Good to see you back in London, George. Needless to ask—the week with Mel Tormé was a joy to you?

Very much indeed. Of course—as I said in the opening of the show—I enjoy being home again. I'm sure my American friends will understand—this is still home. The great thing about something like that is: you settle in a nice hotel in London, you stay there for five days, you don't have to jolt the body to a different place every day—it's a nice way to spend a week in England.

And, obviously, you particularly appreciate the experience of working with Mel?

Oh, well—do you know how much we're doing together? I mean, we played seven days at Paul Masson, two weeks in the Fairmont in Dallas, two weeks in the Fairmont in San Francisco; we did the Atlanta Symphony together; we've done countless George Wein Kool Jazz Festival stuff together; we did Charlie's in Georgetown together. It's quite incredible.

You know—one of the nicest things in a long, long time happened to me over here... and it was nice because it involved somebody who I had heard was dead. A guy came by one night; he said: "George—thirty—five years ago you worked for me just before you went to the United States." Now, I know who I worked for at that time—and I recognised the voice. But my mind wouldn't allow me to say the name, because, as I say, I thought he was dead. I said: "Well, I worked for a lot of people... I worked for Frank Weir, Cyril Stapleton..." He said: "You had a small band within my band." I said: "Harry Hayes?" and he came up, and kinda put his arms around me. I told him: "I must admit that I heard that you had died!" And, you know, if I had been presented with that statement, I would have probably said: "I'll bloody well die when I get ready!" So, anyway, Primrose came back with him afterwards, and we talked for a while; I introduced them to my wife Ellie. It was very nice—because I really didn't expect to see him. Oh, yes—it brought back many memories.

Are you set on working with a duo? You had Brian Torff on bass with you; now you have Don Thompson. Is this your thing now?

Yes—really and truly, this is my thing. If Mel wants drums with him when we work together, so be it, but this is it for me. I can hear all the inner voices—particularly when you have a man like Don, who plays so much bass, and the same amount of piano. You know, he gives me a lot of trouble on piano. Yeah, we do duets.

Did you meet Don originally in Canada?

I did, yes. As a matter of fact... I don't know whether you remember the name of Joe Saye? Right—his real name is Joel Shulman, as you probably know. Well, he and his wife Joan were running a sort of short—order sandwich type place, wherein they had jazz—it was starting to fade a little bit, and they were waiting for a licence. In the interim, I went up and played an evening for them. And Joe said: "Don Thompson is coming by; if you want him to sit in for a while, it'd be marvellous." So what happened was: Don and I just played a whole evening together. No rehearsal—we literally met on the stand, as it were. Obviously, Don has had many things to do in the past—like all the recordings with the Boss Brass, and a great amount of studio work—and I never thought he was really interested in travelling. But just about the time that Brian was deciding to get his own thing, it came to my attention that Don was ready to travel; so I said: "Okay, let's go—let's do it!" And it was one of the blessings of my life, really.

Do you find that you don't miss a drummer?

No, not at all—because as I say, I can hear all the inner voicing. And, without being too egotistical about it, I think my sense of pulse and my sense of time is really good enough. I'm sorry—I really feel that. It's not what I think of myself, because I never look at myself in the mirror—it wouldn't do me any good anyhow, but I never do! But I bear it out by virtue of the fact that I tested it one time: I made three recorded takes on the same tune. One was 2: 49, one was 2: 48 and one was 2: 50—there was a second variance either way. If you count that out, that's fairly accurate timekeeping, I would think.

Has this been a practice of yours, to establish a set time for a tune?

I don't set it to time—no it's not meant for that at all. It's just that in the days when they wanted a two minute and fortynine second record to get AM play—that's what they got. They got three takes within 2: 49 and a surrounding second each way. I tell that story just as some kind of proof that I can strike a tempo within one or two seconds three times in a row. You spread it out over two minutes and forty—nine seconds, when you have time to quicken up or slow down, and if you slow down a great deal, you, of course, will be much more than a second or two off. You may run one 2: 35 and one 2: 55, I don't consider that's very good timekeeping. 2: 49, 2: 48, 2: 5—that's good timekeeping.

These days you also do concerts with symphony orchestras, don't you?

Quite a bit. I play Mozart concertos, Bach concertos. I'm learning a new piece now—written in the earlier part of this century by a much lesser—known composer, named Francaix. A wonderful composer.

Yes, he was a contemporary of Jacques Ibert, wasn't he? And I was talking to Mel about the passion you share for English music.

Oh yes—we are absolute fanatics about Frederick Delius. And, you know, if it's possible to be married to anyone on stage—it's Mel and me. One particular night, we did "Chase Me, Charlie", an old Noel Coward tune...and Mel and I always breathe together; I know just about what he's going to sing, when he's going to pause, what he's going to do... it was absolute magic. I wish we'd recorded this "Chase Me, Charlie", because it was so accurate—all the retards, all the pauses after phrases and sentences; it was just as if Mel had sung it first and played it and worked on it until he really got it in perfect synch. You know—you can only rave about a night like that by the presence of lesser nights.

It's fascinating to hear the little Delius quotes that you slip in, on the albums and elsewhere. But you're very much a quoting man, anyway, aren't you?

Well, I think you're very nice, because you could say: "You steal quite a bit", and you said I quote. I never steal—I only borrow! Yes, I guess I am a quoting man—there are infinite Bach and Mozart quotations and things. And it's fun—I think if these people were alive today, they'd be wonderful jazz musicians.

Speaking about Johann Sebastian Bach—you've got to remember: not only was he a very devout Lutheran, he was also a beer—drinking German—I think he'd be a real jazzer if he were alive today. I mean, any man who has two wives, twenty kids, gets kicked out of the church for being too harmonically radical, and drinks beer—he can't be all wrong, can he? Presumably, then—you intend to continue working in this wide field? I do indeed, because I feel that since the demise of the Quintet I am playing more piano—I feel more free to play more piano. I don't have these fetters around my neck, you know—confining to the style. And playing with just bass frees me even more. So, yes, I'll continue on exactly the same lines. Because between that and the playing of the ballads for Mel, with the sort of impressionism... I learned an awful lot from Wally Scott, for instance—I play a lot in the style of Wally Scott when I play for Mel.

We'll continue to look out for your new albums—and we hope that your very welcome frequency in this country continues too.

Well I hope you don't get tired of it, because I'm sure I won't.

Copyright © 1984, Les Tomkins. All Rights Reserved.