Mel Lewis: Interview 2

After leaving the Kenton band, I settled down in California. I was already located there; I'd moved my family out, and that had been my address since '54. But early in '57 I stayed on the scene, and I got into doing session work.

At first it was quite plentiful; there were a lot of jazz dates going on, and jazz clubs to play in. I just happened to fall into L. A. at a very good time. You didn't make any money— scales were very low out there—but you made a living. I got to play a lot. This went on through '59, and Terry Gibbs formed that excellent band he had. Also, I was in from the beginning with Gerald Wilson's band; I made the first two albums with him. Then Mulligan picked me up, and I started flying back to New York all the time. Soon I was working with Dizzy, too; so I was back and forth constantly.

Next I went with Goodman on that Moscow tour. When I came back to L. A. after that particular tour, it seemed like the bottom had dropped out on me, somehow. And actually, I was really getting a terrible dislike for that town—not only musically. It's a strange place. I just have a few people out there that I really miss friends of mine like Bill Holman, Jimmy Rowles, Lee Katzman. My father, brothers and sisters are still there; the only reason I go out any more is to see them, other than when the band goes to the Coast to play. I'm settled in New York now.

That whole West Coast Jazz thing was contrived, believe it or not, by New York people. It created an interest in the recording scene there for a while. The main exponents, of course, were Shorty Rogers, Shelly Manne, Jimmy Giuffre—and they were playing no different than they'd have done if they'd been in New York. That was their way of playing, but somebody tagged it West Coast Jazz, and it became a craze; then everybody sort of fell into that mould.

But that 'cool' sound came from Miles Davis and Gerry Mulligan originally, and was part of New York, anyway. So the West Coast musicians were hung with that label; and it was a style and sound that was a lot lighter than that coming out of New York at the time. New York became the hard bop school.

I just happen to think the more spirit, the more enthusiasm and the more creation is in the East. The town itself has a lot to do with it; the style of living, the competition, there's a million things that contribute to making it more conducive to creative work. But in California there's more of a retirement attitude; it's a little too relaxed. You don't let your mind work as much as you should, because you're thinking more in terms of sitting back and relaxing or taking a swim. I think that hangs people up.

Certainly, while I was out there some excellent albums were made, with some great players. But, see, that was a particular group of guys; Terry Gibbs sort of organised us later on. It was Al Porcino, Ray Triscari, , Bill Perkins, Charlie Mariano, Lou Levy, bassists Buddy Clark and Max Bennett. The late Joe Maini was a fantastic player. Jack Sheldon, Frank Rosolino—I could go on. We were the hot guys on the Hollywood jazz scene; that was the team. Most of us were from the East, anyway, and that spirit was still there for big band playing.

And we were all, actually, the best exponents of the Holman sound.

We knew him, he knew us, and we could play his music like nobody else could. He wrote for us. I've never heard anybody play his arrangements like we did. I think we had a complete feeling for it; we respected and loved what he did, and it showed in our performance.

Those Bill Holman recordings should be put down as classics—some of the best big band things ever done. Some day somebody's going to list the outstanding examples from certain eras. Quite a few of them belong in that category.

What we're doing today with our band, ten years later, is new, but it has that same spirit. That was a new idea then; we have our new ideas now. As time goes on, we should develop—and we have. I don't think Bill would even be writing that way any more. He has progressed, anyway, but the opportunity to write for big bands is not as much for him now. If you're living in one town like that, you have no choice but to move into more commercial areas.

So I came to New York, and the nicest thing happened: two weeks after I arrived I worked a television show with Al and Zoot, and had my first meeting with the man who was the bassist that night—Richard Davis. And we became not only playing buddies but close friends, as from then. We do a lot of sessions together, recording, television, jingles, and small group jobs. And, of course, when Thad and I formed the band, I wouldn't have thought of having anybody else on bass but Richard. We have a definite musical affinity—as must be obvious.

We feel that our rhythm section is a strong one, and different from the average in a big band. I've heard a lot of very good rhythm sections through the years; but like the old All— American section in Basie's band way back, I think our team is making its mark also, in its way.

When I moved back to New York in '63, the Mulligan band was still going, off and on. By that time Thad had joined the band and our friendship, which had been going on since 1955, was strengthened, because we were together much more often. After Gerry finally broke up the band, Thad and I decided: "Let's do something that we want to do." We have such a good rapport with each other, personally and musically, and Thad loves big bands as much as I do.

Not knowing what the future was going to hold, we formed our band. We had no idea that things would go as well as they have for us.

Because when you get into something that you yourself like that much, you don't usually expect that the public will catch on to it at all. You figure: "Well, it's just something else that they'll never like." We were wrong.

The things we're doing now, we started right out doing. At the very first rehearsal we were fooling around with the time, the rhythm, the stopping and going, and everything. Thad brought in a few charts he had written, and they were played by the men we had picked. Most of them are still with us; the few that aren't with us, it's not because they didn't want to be, simply that circumstances caused them to drop out.

Actually, we still have 75 per cent of our original personnel, and some of the others still come in and sub with us when we need them.

It really took off right after that first rehearsal. A disc jockey named Alan Grant came up, and he was so thrilled that he ran right to Max Gordon at the Village Vanguard and booked us a Monday night down there. Five years later—we're still there. That's our home—and it means we know we're working at least once every week.

Everybody comes there to hear us; that's how our jobs started coming in, the record contract and so on.

It's been a long, slow climb; naturally, it's cost us money, as it does any bandleader. We've been paying our dues—very strong ones.

But it's all happening now, and the future looks nice. All I can say is: we intend to keep going as long as life allows us to.

You see, Thad and I are the kind of guys who are always looking for an out. The session work is important; it means a certain amount of security in our family life. But once you get into it, and you're the kind of people we are, and you believe in music that much, you can't just settle down to things like that. You have to stretch out; you've got to find somewhere to go. Otherwise you just get old. There's nothing that can keep you younger than playing.

Something had to happen, anyway. As far as big bands are concerned, it's been a survival of the fittest. The best ones kept working; all the commercial bands fell by the wayside. The bands that are getting a foothold now, like our band, your Clarke— Boland band over here, Clark Terry—Duke Pearson back in New York, Gerald Wilson on the Coast—these are all jazz bands, playing good music. That's where it's at. These bands will survive, because they're strong enough.

There's got to be something stimulating to the young audience.

They're used to the rock 'n' roll scene; a lot of it's pretty bad, but there are some very good ones. But mainly they do entertain, they get into something, they stimulate the kids who are watching them.

They're using electronic power to do it with; however, rhythmically, lyrically, they have some validity, otherwise it wouldn't have happened.

Of course, they've had a lot of help from record companies, promoters, disc jockeys. I think these same people could have done the same thing for the jazz bands. If they'd put just as much effort into that, and told the world: "This is it.

This is what you should be listening to. This is the greatest thing there is"—if you put on enough of a campaign, the people will believe it soon enough, and it'll happen. But they never did with jazz.

They're finding out, though.

Well, young people today, throughout the world, are becoming much more intellectual, much more broad— minded. There's more education, and, of course, it takes an educated mind to listen to jazz. It's not background music; it's something to listen to. Like listening to a good symphony.

At the same time, jazz has many communicating factors. It has foot-tapping, finger-snapping, hand-clapping and smiles on faces.

You can dance at all times if you want to. Even free form-who says you can't dance free form? There are people who do. Everything is becoming free—with discipline.

There's no such thing as absolute free form.

All the new things that are happening are all making for a better music. There's no stopping music.

Any kind of experiment is going to be a little far-fetched in the beginning.

It might over-step its bounds, but it will always come back to some kind of organisation. Somebody will find some way of using it in a proper way, so that it becomes more listenable and more practical.

If more people can play it and listen to it, you have something functioning.

Then you have a new music.

Copyright © 1971, Les Tomkins. All Rights Reserved.