MEL LEWIS

Making the Jazz Orchestra even better

The Mel Lewis Story
We were wrong
The Jazz Orchestra
Drumming and drummers
More of us into jazz now
Talking to Les Tomkins in 1982

The actual reason I took the engagement with Benny Goodman was the cancellation of a tour with my own big band; we were supposed to do this whole tour ourselves—we probably would have been playing at the Capital Festival also. But two of the other festivals—Pori and Northsea—decided they had another idea for us, for next year. However, they forgot to let Mr Wein know; so he set up everything, and then all of a sudden these two contracts didn't come in. Which meant we had to cancel the whole thing, because that's the way that works—with the large amounts of money involved.

Because it was my thirtieth year of marriage, and my wife had never been over here, I'd promised her that this year she was going to finally come, on a tour that would be a little more sensible, where she could see something and do something. So, after that was cancelled, when Benny offered me his tour and it was a very nice one, as far as having an opportunity to enjoy ourselves besides playing, I accepted it.

And I'm glad I did, because I was able to make some connections, do some business on the side for myself, make sure that we're okay for next year, and meet everybody again.

I haven't worked for Benny in twenty years—the last time I was with him was back when he did that Russian tour. No, nothing about him has changed—except that he's older and I'm older. So I do understand him a lot better. He's still a great musician—which is the real reason I would work for him. I respect him for that; I always have and always will. You have to put up with some of those eccentricities of his—but I've learnt how to handle them much better, being a lot older and a lot smarter myself Of course, having been a leader for so long, I also know some of the problems. I can see more of his viewpoint, although I disagree with a lot of it. Because I've got my own ways of handling things now.

I disagree with a lot of the bandleaders of the past now, with their ways of treating musicians. I consider myself a pretty good player; so naturally I expect the people I play with to be as good as I am, or damn close to it—or better, if possible. And if you want the best out of them, then you have to treat them the very best you can. It does pay off; you treat them good, they'll treat you good—you treat them bad, you're not going to get the best performance, no matter how good they are. A whole lot of famous, great musicians who've been leaders have missed out on that, by treating their men like lackeys, instead of like men, and like the great musicians many of them are. I think you lose in the long run. So I have to disagree with him and other leaders on that point. But I still respect him, regardless.

Yes, Woody Herman is an example of the right kind of bandleader. I've heard a few people say bad things about him, but I knew that they were wrong—and that's why he had to be stern with them. I always manage to find out; I'll ask 'em a question and they'll give me the wrong answer—so I say: "Well—you were wrong." No, Woody's a beautiful man—always has been. Gene Krupa was a great guy; so was Sam Donahue. Of course, those are the leaders that usually have the hardest time. Well, Basie is always very nice to his men, I understand; he has his ways of discipline, but basically the guys all love him—that's why, I think, they've played so well for him.

There's a lot of stories I won't go into about other bands—in fact, concerning some very great leaders, who I won't even mention. Nobody would believe me anyway; they'd have to hear it from the people who were there—so I'll let it fall that way. But I think that if you want the best from your guys, you have to treat them like they are the best.

This was a marvellous little band that Benny had—I really enjoyed playing with it. He's better with a small band. And actually, the performance here in London was really very good; there were some amplification problems, as we all know, but the band itself was excellent. I never worked with Scott Hamilton, Warren Vache and the other guys before, but I sure hope I will again. They play good and they're nice fellows—we had a nice time.

It was four years ago that my partnership with Thad Jones came to an end. Thad decided to change his life— style, and he moved to Europe.

A lot of people thought that he and I had argued, but we had no arguments between ourselves. He just wanted to do this, and rather than allow me, his family or anybody else to try and talk him out of it, he made his mind up and just did it. If he'd have sat down and talked with me, we might have ended up in a big argument about it. I was very angry, naturally, because… thirteen years of your life, and reaching a peak of goodness. I mean, we were doing very well; we were finally on our way—and he walked away from it.

But I guess he had to do it; so I'm glad for him. I don't know what he's actually had going with his life, but I wish him nothing but the best. I don't think everything worked out the way he had planned, so far; it will, though, because he's a great talent.

For me, as it turned out, it was for the best. The funny bit is: he told me it would be; he said: "You'll be better off without me." I didn't think so at the time, but I can admit now that things are working out very, very nicely for me. The band is starting to be recognised again as a great band—it has been all along; the band has never been anything but good, since even after he left.

But it's reaching a beautiful point now, where I think there's nothing like it—thanks to some marvellous young musicians. Some of them were with us before, and have stuck it out with me, plus the new ones we've acquired. And with the help of Bob Brookmeyer—who is really reaching a marvellous point in his life as a composer and arranger—in my opinion, he's going to be one of the great writers of all time.

Bob was gone—he was in Hollywood, and he'd left the jazz scene. But he came back, stronger than ever, and I gave him my band.

It was the right thing. Well, he and I have been very close for over thirty— two years; we go back much further even than Thad and I. We've worked on and off together ever since '49, and it's been always a happy thing, every time we did work together.

Now we have something great: I have a band, and he has a talent that needed a band. This way, he doesn't have to have his own band.

And I needed somebody as strong, or stronger, than Thad—and there's nobody better that I can think of. Thad himself even admitted that—that it was the best choice that I could have made. It's billed now as "Mel Lewis and the Jazz Orchestra"; occasionally Bob plays with the band—so then it's "featuring Bob Brookmeyer".

He's in charge of the music—the musical director. Aside from the music he writes himself, he rehearses us, and he chooses who else will write. I left that on him, because we have to be careful now; when a man of his stature and ability is writing, every arrangement that comes in has to be of that quality. I mean, it doesn't have to be like what he does, but it has to be of a parallel calibre. So Bob and I have to think alike on that.

Of course, the people who have been writing for us are of that quality. We're talking about Bill Holman, who's writing for us now, and Bill Finegan, and Bob Mintzer, a young fellow we feel is in that class. They all write their own way, but it still suits us. And there's a young woman who works with Bill Finegan, by the name of Julie Cavadini—she's written two or three things for us now, that are just first— class; people are going to really know about her.

We're on the look—out always for other people—I want the band to be that way. This was the old Stan Kenton theory too, and we believe in that. It's one thing I always liked about Stan: his whole thing about his band was always looking for great writers; they weren't all great, but he certainly found some very good ones. We're going to be a little more selective. People like Gil Evans, George Russell, Ralph Burns, Al Cohn, Mike Abene have been asked.

Thad has been asked to contribute; he said he would do it, but when or if he will we don't know. The late Eddie Sauter was going to—he just hadn't gotten to it yet. While we're always looking for new people, we're concerned about catering for some of the great writers who have had no band to write for that could play their music.

There are no limits on what they write; it isn't a thing like writing for Woody's band, where it has to be in that style. We will make it our style. We're like Ellington's band; we have individual players who have been there long, and we have a sound and a feeling of our own so we can make every piece of music we play sound like us. You always know it's us playing—because of the exceptional abilities of the musicians who comprise our personnel.

Get out there on that road Mel Lewis advises young musicians

A band is only as great as the people in it. We have a terrific lead trumpet player in Earl Gardner—I mean, he's got to be the best there is right now. My lead alto player is opening everybody's eyes up; he's one of the most popular guys coming up—Dick Oatts. My lead trombone player, John Mosca has been with us now for about seven years.

Jim McNeely is a fantastic pianist—probably some people have heard him with Stan Getz recently—he's just been working back and forth, but he's still with our band, and he's going to be remaining with us, as far as I know. We've had Marc Johnson on bass; I now have Dennis Irwin—Marc'll probably be working with us again in the future. I'm always pretty good at finding excellent bass players, anyway—I'm very particular about them. We had Tom Harrell with us on trumpet; he left recently, and I found a guy named Jim Powell, who is very much in that mould—it's not going to take too long for him to fall into that particular kind of playing; he's brilliant.

And we have Stephanie Fauber, who is Mrs Earl Gardner, on french horn—she's a superb horn player; everywhere we go, the arrangers and composers always say: "What a beautiful sound and intonation." She plays with great conception; well, she works out a lot with her husband—on the horns, that is. So she knows how to follow him beautifully. Oh, and there's our very good baritone player, Gary Smulyan—ex—Woody Herman. And Joe Lovano—a hell of a tenor player, also from Woody's band. These guys have all been with me a long time now, and it's a real family. So these are my main soloists and leadmen I've just named.

Then filling up the other chairs are some more fine musicians. Gary Pribek is on the other tenor chair; he played baritone with' us for a while, and he's back on tenor—a strong player. Our second alto chair has changed two or three times—I'm not even sure who's in it right now, because we're still looking. We had young Kenny Garrett, and he just decided to leave—I know not why. I think he's made a mistake; I hope he does well, but he's young, and he had a chance to learn a lot. But some of these young guys make some mistakes—I think playing in that second chair under Oatts, and playing this kind of music would have made a marvellous musician out of him in a few years. And he's lost that—he's walked away from one of the most important things you can have, which is experience in a good big band.

I get calls and letters all the time; these young kids come out of school, and they want to join the band. I tell them: "I would hope that you would try and get with the Woody Herman band, or the Buddy Rich band, or Maynard Ferguson's band before you would come with me." For several reasons; it's not that I'm saying we're tougher or better—it's just that I think they need that road experience. We want to travel; we've been trying to travel, but we're a New York— based band.

That means you have to have something going for yourself, because you have to live in New York to be with our band. Either you must have some money in your pocket or have some other way of earning money in between the tours with us. I really don't want to tour full— time; I want to tour at least six months a year, but on a staggered basis. For longevity on my own part, because I don't think it's possible just to go out there like they do. But these other bands are road bands, and they stay out there; it's better for these guys to go out and get a good taste of that.

All right, Buddy's a hard man to work for—but it's excellent experience; and if you do the job for him, he won't bother you. He'll treat you good if you treat him good. I know the man; I don't disagree with his tactics. All he wants is for you to put out as much as he does. There's an awful lot of soft guys around today; they've had too much fun in school—and all of a sudden they get out working for a guy that's a toughie. I mean, he's been out there; he knows how tough it is—and he wants it to sound good. There's no short cuts.

They've got to get that experience. They should work for Woody—Woody's a marvellous teacher; it's a great book. When guys call me and say: "I've got a chance to go with Woody", I say: "Go, and stay there. Stay there as long as he'll keep you. Don't walk away from that." No, they can't take the bus trips. you know—I'm afraid a lot of 'em are raised on television; they want it too easy. And the dues have to be paid. The basics you learn in school are just basics; the real story is out there playing.

With our band, don't forget, there's no conductor, and the music is very difficult. And the calibre of musician in the band has risen to quite a height; so when a new guy comes along, he really has to know something. The audition with my band is: you're hired, you play.

There are no rehearsals for you; you come in, and you have to do it. We can tell pretty much right away if a guy has potential; if he does, we'll tell him to come back some time.

But I still recommend that they go out and work on the road for a while with these other bands.

They need to save some money up too, because, no matter how we do it, you're still going to have to work in New York if you want to be with me. You have to live there, you have to pay rent. You might even have to work a day job, in order to be with me, but that means you've got to quit the day job when we go out. Eventually, we'll have a schedule, where it won't be so bad; then maybe I can take some people. Right now, I don't need anybody; the guys all stay for long periods of time—I don't have a very big personnel turnover.
Sure, when we started, the band was made up of studio players—which we were ourselves at the time. But I don't want that now.

First of all, studio men today are mostly rockers, and I have no need for that kind of player—they usually couldn't handle my stuff anyway.

Apart from that, what we do has to be more important than a recording session. In those days it wasn't too bad, but gradually, every time we went on tour, it became more of a hassle—this one was afraid he'd lose two record dates, and so on.

Some of the guys in my band now have realised that they're good enough to know that they can leave and when they come back what was there will be there again. They're that good, and they don't have to worry about it. And you should do what you really want to do—it's best for you.

If you want to play jazz, you can't stay in one place. You have to go to the audience; the audience can't all come to you. Everybody comes to New York at one time or other in their life, but they might not be able to come on a Monday night, and we can't just stay there at the Village Vanguard on Monday nights forever. We've got to get out and play. So if you want to play jazz, and you want to be with me, you have to be able to think that way. I find that the best thing to do is find guys who are dedicated enough to get on a bus, a plane or whatever they have to do. For short periods—not forever. If we can spread it out over the years, then during the periods that we're home, New York is close enough to other major cities that we can work weekends, or one night a week besides our Monday night at the Vanguard.

We'll be at the Vanguard for a long time—that job is set for us.

God bless Max Gordon; he just signed a ten— year lease again—so he's planning on being around a while, and as long as he has the club, I'm sure we'll be there. That is the home of the band, and we love it. I can't think of anything better; I look forward to it very much. It's a small club, that only holds about a hundred— and— twenty— five people, but its atmosphere is the best—and it has marvellous acoustics. That's why I like to record there; I'd make every album I have to make in that club if it were possible. I suppose occasionally we'll have to go to a studio, but I'd rather work there. Besides, the guys play better in the Vanguard.

You get to a studio, you're messing with engineers—and today, to me, most engineers don't know what they're doing. They have no idea what a band's supposed to sound like. They all know what they want to turn it into, but not what it really sounds like. At the Vanguard, we get our sound. Our newest album, "Make Me Smile" on Finesse Records, was recorded five in the club with a two— track machine, with two microphones hanging from the centre of the club. The engineer, Jay Yampolsky, is a young man who's been working at the club for years; basically, he was the handyman around the club—dishwasher, waiter, whatever you want to call him—and also an engineer. He found out just what to do, and he's turning out some beautiful tapes; we decided that's the way to do it. He knows the band inside— out, and this new album proves that you don't need all that other stuff. All you need is two microphones that are open, and leave it all on the band.

All the dynamics, everything there belongs to us; so if there's any mistakes, they're ours, and everything good is ours.

What I hear coming out on record today, by almost all bands in the studio recordings, I think is pitiful. The drums of all drummers sound like rock 'n' roll drums, with all that nonsense of thirty mikes on the drums. There are no mikes on my drums, and my drums sound like me, and you can hear everything I do, down to the softest little thing.

Everybody sounds like themselves; all the horns, all the ensembles sound beautiful, and everything is heard—the balance is absolutely marvellous. It sounds like you're sitting in the Village Vanguard, listening to the Mel Lewis Orchestra.

That's the way it's supposed to be.

But the music—it's music that normally you'd expect to be recorded in Carnegie Hall. Brookmeyer's composing and arranging for this album is extraordinary. The whole album comes off like a suite, even though it's not really a suite.

There's over sixty—one minutes of music in this album; you could never do that in the studio, because the engineers would be making everything so darn hot—they'd say: "Oh, we can't go over eighteen minutes a side." Sure—so they can put in all their stupid gimmicks, and all the trash they've got that creates that situation.

Most of these guys never even heard a big band—all they know is electric, electric, electric. Every record is for them. I mean, they're not the artists—we are; it's not their band—it's my band. They come on today as if it's the engineer's record.

To me, a real engineer is a guy who can reproduce the actual sound of what he's hearing. Most of them are making the music serve them; it's a big contest—who can turn out the loudest, most gimmicky recording. I don't think any of them know anything about music at all. This whole rock music scene is just ridiculous—with its so—called sophisticated systems, involving layers and layers of sound. Who needs thirty—two, or forty—eight, or seventy—five, or a hundred—and—ten tracks? It all has to go back down to two tracks; so why not record two—track and let it go at that? A real engineer can get it all on two in front—which means he's got to have some ears. The one who can record faithfully exactly what is going on out there—there is an engineer; I applaud him. I don't think there are more than two or three of those left—and I'm not even sure who they are any more. There are a few, but they don't work much—that's another thing.

Copyright © 1982, Les Tomkins. All Rights Reserved.