Bowie's Piano Man - The Biography of Mike Garson

by Clifford Slapper

  To be able to do that was… almost amusing to us. It was like: ‘Oh, my God, look what we’re able to do!’ So cool and, I think, for all the guys in the band especially, in that fifteen-year period, it was a great outlet for us to be able to do, in one two-hour concert, so many different things, and each of us got our own feature along the way.

  This impossibility of categorising the Free Flight sound was a nightmare for concert promoters, booking agents and even record stores, much to the band’s amusement. At one concert they challenged the audience to suggest a name for the new amalgam they were creating and one woman shouted out: ‘That’s easy – this is “Real Music”!’ They have recorded over ten different albums though one of Walker’s favourites is that on which Garson first heavily featured, 1984’s Beyond the Clouds. What they have found is that jazz lovers come away with a new understanding and liking of classical music and classical fans learn an appreciation of jazz. Within the band there have also been such journeys. Walker himself grew up as a classically trained flautist who listened to jazz but did not even start to improvise until his late thirties. He still defers to the improvisational genius of someone like Garson but feels he has succeeded in crossing an important boundary himself with the energy and dedication he gives to this project, and has learned a confidence in his playing which rules out inhibition or insecurity.

  He explains the subtle difference in playing jazz flute as opposed to classical, how it uses a more diffused sound, less clean, more easygoing. It is, however, a continuum, and there is nothing to prevent some of that technique being deployed within a classical context. He just plays more cleanly than many jazz flautists who come from a jazz saxophone background and like to double flute, citing his role model as ‘Cannonball’ Adderley,

  who was about as clean and pure as any improviser I’ve ever heard of on a wind instrument, as opposed, you know, to Coltrane or Charlie Parker, who were brilliant and played all the notes, but ‘Cannonball’ was like some sort of computerised machine. He never hit a suspicious note – it was ridiculous!

  In the same way, a jazz pianist uses a different touch in eliciting sound from the instrument than does a classical pianist, usually a harder edge. Again, though, that is a question of degree and there are jazz pianists like Bill Evans with the ability to deploy a wonderfully soft touch. Instead Walker emphasises improvisation as the key difference, since in classical work there is no improvisation other than at the interpretative level, through which a melody may be conveyed differently at different performances. Only in jazz might the actual notes differ between performances. In exploring the different skill sets and techniques used to play jazz and classical, however, it becomes clear that they are a continuum. When Walker switches between playing jazz and classical he simply draws on different parts of his abilities and alters the emphasis. This recognition that the skills required for classical and jazz work are not so different opens the door for others to become more free to experiment with crossing these boundaries.

  The meeting of classical and jazz has a long thread of its own and can be heard vividly, for example, on Nina Simone’s solo on ‘Love Me or Leave Me’ which is based on J. S. Bach’s Inventions. Leonard Bernstein had a sensibility toward jazz, and Previn as mentioned also crossed these boundaries, as indeed did Gershwin. What marks these people out is not some special genius as much as the desire and willingness to cross into other territories with a sense of adventure rather than fear.

  In Walker’s last year with the Pittsburgh Symphony orchestra in 1976, André Previn became the conductor. As a child he had enjoyed Previn’s jazz recordings, and on one occasion he asked him if he missed playing jazz (this was before Previn got back into doing jazz again). Previn replied: ‘You know, I just miss the improvisational spontaneity that you have when you’re playing with a small group.’ You can hardly extemporise around the music, or reproduce that intimate process of spontaneous creation in a symphony orchestra of a hundred musicians.

  Like Garson, Walker also reflects on the fact that he was determined – in his case, to win an orchestral job, as well as to be able to play jazz, and worked hard, for many hundreds or indeed thousands of hours to reach these goals. Any acclaimed player of ‘genius’ or extraordinary ability tells the same story of ‘one part inspiration, ninety-nine parts perspiration’27. He also cites the case of Charlie Parker, who it is said was not so competent when he was first heard of, but then ‘went into the tank for a year’ and became a quite different player. (Parker went on record as saying that he practised up to fifteen hours a day during one period of three or four years.) Sonny Rollins also disappeared from public view for a self-imposed sabbatical year, during which he practised daily on Williamsburg Bridge.

  On the question of composition through improvisation, Walker whole-heartedly endorses Garson’s contention that this is a process worthy of respect and with major precedents in the classical world, despite its lack of acceptance within most classical circles today. He describes some of Garson’s improvised compositions as ‘absolutely remarkable, really beyond belief. I never will forget what he played for me when he was studying the work of Olivier Messiaen and created a piece based on that study, and I was blown away by it; he did the same thing with a homage to Ligeti, it’s unbelievable!’ These and others can be heard on Garson’s 2003 album, Homage to My Heroes.

  Within the remit of paying homage to a given style, Garson fully deploys his improvisational skills to create a piece spontaneously in real time, with minimal editing afterwards, and Walker believes this is threatening to many of the traditionally trained composers and critics alike. He contends, for example, that Franz Liszt would have given anything to have had the technology to preserve his improvisations as efficiently as we are now able to, with recording software which makes a full digital record and score of whatever is played. Walker believes that with these tools, J. S. Bach would have composed five times as many of his wonderful compositions. There are also differences in aptitude, however, and he estimates that many composers may not have the degree of improvisational technique available to Garson, just as Garson may lack some of ‘the patience to sit down with pen and pencil, without a piano, and write a piece of music – it’s just not his vehicle, and he doesn’t need it to be’.

  Garson observes that the great majority of composers in the modern period themselves played primarily piano or harpsichord rather than other instruments. Similarly, pianists in a modern context appear more likely to be improvisers. Is this a reflection of the structure of the piano itself, its orchestral range of possibilities in one entity, the polyphony it offers by having all the pitches set out to be struck directly by either or both hands, without the need to shorten a string or alter a sound chamber with one hand? Garson theorises that the training of young pianists to access notes in the way that only the piano offers somehow develops their brains in that inventive direction.

  In twenty-two years of performances by Free Flight, they did not fail a single time to receive a standing ovation. Their shared goal was always to communicate with the audience and to ‘allow the audience in on our party’, complete with the guarantee of

  some great fireworks… because you never know where Mike is going! I mean, we can have our tents very well laid out and organised but there’s always the place where it’s open, and you just have to hang on for dear life, hoping that you catch him!

  Free Flight are still taking occasional bookings where budgets are adequate, and Garson and Walker have spoken about the idea of relaunching as ‘Free Flight 2’ in the coming years, building something new on the foundations of the best of what they used to do. Meanwhile Walker is being kept very busy with a lot of orchestral work and playing for film scores, as well as solo work and teaching. He finds that budgetary support for music has been crumbling in California as elsewhere, with a few notable exceptions, due to the financial crisis as well as ‘the American preference for sport, gaming and films, above live music events’. Finally, Walker describes Gar
son as ‘one of the most incredible human beings that I’ve ever encountered… one of the deepest searchers or seekers, both philosophically and musically’ and adds that ‘as a performing colleague, he is a powerhouse’.

  Garson is indeed a seeker and has always been devoted to trying to understand the deeper truths of life. He was brought up in the Jewish faith and took his studies in it seriously. He retains his belief in God and this inspires his musical creativity. He despairs of the way that organised religion has corrupted the simple core values of true spirituality. He never denounced Judaism, but began a long quest which saw him at different times over the past fifty years studying theosophy, pursuing macrobiotics for three years as a way of life, becoming involved in Scientology through the 1970s, following Helen Shucman’s A Course in Miracles and finding insight in the works of Jiddu Krishnamurti and then Dr. David R. Hawkins. In the case of his music, he had found that he was able to arrive at his own musical voice only by thoroughly studying and practising all of the established techniques, schools and genres of music for many years, before ‘unlearning’ and transcending those. In exactly the same way, he has found that he needed thoroughly to explore the many forms of spiritual enlightenment before evolving, through his own personal epiphanies, into a higher state of awareness himself. It has become increasingly clear to him that ‘the answer lies within’.

  At the time of his first tours with David Bowie from 1972 to 1974, Garson tried to persuade fellow band members and crew of the merits of Scientology.

  If I had the life experiences I have now I think the one modification I would have made at that time might be to have kept my philosophical and religious viewpoints to myself. Perhaps more like live and let live, rather than imposing my ideas on others. Through the years that attitude softened and morphed into a more humble viewpoint.

  Garson’s childhood friend, Dave Liebman, says that Garson’s enquiring mind began in childhood with his study of Hebrew and his plan to become a Rabbi. Jewish households like theirs put a special emphasis on education. Liebman says that the mantra was always, ‘You’re going to be educated and then you’re going to do something for the world.’ A college education was far from the norm in the 1960s, but there was a determination amongst many Jewish parents to see their children study, whatever it took. He describes Garson as ‘the kind of guy who does not stand still; he wants to push the envelope and he has done that for years’ and says that his tireless exploration of spiritual philosophies ‘was him being Mike, just looking, trying to search and find out more’.

  Garson takes personal responsibility for the decisions he made, both to get involved with any of the philosophies he encountered, and later to move on, saying that in all cases it was the right thing for him to do at the time, not blaming others for his choices, and he remains positive about what he learned. In 1973, British music journalist Charles Shaar Murray interviewed Garson and Chick Corea together for New Musical Express, which in turn led to him covering Corea’s Return to Forever project with Stanley Clarke. When I asked him about his impressions of Garson, Charles Shaar Murray said that although Garson did indeed try to interest him in Scientology, he felt that he was clearly honest in his conviction that this might be beneficial to Murray. When Murray declined to take any interest, he says that Garson was as pleasant and friendly as he had been before. He adds that he has always found Garson to be ‘a wonderful musician and the proverbial diamond geezer’.

  Garson believes that he learned from each of the philosophies or movements with which he has been involved, that he was able to absorb the good or useful lessons which he could from them. He simply moved on when he found that something was no longer working for him. The 1980s were a period of relative isolation which he describes now as ‘somewhat lonely’ but which he used to move his music on to a new level. It was in the late 1980s, for example, that he first began to develop his distinctive approach to classical composition through improvisation. He also returned in earnest to his jazz work during that time, and was performing with Free Flight and others. In addition he started to practise the piano even more each day and did more composing to further evolve his artistry.

  This also became a period in which he dedicated himself to the contemplation and practice of his own spiritual beliefs, and says now that: ‘In some ways it’s as simple as just being yourself, acting with integrity and kindness and following one’s own passion.’ He says that he holds to the true meaning of education from its Latin root of educare, which is to ‘draw out from within’. Only a minority of educators approach it this way, despite this being clearly indicated in the term itself. He is also emphatic about the distinction between religion and spirituality. He feels sadness at

  what’s happening to both religion and education on the planet. I’m disappointed but still have infinite faith that things can be improved with the universal solvents of love and music. God is within us, as well as everywhere. A good definition might be ‘all that is’, both manifest and unmanifest. I’m talking about thoughts and feelings that I have experienced, and I am certain it’s connected with everything I’ve done, my music and my family – and I am eternally in a state of gratitude and humility for it.

  He gives the example of how this book came about through an unexpected bond between two people, which for him has something to do with synchronicity, serendipity and spirituality. ‘There are these things that are “in between the notes”, that are happening in this book, and will happen between the lines.’

  Garson’s perspective is remarkably humanistic. Drummer Zachary Alford recalls one of their lengthy philosophical discussions in which he was telling Garson that he lamented the fact that we cannot all be ‘truly as one’, that he could not be in everyone else’s head at the same time. He says that Garson did not agree that this is not possible, arguing that we are indeed all deeply interconnected. ‘I’m not sure he convinced me of it, but he was not ready to give up on the concept as a lost cause.’

  With passing years he finds himself increasingly averse to fixed systems of belief of any kind, which prevent free thought and imprison the mind. He shows a growing humility with age as his questioning nature becomes more pronounced:

  I was surrounded for so many years by so many cults – not only religious churches but the jazz cult and the classical cult, all these snobby, intellectual, brilliant, scientific people; consequently, it’s only been in the last ten years that I’ve been able to peel these things, and it always fascinates me that every day I find a lie connected with some bizarre belief system that came across as total truth, and turned out to be just bullshit.

  One of the secrets of his strong survival instinct, of his ability to enjoy a long and happy marriage in a field in which that is especially rare, and of his steady creative progress as a musician despite all of the obstacles, is his striking honesty both to others and to himself at all times. Having explored many spiritual philosophies, he says that his favourite quotation in the end comes from the Bible:

  Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonour others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails.28

  All through the 1980s Garson continued to work on multiple musical projects including his improvisational classical compositions, which eventually accumulated into the thousands. There was no indication that he would necessarily ever work again with David Bowie. However, it was not long before he once again got the call which would bring him back for a second, much longer period of working with Bowie.

  9 - Inside Outside and the 1990s

  ‘I personally think Mike gives one of his best-ever performances on this piece and it thrills on every listening, confirming to me at least that he is still one of the most extraordinary pianists playing today.’29 – David Bowie, on ‘South Horizon’, The Buddha of Suburbia
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  AFTER A LONG HIATUS GARSON and Bowie were reunited in the 1990s, as Garson was brought in to play on such projects as Black Tie White Noise (1993), The Buddha of Suburbia (1993), 1. Outside (1995) and Earthling (1997), as well as Reality (2003). In the same period he started to tour and record with Billy Corgan and the Smashing Pumpkins, playing for their Adore tour and their final concerts in 2000, then going on to record with Trent Reznor and Nine Inch Nails for The Fragile (1999) and playing with them live too.

  With Corgan he co-wrote the score for the 1999 film Stigmata, including the Natalie Imbruglia song ‘Identify’. He can also be heard on Seal’s Human Being and on a hidden track at the end of No Doubt’s Return of Saturn album of 2000, an exquisite instrumental version of the song ‘Too Late’.

  In 1991 Garson was approached by French singer, songwriter and music writer Jérôme Soligny and asked if he would be willing to play on a film soundtrack which Soligny was composing, for Arnaud Selignac’s Gawin. This simple invitation would lead to a friendship and collaboration which continues to this day.

  Soligny had started writing songs for French singing star Étienne Daho in the 1980s, and had been signed by Emmanuel de Buretel to a publishing deal with Virgin Music France. He knew and loved Garson’s work from the earlier Bowie albums, and although at this point it was a full fifteen years since Garson’s last work with Bowie, the cascading notes of beautiful piano which tumbled from the tracks of Diamond Dogs and the others had never been off Soligny’s turntable for long. He had also sought out some Free Flight tapes and heard how versatile Garson could be. In addition, in his capacity as a music writer he had also written a book about Bowie in his native French.30

  It was difficult to track down Garson, who had immersed himself back into the jazz/fusion scene in California during the 1980s. It seems incredible now but in 1991 there was still no email in general use and certainly no social networking. He and Virgin Music France found Garson via the Musicians’ Union in Los Angeles and sent him a letter – by what we would now call ‘snail mail’. In this letter, Soligny introduced himself as a French composer who would be honoured if Garson might find the time to work with him on a film score. With typical modesty, Garson sent back a fax, saying that he thought Soligny must have the ‘wrong guy’; he had a neighbour living by him in California, also a musician, who did work with people in France quite often, so it must be him they were looking for. Soligny telephoned this time and convinced Garson that it was indeed his playing he was so impressed by and wanted to use.