasionally if he had been drinking with those he hoped would become clients. The son of a liquor salesman, Garson himself has never been a drinker, perhaps having seen the damaging effects it could have on musicians and others in the bars his father had to visit for his work. It was his father who introduced the young Garson to live jazz by taking him once to the famous Half Note jazz club on Spring and Hudson in New York when he was about sixteen or seventeen, as it was one of the places to which he sold and delivered alcoholic drinks.
That night Lennie Tristano was playing. When he took a break, Garson’s father asked if his son could be allowed on to the piano to audition by playing Dave Brubeck’s ‘Take Five’. Garson played the melody in E-flat minor and covered the whole bassline with his left hand in the required 5/4 time, without any improvisation at this point. It was difficult enough to adapt the fast top line which had been played on the original on alto saxophone by Paul Desmond. As Dave Brubeck’s drummer, Joe Morello had introduced 5/4 as a popular time signature in jazz in about 1959. In Los Angeles in 2009 I saw Garson play ‘Oh, What a Beautiful Morning’ in 3/4 with a trio, and when drummer, Joe LaBarbera took a solo Garson switched him into both 5/4 and 7/8 time, to great effect. LaBarbera is able to take this kind of rhythmic complexity to a new level.
At elementary school, Garson did not fare well academically. He did not feel that the teachers adapted their methods to suit the different ways in which different people learn, which in his case was more through listening, observing, and trying to imitate, than by the mechanical process of learning by rote which was still predominant in the 1950s. Not every student learns in the same way. He learned more from watching his piano teacher, Lennie Tristano, playing in the Half Note jazz club than during his lessons with him. Rather than struggling simply to absorb abstract data disconnected from his experience, he did better (like many people) when responding to something which is being done in context and with meaning. One of the best ways to teach is through a cyclical repetition of practical observation and imitation, which follows a spiral form of gradually building in layers, rather than abstracting information or principles to be learned as something separate. Some jazz players even have a policy of withholding information when teaching, so as not to share too many of their secrets, in an absurd instance of protective élitism within so-called artistic expression.
Educationally he felt increasingly detached and disassociated. Sometimes at high school, if he felt he was going to fail a test, he would write a funny piece of music for the teacher at the bottom of the paper instead, just a few bars on a musical stave and label it something like The Algebraic Cha-Cha or The H2O Waltz.
As a boy he enjoyed playing a little baseball, stoop ball (where they would hit the ball on the steps outside apartment blocks), handball, hardball, chasing games; but he was quite introverted and shy, seeing himself as different from the others. To this day, like many artists, he continues to feel a particular alienation so that, for example, at a party or a reception after a big concert, he feels uncomfortable, a sense of not belonging, at least until he succeeds in locating one person with whom he can get into a good conversation.
In his late teens he was an impoverished Brooklyn student musician, mixing with other struggling youngsters, their access to the luxuries of Manhattan’s entertainments somewhat limited. Of course, they made their own entertainment, and he recalls vividly one such incident. In Greenwich Village in 1962 there was a place called Alberts which offered an ‘all you can eat’ steak option priced at $5.95. The teenage Garson was slim but had a big appetite and recalls one visit there with some impecunious musician friends. They thought it would be fun and economical to take advantage and have a couple of steaks each, which were served with baked potatoes and vegetables. As the meal progressed the others dropped out one by one but Garson finally worked his way happily through no fewer than five steaks before leaving, much to the exasperation of the management, but there was nothing they could do as he was playing by the rules. He left the waiter a generous tip and walked slowly off, ‘pretty full but very satiated’.
His grandparents were all from Russia, though both of his parents were born in New York. His paternal grandmother, Anna, created works of art on copper. His maternal grandmother, also Anna, was extremely loving toward him. Whilst his grandfather took him to the temple (synagogue) every Saturday, his Grandma Horowitz ‘was pure love, and every Tuesday between eleven and fourteen years old at noon for lunch I would go to her house, two blocks from my public school “238” and one block from my house, and she would fry up the greatest little fish called smelts’.
He was at home in California when his father died, at eighty-nine, in Brooklyn. At the time that he went into hospital, there was a huge snowstorm which made it impossible for either Garson or his sister in Arizona to get to New York to visit him. It was at the end of 1995 and Garson had been touring with Bowie. His father had asked him the week before he died which dates he was next due to travel, as if he knew what was happening and wanted to make sure his son would be in the country to attend his funeral. He told him he was due to tour again with Bowie in Finland on 17 January 1996. He passed away a week before that. Garson explains that his father ‘did not have to die; he had a stomach ulcer and he would not let the doctors repair it as he felt his quality of life would be limited’. At that point the snowstorm cleared and Garson and his sister were able to fly in for the funeral. The next day he was on the flight to Finland to play for Bowie.
Garson’s mother had died about twelve years earlier of ovarian cancer. He was due to play with Free Flight at Santa Monica around that time and his mother called from where she was staying at his sister’s house on Long Island, with just a short amount of time left, and wanted to see him. He flew out with just a few days to go before the big concert; she waited for him, kissed him, and later that evening she passed away. Both his parents had a strong and practical work ethic, to the extent even of reasoning, as Garson now puts it, ‘Michael has to play, no matter who’s dying’; and he believes that they worked it out in their own spiritual, intuitive way, somehow allowing them perhaps even to time their demise.
He loved them and misses them. He would particularly have loved them to enjoy his seven grandchildren, and also the fact that he has now written such a huge amount of classical music too, as they were close to that world. They loved to hear him play classical or semi-classical music, especially for example the Warsaw Concerto or the theme from Exodus, with its strong Jewish connotations. His father said that he would make sure that at his funeral Garson could play on a nine-foot grand piano, and asked that he play ‘September Song’, ‘Mack the Knife’, and one of Garson’s own compositions called ‘Admiration’. This was exactly what happened. Garson says of his father, ‘I followed his rules.’
He learned as a young adult from many teachers and mentors who were huge in the jazz world themselves, such as Herbie Hancock, and he was even once given a six-hour lesson by Bill Evans. As a teenager, Garson had been determined to master jazz. Less than five years later he had his chance break with Elvin Jones. Jones was John Coltrane’s drummer from 1960 to 1966 (Coltrane died in 1967). He was at Pookie’s Pub in Greenwich Village when Jones’ pianist literally fell off the stage, drunk. They dragged him out and le
ft him in a stupor on the street, on Spring and Hudson, right across the road from the Half Note jazz club where Garson had played ‘Take Five’ for Lennie Tristano. The sax player, Steve Grossman, turned to Jones, pointed to Garson and said, ‘That guy can play piano.’
Garson was in a tuxedo, having just played at a wedding. Jones, Garson’s favourite drummer of all time, was stoned but seemed ‘psychic’ to Garson, saying, ‘Come on up here, Arthur Rubinstein!’ Garson wonders now, ‘How could he have known that just a few months earlier I had seen the master pianist play Beethoven’s Waldstein Sonata, or that I had been speaking every day since of Rubinstein, and of how hearing him play the Third Movement had changed my life?’ He ended up playing three consecutive nights with this band and says that it was the greatest apprenticeship he could have wished for, albeit something of a baptism of fire. That week his playing went ‘from a 3 to an 8 or 9 out of 10, at nineteen or twenty years old’.
It would seem that this tumble by a drunk pianist was not a unique occurrence. Garson tells of the time around 1963 at the Village Vanguard jazz club when he was seated near the stage watching the great Thelonious Monk, of whom he was a huge fan. During a sax solo, Monk, who was drunk, left the piano and was ‘dancing in circles on the stage’ which was something he often did during solos. ‘He fell into my arms! He felt like he must have weighed nearly 300 pounds!’ In reference to this incident he has called a new album of Thelonious Monk-inspired music Monk Fell On Me.
Garson’s break with Elvin Jones was just one of three key moments when he was called on to play in a very unexpected way. Years later he covered for pianist Michel Petrucciani at the Catalina in Los Angeles. Then of course, between these two times, was that most significant 1972 surprise call from Bowie’s manager, Tony Defries, which forms a pivotal point in his career. He certainly sees his own evolution as containing this element of serendipity, finding that whenever he tried to control something or make something happen, it would be more likely to fail or close down, and that the best things always happened ‘when I got out of my own way’. His way of navigating through the obstacle course of life as a musician has never relied on the escapism or hedonism of drink or drugs, unlike so many others, but rather on the practice of gratitude and openness, welcoming opportunities but not chasing them.
5 - Abstinence amongst excess
‘Mike does not drink but his personality is more than capable of matching the zany, mischievous or highly energetic states of anyone else who does… he can be high without taking anything… he kind of rises to the same exuberance… his own openness encourages others around him to be themselves… Mike Garson has got the biggest heart in the world, he’s got to be one of the sweetest, most loving people I’ve ever met in my life, aside from being an incredible musician who should be on everybody’s mind.’ – Gail Ann Dorsey
IN REFLECTING ON HIS LIFE Garson describes sometimes having a sense of isolation or disconnectedness, especially when having to interact personally with groups as opposed to either a meaningful one-to-one communication or performing musically to a group of people. The sense of difference or disconnectedness felt by many artists makes them vulnerable to the dangers of addiction. They seek to ease their inner loneliness, at huge long-term cost, with shortcuts to connection or with hedonistic pleasures, as they try to compensate for perceived lacks or losses. The loss of rational discrimination which results from inebriation creates a false sense of connection, as the barriers normally constructed through such discrimination come down. Garson states that although he loves people, he does best either on a one-to-one basis or in the situation of playing a concert, whereas in group interactions or parties he feels a little lost. It should be added, however, that if such feelings of alienation are particularly common amongst musicians or artists, they are also not uncommon in the population generally and this is perhaps a reflection of the lack of true community within the present-day social order.
There is a second factor which makes performing musicians more prone to such risky indulgences. The special excitement of a live performance leads many musicians to try artificially to prolong this high after the show is over. Garson has avoided these problems, saying that after a show he prefers to unwind alone in his hotel room, by having a nice meal, watching television or a film, chatting, reviewing the show and making improvements for the next one. He needs time and space alone to refuel his mind and body.
Nobody can be ‘up’ or intensely creative all of the time. There are scientists, inventors, writers who have intense periods of inspiration and will work for days on end with barely a break. They then sometimes appear to be hibernating in periods of inactivity, but this is sometimes needed as preparation for the next spurt of creativity. Live performers experience brain-chemical processes with endorphins and adrenaline which are not entirely different from those of athletes, and there are natural euphoric highs which are inevitably followed by relative troughs. These fluctuations can lead to emotional despondency if there are not other support systems within that person’s life, which in Garson’s case would perhaps bring us to his love for and from his family, but also to his almost childishly enquiring mind and his unbridled passion for the creative process itself. He takes this far too seriously to risk impairing it with drink or drugs. He has, however, many tales to tell of his experiences of witnessing it all around him.
Whilst playing with the band Brethren at the start of the 1970s, the drummer Rick Marotta would blow pot smoke from his joint into Garson’s face, out of irritation at his abstinence whilst the others smoked it. Garson always remembered the disrespect of this attitude. They were on the road for a year, opening for Traffic, Santana and Joe Cocker. Marotta went on to great success as a session player for artists including Aretha Franklin, Roberta Flack, Paul Simon and John Lennon, and he wrote the theme music for the television show, Everybody Loves Raymond. Years later they happened to meet at Capitol Studios in Hollywood. Garson was recording some of his classical compositions, played by several other pianists. Marotta was so very complimentary about what he heard, and also about Garson’s other accomplishments, that it seemed superfluous to hold any anger over his earlier behaviour, which was simply a case of people who indulge wanting others to do the same, because they feel their own weakness thrown into relief by the strength (or lack of dependence) of others.
Garson attributes his ability to be comfortable around others who are drinking or taking drugs partly to long practice. At sixteen he shared digs in the Catskills with a heroin addict. Since then he has helped people come off drugs and has generally been around it a lot. He says that he has no moral objection to it whatsoever, simply that he does not like to see people he loves die (and he has lost a few) or suffer on a constant ‘roundabout of rehab’. At the same time, he has the sense to know when to remove himself from an event if the level of inebriation is getting too uncomfortable.
During his teens, he saw the great Bill Evans performing at the Village Vanguard, a famous jazz club on Seventh Avenue in Lower Manhattan (which is still there). Garson plucked up the courage to introduce himself as an aspiring pianist who loved Evans’ playing, and asked for a lesson. Evans appreciated Garson’s sincerity and had him round for six hours, without even charging. They spoke about Garson’s teacher, Lennie Tristano, whom Evans also admired (on his 1956 album New Jazz Conceptions Tristano’s influence can be heard). The only time Evans left the room during this lesson was to inject heroin into his hand, which on his return showed the needle mark and was inflamed. One of his hands was ‘so swollen it looked like two hands’ to Garson.
Evans’ renowned feel and timing appeared to be enhanced by his drugged state, putting him further still behind the beat. In contrast, towards the end of his life he used cocaine, which made him incline to rush his playing more. But that injection of more heroin, by removing the pain of his previous withdrawal, was merely allowing his natural talent to reassert itself. Garson dismisses the misguided belief that drugs produce creativity, when in fact t
hat creativity is something already in the artist, which can be liberated without risking the spiralling dependency and suffering which drugs bring. Many musicians have chased that elusive, mythical moment of bliss or inspiration, only to pay the price when the emotional and psychological problems temporarily avoided and hidden by drugs come back to the surface even more painfully.15
In addition to the alienation felt by many artists, and their attempt to avoid the post-show comedown, Garson sees a third factor as being peer pressure, especially within an industry in which heroes and idols are seen likewise to indulge. Even being gregarious within such circles becomes a potential risk factor as camaraderie so often depends on shared excesses. Garson believes that his passion and intensity about things would make him a chronic addict if he ever dabbled, whereas in fact he has often been the butt of resentment from those whose escapism is marred by his tenacious and teetotal hold on reality.
Unlike those many musical artists who seek fame, he has never been even slightly motivated by such concerns. He describes fame as the most destabilising of all the drugs. His motivation is to refine his craft, to tap into his musical inspiration, and to teach others, his past students now running into the thousands. And the role of mentor appears to suit him, as he shows a genuine interest in the development of those he is charged with nurturing. He has a willingness and relaxed capacity to impart understanding and ideas, which makes him a natural teacher. For some time he has been mentoring Theo Ryan, young fretless bassist and son of Tim Ryan, who created M-Audio. Garson’s guidance to this blossoming young talent has been inspirational to Theo Ryan, who has learned from Garson’s integration of his music with his whole personality as well as his living and working ‘in the moment’, which paradoxically makes his work timeless. He also describes his mentor’s urge to help and to heal, telling me that ‘in my time knowing him, he has never changed, by always changing’.
Bowie's Piano Man - The Biography of Mike Garson Page 7
