Most arrangers of McFarland's generation came up through the conservatory pipeline or learned on the road playing second trumpet in somebody else's band. McFarland did neither. He was working in sales well into his twenties before he seriously committed to music, then studied briefly at Berklee and with Gunther Schuller. That late start probably explains something about his writing — he never picked up the academic tics or the big-band formulas that a lot of trained arrangers defaulted to. He came at it fresh, and it shows.

His breakthrough came fast. John Lewis and the Modern Jazz Quartet were paying attention, and McFarland started getting calls to write for major projects. His arrangement work for Gerry Mulligan and later for Stan Getz on Big Band Bossa Nova (1962) showed he understood exactly how to frame a soloist without crowding them. The Getz record in particular is a good introduction to what McFarland does well: the charts are smart and light at the same time, never showy, always in service of the feeling rather than the architecture.

As a vibraphonist he's often overlooked, which is a little unfair. He wasn't Milt Jackson and he wasn't Gary Burton, but he had a clean, melodic touch that suited his own compositions perfectly. His album How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying (1964) — a jazz take on the Broadway show — is a good example of him deploying his own playing modestly and effectively within a larger concept. He thought of himself primarily as a composer and arranger, and his vibes playing reflects that: it supports the idea rather than demanding the spotlight.

By the late 1960s he was moving into pop-influenced territory, working with electric instruments and dabbling in what would eventually become smooth jazz territory. Some of that work hasn't aged as well, but Simpatico (1966) with Bobby Scott still holds up as a genuinely warm, well-crafted record. He also co-founded Skye Records, which released some interesting things and represented his ambition to build something lasting outside of just making albums for other labels.

He died in 1971 under circumstances that were never fully resolved — he collapsed after a night out in New York and it appears he was poisoned, though no one was ever charged. It's a grim end for someone who spent his short career making music that was the opposite of grim: breezy, considered, full of small pleasures. If you're new to him, start with the Getz bossa nova record or his own The Gary McFarland Orchestra: Special Guest Soloist Bill Evans (1963), and you'll hear immediately why people in the know keep coming back to him.