MEL LEWIS

More of us are into jazz now

The Mel Lewis Story
We were wrong
The Jazz Orchestra
Drumming and drummers
More of us into jazz now
Talking to Les Tomkins in 1988

Great to see you back here, Mel with this particular band.

It's been a while, and though I've worked in Britain, the band hasn't been here in fifteen years—not since 1973.

Ah, but that was when it was the Thad Jones— Mel Lewis band.

It was—and actually this band has never been here.

I was pretty sure about that. It's been on the Continent, though.

Oh, yeah—we've been on the Continent. We were there in '80, '81 and '85—and now again this year, of course.

I know you've wanted to bring the band to this country—to let us hear it all live, instead of only on the record.

Sure. I'd like to be here every year; we've always wanted to come—I really don't have any idea why we haven't. Especially since I know all the other bands were coming over on a regular basis; Buddy's band was, and though Louie Bellson has no regular band, he brings one over. The Basie band without Basie comes over—and now I suppose Woody's band without Woody will come over. . .

Is that going on, in some way?

They're still hanging on, yeah. And I don't understand any of that—I never have. I don't understand or like the ghost band situation—I think it's stupid. Because there really are so many excellent bands waiting in the wings: people who would like to be in this business, but just can't get their bands off the ground.

For us—we are off the ground; we have a reputation—there's no problem, as far as name value, recordings and things are concerned.

The Village Vanguard still goes on Monday nights, and people come there from all over the world; we pack them in—we've been there twenty— three years. We've come to Europe occasionally, but not as often as I would like. We haven't been to Japan in a long time either; I don't know why. Toshiko's orchestra goes over there—but, of course, that's her home country, and she has backing for that. We haven't even been able to get to the West Coast in America; yet Rob McConnell, who now lives out there, made it— but he was subsidised by the Canadian government, or he couldn't have gone either.

Yet people keep spending large sums of money for the ghost bands like Glenn Miller, Tommy Dorsey. All they are going to see are bands of kids playing "Song Of India" or "In The Mood"—recreating something that shouldn't even really be around any more, actually, in my opinion.

Well, I suppose the argument would be that that music is worth hearing, and some vehicle should be created for it to be heard.

Well, it was heard. It's been heard and heard and heard—I mean, how much can you hear of it? If these leaders were still alive, that music would never have been heard any more anyway—they would have dropped it ages ago themselves, and gone on to new things. And here there are some marvellous writers today, and marvellous music; this is a new age, and music and musicians are better than ever. Young players are coming up through the colleges and have no place to get real experience—and when they do get experience, it's playing music that is beyond them, that they don't even have any feeling for. It means nothing to them, it's not from their time, and it doesn't give them the experience they need to play the much more difficult music that's around now.

The problem is a financial one, of course, as far as being able to get a band off the ground.

That's always been the problem. It was the problem back then, and it's never changed. It's rough to have a big band; it's always been hard. It's easy to have a four— piece rock 'n' roll group and make millions—hard to have a band of great musicians playing great music. Artists, in other words. It's the same as a great artist who paints—as we all know in the past, and even today. A guy can make a marvellous painting, and nobody wants it, nobody gives a damn; then somebody'll go up and just paint a wall with some obscenities on it, and call that art— and everybody'll buy it.

It seems we live in an age of the worship of the mediocre—at the expense of good music.

Well, mainly it's because there's no musical education any more. I mean, when we were kids at school, we were taught to listen to classical music; it was part of the whole thing—music appreciation.

Rock 'n' roll wasn't allowed—well, there wasn't any then. But even the pop music of the day, then—of course, it was much tastier, much better.

Because the general standards were much higher.

Of course. Nobody's going to convince me that rock 'n' roll music is any good; they never have convinced me yet, and they still can't convince me. And I've got ears—I listen. If there's some good in it— where? You show it to me—I haven't heard it yet. It's not good music—that's all there is to it—and the people who perform it are not good musicians. They can't play.

Oh, there might be one or two in there somewhere, that are sort of stuck with it, but basically they can't.

Now, we're not talking about fusion music—rock/ jazz, which I still don't particularly care for either, but I'm not talking about that. There are some fine musicians playing that. And there is some good music coming out of that. It's not my kind of music; I can't do that—that's for the younger people.

Well, l think we discussed Steve Gadd in a previous conversation.

Yes, we did. I've heard some great young drummers, that can really do that now. Danny Gottlieb is excellent, and Adam Nussbaum, Joey Baron. They can do that really well, you know, and with more musicality and more swing than Steve or any of them. Because these kids can also play good jazz besides; they're into jazz music, they've listened to the whole thing, and they go out and play jazz. They like to play, like to swing, and they also have the ability to handle the fusion thing real well. They have to do it—that's what the business is now. Then there are some wonderful young drummers like Kenny Washington, who's into the tradition and can really play his butt off. Of course, there are many others I haven't heard, but these are the ones I hear.

But I'm sure you could play any of those fusion rhythms, if you were required to.. .

Oh, I have no problem with it—I mean, I just think it's a young man's game, you know. It's a lot of hard work.

I mean, Buddy did a lot of' those things with his band, didn't he?

He did it— but he really preferred to just play straight ahead. That's what we do best. Frankly, I'm into a whole lot of things there, as you'll probably notice. I like to get into more avant garde— ish kinds of things. I'm still not into what you'd call the fusion thing; I don't like the straight eight feel. But anything that'll fall into a nice triplet form I'm all for. I like to play free, but within a context of swinging. I like to have a lot of fun, stretching the time here and there. I want to play music on the drums; I like to get musical sounds. I am not just a timekeeper any more—although I know, as we've all said through the years, that is our basic function—I've found there's a lot of ways of doing it now.

I've just been enjoying listening to the "Twenty Years At The Village Vanguard" album, and there are some more difficult arrangements for the band to play in there—but on the other hand, you've got something like "C Jam Blues", as arranged by Bill Finegan, based on Dave McKenna's piano version, that swings like mad, straight down the line.

Exactly. That's what it's all about: in and out, whatever—a little of everything. There's a new album coming out in the next month or two. We're with the Music Master label now, where we will be ensconced for a few years. I've finally got what you can call a contract; we have a nice situation, and there will be three or four albums for sure coming out over the next two or three years, with the big band. And there'll also be some small group things coming out; it's that kind of a flexible contract.

Oh, you're going to have a band-within-the-band set-up, are you?

Well, I like to work with small groups too. We're just sort of forming a new sextet from within the band, to do some new type of things with. It just means we can have a little more work, you know.

Which members of the band will be in that?

It'll be, for the front— line John Mosca on trombone, Gary Smulyan on baritone and Dick Oatts on alto, soprano and flute. Dick is not here with us right now for this trip; after all these years, he decided to take off to work with Red Rodney—not knowing that Ted Nash wasn't going to be able to make the trip either, due to his wife having a baby. Dick made a deal to go on a tour with Red, which was booked by the same agent as ours, so that he could do some small group. And I didn't want to ask him not to—after all the man's been with me eleven years, and he's not only our leader, conductor in front—he's a great player.

So we're using some of our excellent substitute players, that play with the band all the time. You won't even notice the difference; nobody will—and we don't either. Anyway, it'll be Dick, Gary and John in the group, with the rhythm section: Kenny Werner, Dennis Irwin and myself. We have some engagements coming up, as a matter of fact. Between that and the big band, it's better for me.

So, as it should be, jazz continues to be a full-time occupation for you?

Right—I'm still doing all these guest shots. I do quite a bit of work with the radio band down in Cologne; every year I do two weeks with Bob Brookmeyer—sometimes three, whatever it is; I work a couple of weeks with Bill Holman or also now with Jim McNeely; and occasionally it's myself, where I'm the leader. Every time Jiggs Whigham has a project, he tries to have them call me for that too. And that's spread out over the year.

Then there's a visit to Rome sometimes, or to Stockholm, for the radio bands there; or to the Umo Band over in Finland, which is becoming a little rarer; then I always do something in Holland. With these assignments, plus getting the band working a little more, I'm pretty busy.

Also I like to do a lot of small group things with guys within the band—all the other guys have their own little jobs around New York.

The fact is: everybody's pretty much into jazz now. These guys are not players that make their living in studios—most of them work in the theatres. Earl Gardner, our lead trumpet player, has become one of the top cats in New York, but I still wouldn't call him a studio man; that's not his main thing. Most of them prefer the theatre work, because it's more flexible; they can leave any time they want—you can take off when you have to. and there's no problems with it. It's a totally non— pressure situation.

And, of course, the Vanguard remains your regular base.

Every Monday night. We've got Bob Mintzer's band in there now as a substitute while we're away. I'm hoping he'll be there a little more often—which means we'll be touring more. Not a lot—I don't want to tour too much; I don't want a road band—that's no good today. That's what these ghost bands are; the personnel just keeps changing, and it's rough—it's just not worth it.

What we want is a band that goes out on individual tours, at set times, and let the people hear what we're doing. And then the rest of the year they come and hear us at the Vanguard. People who like jazz usually try and plan their trips to New York so that they can include a Monday night. It's a tradition, sure—it's been twenty-three years now.

Yes—it was twenty in '85, when you made the album.

Yeah. The album's a little late coming out here in England, because the Atlantic people here decided not to release it. We didn't know that, but when I found out I called Nesuhi Ertegun, and I said: "That's not right." And he said: "Well, we don't tell them what to do over there, but I tell you what—I'll get the CD out.

I'll make sure of that." I said: "Well, you know—this is a big band, and there's a lot of big band interest in England. I don't know why they would. . ." But a company like Atlantic's all wrapped up in rock 'n' roll as usual—that's all they care about. They probably have no idea what a huge following there is for big bands and jazz over here. Anyway, they turned around and released it.

Luckily, it coincided with you being here. Well, I suppose you have to deal with this kind of resistance, when it comes to putting out jazz.

That's it. But also—you can't get too angry about it, because we're lucky to be recording; that's number one. And the other thing is that a jazz recording is forever. Whereas with a pop record, they want to get 'em out fast, because once they're out, they don't last that long anyway. They either make a killing, or they die. A jazz recording—no matter how little or how much it sells—over the long run, if it's a good record it'll be out there for a long, long time.

On the subject of the longevity of the jazz record—the proof of it is the fact that they're remastering and re-issuing everything under the sun these days.

Exactly—and they should.

It gives people a chance to hear what really went on in the past, as well as what's happening in the present.

That's it. . . all these young people that are coming up now. There is definitely a larger jazz audience now—but they don't know what went on before. And I think they should know. If a youngster in, say, his late teens or early twenties, who is just getting turned on to jazz now, starts listening to what's happening today, he has no idea what jazz is all about—because so much of what is happening today is not jazz. It's called jazz, but a lot of it isn't—only some of it is really jazz.

And they can't necessarily discriminate.

Right. So if they can at least get a chance to hear what was, by the masters, and listen to that, and realise what was, and what jazz was all about, then they can differentiate between the good and the bad of today. It's an important education. I mean, why should a cat like Kenny Gee do so well, as opposed to a Michael Brecker or a Branford Marsalis, who can play. There are people around making small fortunes, that call themselves jazz players—but they're not.

It seems that somehow they're hoodwinking the public.

Yeah. But guys like. . . the tenor players in my band—people like Joe Lovano, Richie Perry, Ralph Lalama, Billy Drewes, Gary Smulyan, as well as Dick Oatts—all these young guys that have been with me are marvellous players, really absolutely excellent. They're in their thirties now, and they didn't grow up with rock 'n' roll; they spent their young lives listening, and dedicated to what was and getting into what music is all about—and now they're playing so well, but they're having a hard time, because they're not commercial. They play good. They're catching on, but they still have to scuffle so much to be able to perform in jazz. If they want to put an electrical attachment to their horn, and work with a synthesiser and an electric drummer, they could make it in a minute.

One of the devices that record companies have used to try to sell a group or a band that has genuine musical quality is to have them play all the songs from a hit show...

I don't believe in that; I won't do those things, even though sometimes it might work—but why? I would definitely not be against doing an album of music by a given composer—whether it be Bob Brookmeyer, which we've done, or Thad Jones, which we've done, or Harold Arlen or Jerome Kern, which I'd like to do. I wouldn't mind doing a whole album of Jerome Kern—why not, as long as we can rewrite the music in such a way that it becomes... what we believe in, you know. Then there's no problem. That's what it's all about, anyway.

Talking of Bob—is he still very much writing for the band?

Lately, Bob hasn't had much time to write for us—but we've got an awful lot of music by him in the book. He did do a lot, and he's still going to give me more, definitely. But he's got a very wonderful career going for him now, writing all kinds of special music—leaning even towards the classical. He's a twentieth century composer.

Is he writing for orchestras some of the time?

Yes, he is—and he's writing just marvellous. I'm very proud of him. He's into something special now—I think you'll be hearing more and more from him in the future.

He's not given up the playing, though, has he? He shouldn't, because he's such a distinctive player.

No—he won't do that. He's playing wonderful; occasionally he works with the band. And, of course, any time I need him for something, he's right there. We're very close friends—besides being very tight as musicians. The friendship is very strong.

With Gerry Mulligan having a band going, I'd have thought Bob would be involved with that in some way—but clearly he isn't.

Well, Gerry doesn't really have a band. He puts together a band when it's convenient for him to go somewhere—that's what he does. So the personnel changes a lot, as you'll see. And Gerry's doing most of his own writing now; I think he's finally got it to the point where he's playing his own material. Which I think is right—he's a great musician, and he should do it that way. But let's put it this way: he doesn't have a band that has a Monday night, and that makes it harder. I'm probably the luckiest bandleader in the world. That Monday night means we retain our personnel; the band stays together—it never breaks up. This band has never, ever broken up in its history.

It's never stopped, because of those Monday nights. And if, God forbid, we lost that Monday night down there, the first thing I would do is go get another one—I wouldn't waste any time about that. But I don't think we have to worry about that at the moment, because we have become an institution down there, and people know that this is the band they're going to hear. Of course, the people that are going there right now are not hearing us—we're over here—but they're hearing a good band. They're hearing Bob Mintzer—another guy who has hopes and dreams of doing what we've been doing. And I think it's good for us to get out of there, and for him to be in there, because it will develop other people, you know.

Yes, Bob is a very good saxophonist who has also written for various other bands, such as Buddy Rich, hasn't he?

He writes occasionally for us too. In fact, it's thanks to Bob that our writing situation is so healthy. See, when Bob came into the band, he got everybody interested in writing. He got on guys: "Come on—you're here, and you understand." The best writing for this band comes from within the band. I mean, you have to understand and know the players, and know how we work.

You can't just. . . people come to me with an arrangement, but that's not the way it is with this band; it can't be that way—we just don't play arrangements. You have to be aware of where the band is coming from, and the way we do things—it's not going to be what you had in mind.It's going to be what we have in mind.

Jim McNeely is writing for the band now, marvellously, and Jerry Dodgion still writes us one arrangement a year; Kenny Werner is writing some great things. These are people that are coming out of the Thad/ Brookmeyer situation. Earl McIntyre does a lot; he's writing mostly for Renee, his missus, who is the singer with the band—he's doing a lot of her charts, but it's all good experience, and it all works. Ted Nash is also writing for the band; and a fellow by the name of Mike Abene—he's as good a writer as he is a pianist. He's writing wonderful—Thad used to be after him years ago to write for the band, and he's finally doing it now. He's well represented on the next album too; he's got three arrangements there—all goodies, all good standards.

Do you normally just play a chart in, with the Monday nights going on, or do you rehearse separately?

We rehearse hardly at all. As long as an arrangement is readable, they're all excellent readers— we can just read it down on the gig. If it's somebody we know, and it's that kind of thing, it's no problem. I usually tell the audience: "This is a premiere—for us too." So we warn 'em in advance: "If you hear anything funny going on..." Every once in a while, we sort of set a period, and I'll tell everybody that I know he is going to write something a little difficult—maybe Jim, Kenny or Bob have a thing they want to give us. I'll set a day and a time, and we'll come in and have a full rehearsal. We'll usually try to rehearse on a Thursday or a Friday, and then we'll perform that music Monday night. Good or bad, we just keep performing it; it's Monday to Monday, and gradually it finds its way—we find out where we want to take it and what we want to do with it, and eventually it becomes one I can call at any time and we just play it.

With the band with Thad, the charts that he wrote primarily would always develop and be opened up in places—a sort of a metamorphosis went on. Does a similar process still operate? Oh, yeah—we haven't changed the format of the band at all; the whole idea is to open 'em up. But we've learned one thing that was wrong with some of Thad's things—not all, but some—and it's that people don't want to hear a long solo without something going on behind it. You've got to break in with something. So I've found now that the best thing to do is to actually have a background written as part of the arrangement. That would be behind one chorus; so if you've got a guy playing a solo, you give him an open chorus, then a chorus with background, and then we go on.

Now, I could take that open chorus and stretch it as long as we want, but eventually there will be a background—and that's something we didn't have with a lot of Thad's things. If they were the blues, we could make up a riff; likewise "I Got Rhythm" changes—but if it was a standard, you've got problems, because all riffs don't work on all standards. So in a lot of cases, everybody's sitting around listening to the soloist—there's a case where you have to shorten the solo. But if you do it right, on those kind of tunes, in a place where you're going to give a guy two or three choruses, then you give him some backgrounds that are written.

As regards all the music that Thad wrote—do you turn back to that to any extent?

Sure we do. Nobody could do what Thad did, the way he did it; so we have that whole book, and I'm not going to part with it—and we have fun with that stuff. You'll hear some of it tonight. There's no night goes by without, I'd say, at at least a third of the night consisting of Thad's charts—to almost a half, depending on how we feel.

Well, people are probably wanting to hear them, as they know them so well.

There's nothing wrong with it. If they'll go out and hear "In The Mood", then they surely should be happy to hear "Three In One"—which is, to me, better.

I just hope yon include that "C Jam Blues" from the "Twenty Years" LP.

Oh—you're not gonna get that tonight. Believe it or not. . . that was a foolish thing on my part. . . we left a lot of music home, and that was one of them. I should have brought it. It'll go back into the book when we get back, but we had to take a smaller book for travelling—because our book is so big. I also left "Alone Together" home, because that was for Dick, who's not with us. I left a lot of Thad's things home too. I just brought the things that I thought we definitely would have to play; plus a lot of the newer things we've done, because I want to promote them.

You know, Buddy (Rich) wanted that—he begged me to give him that arrangement on "C Jam". I told him: "As soon as you're well when you're back, I promise you it'll be in your book." And, of course, that didn't happen—it's a shame. But he really wanted that arrangement; when he heard it, he said: "I gotta have that!" that would have been great for him—he'd have loved it.

In past times certain creative bands—notably Basie and Ellington—operated with a lot of head arrangements. Is that a onetime phenomenon that is now over?

That's been over for a long time—well, they don't have the experience. Also—in those days the guys weren't all the greatest readers in the world; so you had to son of make up things in jazz bands, rather than write them. I mean, honesty is what you have to talk about here, with a lot of things that happened.

But, you know, the Ellington band, for instance—they made up an awful lot of stuff, but once they made it up it stayed that way. It wasn't different every time. He wrote a little bit, and the guys in the band created a lot of it; when that thing was set, that became the arrangement. And you know that's true, because they rerecorded a whole lot of those things through the years—and they were always the same arrangements. They were just sketches in the first place; so obviously nothing was changed.

The original idea of making up riffs and things was only in the beginning. A lot of people say "Oh, they didn't have a book", but that's not true. No, they wrote those things down; there's a big book, and Mercer's got it—I've seen it. Those guys are playing the same stuff; so where did it come from? Somebody had to write it down. Although there were a lot of charts. . . back in the Forties and the Fifties, when guys came into the band, they had to find their own notes. There were actually no parts in those days—but the personnel of the band stayed so constant. It was tough for a new guy to figure it out, and a lot of the smarter ones sat down and wrote out their things.

Certainly drummers had nothing to read in those days, did they?

No—I think the writing started when Louie came into the band. Parts started to happen then—because Louie could read. I don't think it's smart for a drummer not to be able to read; it's very stupid. First of all, music today is very complex—you must read. A drummer who is a poor reader becomes a poor player at that point, because he doesn't know what's going on. Or he's trying to read, when he'd be better off if he just said: "I don't know how to read"—and the leader says: "All right. Don't even bother." But the minute you put your face in front of a piece of music when you know very little about reading, you become nervous, you worry about what's there, you're not paying attention to what's going on, and the result is poor drumming—which hurts the whole thing. That's why it's much better to be a good reader.

Then you can relax—you see a part, and it doesn't bother you; you can interpret it, and just go along your merry way. You use your ears, play and read, and learn the part that much faster. That old routine of "I can't read, or it'll hurt my playing" is total rubbish.

Well, it could only really work if everything a band played had an unvarying regular swing.

Yeah, but that's not so today. Besides, you have to play shows too. In the old days we had to go in and play shows, and the biggest complaints of most of the acts were directed at the drummers—because they couldn't read their music. They didn't catch anything.

How about the travelling aspect? Does it pose the same problems as earlier times, or do you plan it differently?

Travelling is always a problem, because that's the most expensive part of the touring. Sometimes it doesn't leave enough for salaries, and then you have to work that out. Salaries have to be paid, and if there's shortness—who takes the beating? Me. And sometimes the agency. The agency and me have to take the beating, but it's up to them to try and work it all out. Yes, that's the worst part—the cost of getting around.

In any case, though, you don't do the extensive travelling that a lot of bands used to do.

I don't think any band can any more. Except that Glenn Miller band—they and Buddy Morrow are just about the only ones. But the truth is that those bands are loaded with young people who make no money. They pay their own hotel bills every other night, and sleep on the bus the alternate nights. They're young, underpaid players, out for a little experience. Most of 'em can't take it; so they quit, and that's why those bands are constantly changing personnel.

They keep on feeding in more people from the schools, I suppose.

Exactly—that's the way that works. But that doesn't mean they're going to have a good band—unless you get a little lucky once in a while with a couple of really strong players, which do come along. And those are all kids that are dreaming hopefully to play with us. Then you've got the fact that the Basie band, directed now by Frank Foster, is not working fulltime any more—that's become more or less a parttime proposition. I would say they're probably putting in six months a year, if that.

Well, with the deaths of Buddy and Woody, it's getting thin on the ground, other than the ghost bands.

We're actually the only organised band left—I mean, with a live leader. As long as I can hang on, we're the only one. You read: "Lionel Hampton's coming"—that's a pickup band. Gerry Mulligan's is a pickup band. They organise them for the tour, but they don't have bands. It's the Vanguard job that makes it possible for us never to have to worry about that. I'm very thankful for it.

It serves the purpose of a weekly rehearsal, that some bands have.

In a way—you could call it that. But nobody might show up for a weekly rehearsal. If there's nothing happening, weekly rehearsals don't mean anything; you'll find you'll always have a lot of different people there. For a job, for a performance, you have a band. That's not a rehearsal for us down there—it's a performance. Somewhere near the end of the night I might drop in a new arrangement; we'll read it and tell the people, but basically we perform. We're there to entertain, on every tune, and they're paying money to hear an absolute good performance; so that's what they get.

Is there anything that you'd like to do with the band, that you're not already doing?

Yes—we'd like to tour more, and let more people around the world hear us. I'd like to see the guys in the band's names grow. I'd like to have happen to us everything that happened to Basie, Kenton, Herman and Ellington. It has happened to a point, but I'd like it to be where people will remember us as well as they remember them—because I think what we're doing is just as important as what they did. Even more so, because it's another day; what they did was, and they did it—we're doing.

And right now the promotion of music of this calibre has never been more urgently needed.

Well, say I quit, for instance, and we just called it a day. If this band didn't exist any more, that would pretty much end the whole thing. From then on, all you would have would be pickup bands. This is what Count Basie whispered in my ear, and told Thad and I a long time ago. He said: "It's up to you guys now—you can't quit. You must keep it going. If you quit, then it's all over." We said: "Well, why do we get stuck with that?" He said: "Because you were the last ones to make it while we were all still around." We came up while they were all still in existence—they were all alive and all on the road, and here came Thad and I in New York with our new band. We created a situation of actually becoming accepted as the new big band; we were winning the polls. And we helped revive the whole thing; we had a lot to do with people getting more interested again.

You're putting over an essential message—that a big band doesn't have to be built up with synthesisers and massive amplification. It's got a perfectly adequate amplification of its own.

That's right—and we came along in the Sixties, when everything was Elvis and Beatles and things like that; so I thought we did an important thing. Now it's up to me to keep it going, and I want to—but we need all the help we can get also. We need support; we need people to hire us, bring us around, so we can get out there and be heard. Because once we're there, I don't worry about it any more; I know what this band is like. Frankly, we have never had an unsuccessful engagement, ever, in the history of the band. We've never played anywhere where they didn't like us—where we didn't leave a good impression.

No doubt you've had people come up and say: "I didn't know there was still music going like this."

Oh, sure, we've had plenty of that. We've also had people come up to us and ask us to play "In The Mood"! But the overall impressions left have been good. We always had a problem repeating tours, and I never did understand that. Although I think the partnership of Thad and myself had reached the point of removing that problem—but that's when he left. So I had to sort of start all over, with a whole new situation, and now we're reaching that point again.

We're getting there again now, to a point where I think it's going to happen—but it took a long time.

Copyright © 1988, Les Tomkins. All Rights Reserved.