DL: Well, first of all, I'm a big believer in the need for musical cohorts, for example the empathy Coltrane had with the three other guys- you've gotta have a group to make something real. And it gives you something to do- otherwise you have no goal. To go around just playing is great, you can have great recordings and do things with orchestras and other groups, which I do, in other countries, which I do a lot of- it's great- but to have a group means you develop your own sound, your own music, and the main thing is the rapport that grows among musicians. In other words, I feel that in spite of the awesome economic and political- meaning media-type forces that conspire against the success of a working group, I have persevered no matter what.

First I had a group called the "Open Sky Trio" with drummer Bob Moses whom some of the readers will know- who is a really great drummer, my first musical compatriot in my teen age years. He taught me a lot- he turned me on to world music, James Brown, and everything. He was a very advanced jazz music person, even at 15, 16 years old- he grew up in that environment. Then the first formal group which came out after I was with Miles, and therefore got a lot of recognition and a lot of accolades, was "Lookout Farm," which was with Richie Beirach, bassist Frank Tusa, drummer Jeff Williams, and for some time Badel Roy on tablas. And we received a great deal attention because we were on a major label, ECM, which in America was released by Polydor, we had tours, won the 1976 Downbeat Poll for Talent Deserving Wider Recognition, etc. etc. And it was a great band. It was a completely eclectic band, it was a little bit of Miles, a little bit of Coltrane, a little bit of world music, a little bit of rock and roll. we did everything- it was electric, it was acoustic, it was a real eclectic "bouillabaisse" band. And it was successful.

Then I- in the midst of it- decided that I wanted to be more successful, just maybe was a part of being young, and I went to California and formed a band called the Ellis-Liebman band. And what that was, was Pee Wee Ellis, who was the guy who wrote "Mother Popcorn and Cold Sweat" for James Brown. He was Brown's musical director for years, played out of an R&B an influence. We were friends, 'cause the first band I had been in was "Ten Wheel Drive" actually and it was a fusion band in the late sixties- he was part of that circle. We had that band for a year or two in California. It was a funk band with jazz overtones, didn't go anywhere, and that was the end of that.

And when I came back to New York, I formed a band- I wanted to get away from the piano, after having been with Richie for these years. I wanted to get away from the piano and have more of a single line contrapuntal type of thing. So I formed this band with John Scofield, who was then unknown, and with trumpeter Terumasa Hino, drummer Adam Nussbaum, and bassist Ron McClure. And that thing went on for about three years. Sometimes Kenny Kirkland played with us when Terumasa had to do Japanese tours. We recorded two records, worked all over the world, never got successful in America, but we had quite a great band. "Sco" of course was the main deal, the guitarist, with the two horns, so it was a lot of writing, a little more jazz-oriented, some fusion, not too "world influenced."

Then, about the early eighties, me and Richie got back together, 'cause he had done some of his own things for a few years and had a break, and we first of all reinstated the duo as an ongoing thing, which we had had in the seventies, and then formed Quest, which began with Al Foster and George Mraz and ended up with Ron McClure and Billy Hart by nineteen-eighty-four, 'eight-five, and went 'til 'ninety-one. And that was real pure, coming out of Coltrane, Bill Evans, '60's Miles- it was a contemporary version of our take of the sixties. It was all our influences on one thing. And with contemporaries, because Billy and Ron and Richie and I- we were all on the same wavelength- it was probably the best band I'll ever have. Because I never had to think with that band, it was ninety percent improvised, ten percent written, it was an extraordinary adventure in improvisation and it was jazz, real jazz and contemporary and we went far musically with that band. We did very very well around the world, never in America, but we did very well in Japan, of course, and Europe.

By that time my relationship with Richie had been a twenty, twenty-five year relationship musically and socially. There was a need to break that off for a variety of reasons and also I wanted to get a band that could play more of these other things, world things, fusion things, Richie didn't want to play any electric, I wanted some electric in it, I wanted more orchestration, I wanted to do some writing and have a band play more written, arranged stuff. So that was how this particular unit that I have now- Tony Marino, Jamey Haddad on drums, and Vic Juris on guitar, and for the first four, five years I had Phil Markowitz on keyboards, and then I dropped the piano last year, a year and a half ago. So that band now is again a real reflection of my eclectic tastes. Our first record on Arkadia called New Vista is the group, along with a percussionist Cafe. Interestingly, one critic, the guy who wrote the liner notes, Chuck Berger said, this really hearkened back to "Lookout Farm." He said that it included all the influences that I love so much. Of course, it's thirty years later, so it's a lot more mature than some of my earlier work.

VLS: Can you tell us where the name "Lookout Farm" derives from?

DL: Well, it's a place where a painter friend of mine lives. He was very influential in my artistic thinking. His name is Eugene Gregar. He's still alive. His paintings adorn my house. It was a place where I spent a lot of time, a lot of hangin' out and you know, nights talking, and he was like the teacher, and me and Richie were together a lot in this. Eugene would just talk, about painting and music- and he wasn't a musician but he just knew about the artistic process. He made me see things. It was talkin' to the real deal, you know, a street cat who took on art, so it was just like us. he wasn't like some intellectual guy, he was like a guy from the streets, from Hartford or something, and he was a "downtown" guy who just developed this amazing way of painting and being an artist. He lives up in this place about a hundred miles north of New York called "Lookout Farm"- it's not a farm, it's just the name of it. He's still there- he's in his sixties.

VLS: Is it near Woodstock?

DL: It's in the Ellenville area, but the reality is that he's a complete entity upon himself, he just sits up there with his wife, and they grow amazing gardens, vegetables, and they do incredible things. He paints the passing of the days. And he creates also. He's like a Picasso: he'll take piece of wood with a knife and suddenly it's art, or a napkin. He's that kind of guy. So he was very influential, and it's where I began my real self-conscious artistic process, so I dedicated the band to him.

VLS: This is a "stock" question, but I wonder if you have any observations: it seems as if serious jazz is better received in Europe than in the U.S. Do you agree?

DL: Well, in Europe, particularly, because you're talkin' about- when you sit down for coffee, there's a church from 800 years across the street- you're surrounded by culture. Even a young person- I don't care if they're into MTV or whatever they're into there- they're still surrounded by culture. It's in the government, it's in the radio, it's in the TV, it's part of what surrounds them, they can't escape it. So, that's a natural thing that they grow up in. And the main real reason is, state supported music. You're talking about government money for the most part- Scandinavia, and Western Europe. You know, Holland, Germany, some countries more than others, France, Italy a little less, England a little less. But you're talking about a good eight to ten countries where there is a lot of support, and it's been there since pre-WWII in some cases. In Sweden, it was there for years, in Germany, it was there before the war. You're talking about a place where people like to hang out- that's another thing, they go to clubs, they hang, they love the music, they love artists, it's "artiste" land out there, especially France, and Germany to an extent. And they just love it, and they respect it, you get respect when you're an artist.

And in this country, you know, we're the other side of the pole. America represents the commercial world in the scheme of things. That's the way it is. So, this music is not going to be ever appreciated on that level in this country. It can't be, and it really shouldn't be. Jazz is small, it's for a few people. You say that, and you get "What are you talking about- don't you want to communicate?" Yes, but what I do is not meant for everybody. I'm not supposed to play for five thousand people. I'm supposed to play for a good five hundred or three hundred, and have a discussion afterwards, and educate them. So this whole thing about jazz being popular and all that in this country is a joke, it really doesn't mean anything. But of course it's being discussed so much in Europe, it's understood, it's part of the thing. As is classical, as is opera.

VLS: Recently I initiated and participated in a conjoint interview with the legendary jazz trombonist, JJ Johnson for his website run by Matt Calvert. JJ talked about the "mysterious rapport" between the jazz artist or group and the audience. In live gigs, he feels he's involved with the audience on many levels. In your playing, to what extent is your audience an important element? Do you tend to focus away from the audience and onto the music and your group exclusively, or do you try to have some relationship to the audience? When you a do recording date in a studio, do you miss the audience?

DL: Well, as I mentioned earlier, outside of being "civil," and on time and polite and like "thank you" and like this is who's playing with me and respectful to the musicians, and- if I can- tell them the tunes and the genesis of the tunes- I'm very direct- I try not to make jokes, you know- I really-- I certainly feel a good audience, I feel we can go a little further, I can feel an audience that's not getting it, I get the vibe, I get a little self-conscious- but I really try to shut them out- absolutely! I can't speak for JJ, but the older musicians came from a different era in history when jazz was really part of the culture and the entertainment. And that was OK. Certainly, in the thirties it was- it was dance music- and then bebop came, Bird and Dizzy, and in a way they took it out. But they still wanted to get the people involved, some hand clappin', let's go, and let's have a good time. I don't know whether it's the time, the period, or maybe it's from us being white or our privileged, middle class existence- there's a lot of psychological and sociological reasons I can think about, but in my case, I really don't care what anybody thinks. I hope they like it, but I'm really playing for the musicians and I have always played for the musicians. The best thing that could happen to me (and this was true especially when I was younger) is to have the guys I love and respect say, man, that's deep, that was the shit- "that was the shit!" You knew exactly what they were talking about, not just saying, "You sound good," but "Hey man, that was the stuff, I could hear you going for it, you were in there!" To me, that's the top of the line. If the audience happens to clap, applaud, and you can get an encore, of course it feels good. And it probably certainly feels good to the other musicians, who are not the leader, and I take it into consideration. I try to think about it. I see a certain audience, and I may change the order of the music, I may put a certain tune in. I may do these things, but I really try to be away from that.

Now the recording process is a whole other story. And, as far as I'm concerned, recording is the name of the game. In the end, that is the most important thing you do. Because whether it's ten people or ten million, it is immortalized forever, it is on wax or disk or whatever, you can never take it away, it will represent you when you're gone, it will represent you in other worlds, and depending on how popular you are, you're going to have to live with it. So when you go in the studio- In fact, I wrote a whole book about this called The Art of Recording- a booklet which can be ordered by visiting the "Abersold" page in the "Publications and Recordings" section of my website. If you go to the studio, you are in a laboratory, the chips are down, it's absolutely the most important thing you do. And there, a whole professional situation takes over. I have a whole way of working in the studio. Again, Miles was very influential because he was unbelievable in the studio- he was so serious. There was nobody laughing, no conversation. It was absolute business- to the point- intense two or three hours in his case- and then out.

I see that the studio is a place where you've really got to hone in, you've gotta use everything you know about music, and about instinct and about emotions, because you're playing with people's emotions, the guys you're playing with. How many takes can you take, how many hours, do they need coffee, do we break, who's the engineer? There are so many things going on in a studio, and I feel like I'm very good in the studio- it's one of the things I pride myself on. I've done hundreds of recordings. And it's really crucial. Now, having the audience there would not change that at all- it would just mean that they're able to watch me do what I do. Because in there, it's a certain dance that I love to do. I love the studio- I absolutely love being in the studio.

VLS: The classical pianist Glenn Gould had his own unique conception of the importance, the primacy of recordings. He thought of it as a uniquely different way to make music.

DL: Absolutely. You can- it's artistic in another sense, not in the communicative sense, but in the putting together of music. You really can control things, and you've really got to know what you're doing in there. And experience is the key in that respect.

VLS: You have a CD entitled The Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner. You do considerable overdubbing on that.

DL: Yes, it's all soprano saxophone.

VLS: Were you inspired by pianist Bill Evans' Conversations with Myself?

DL: A little, but Lenny Tristano overdubbed in 1952! Others have done it before, it's just that particular record is probably a landmark in my output. It's probably top of the line for me as a combination of composing, programmatic content, and my playing. Also the programmatic aspect- the title is from the movie and the book, it had nothing to do with that though, because it's just a great image. The idea of the long distance runner- being out there twenty-six miles, alone, and the energy, the physical aspect and then the mental aspect, what a test! Endurance, physically and mentally. Isn't that what we do in life? I don't care if it's you as a psychologist, or the lady who runs the Main Stay Inn here, or me as the "grand artiste" on the stage, aren't we all dealing with mental or physical endurance, longevity, creativity, etc? How we handle ourselves. So the artist is a little bit more focused in the creative sense, but the truth is we're all long distance runners, we're all at the starting line or in the pack, and all those titles in there, they all depict, I feel, the journey. It's very psychological, very much related to the self. Then, over the past two years I've done a solo recording with the same incredible engineer, Walter Quintus. It's called Time Immemorial- it's not out yet. It's all saxophones, overdubbed again. Much more electronic influences on the saxophone and so forth, sounding like guitars. Much more improvised, not as composed. Time Immemorial is a picture of the history of the world. The sections are called "Before," "Then," "Now," and "After." I'm trying to paint the whole picture.

Now, I'm outside myself more. I'm fifty-two, and I've explored myself pretty well. I'm sure there are some things I could resolve more- according to my wife, there are many things I could resolve more [laughter]. But I've done my reflecting, I am what I am, and I now try to live much more outside of myself. I have a solo record called The Tree. I just did another called Colors. I'm just more into nature and humanity, and seeing that everything is the same, no matter what you look at. It's all going to repeat itself anyway, so like get with it and be cool! On the other hand, Long Distance Runner was a "looking in the mirror" type of record. Me reflecting what I thought others are, but really me looking at "you're here in there for the long distance- what are you going to do at the end? How do you start out? How do you train? You know, what are you doin' when you're out there for two hours? What do you do when you've been playing for twenty-five years? How do you keep this going?"

VLS: Another question from Tom Lawton with respect to your CD, Setting the Standards...

DL: Yes, that's early nineties.

VLS: You use the standard tunes as a jumping off point for doing something original. Tom wondered, from your perspective what makes a standard useful for a jazz musician? How do you get freedom and openness when you play a standard? Lester Young said that you should know the words of the tune to improvise on it- do you think that's important? When you play a standard, are you trying to convey the meaning of the words, or just using the tune as a template to improvise?

DL: I work from there, backwards. The lyrics would be of interest. [Dave hums: "You are...d'd'd'd'" from "All the Things you Are"] sure, [Sings:] "You came to me from out of Nowhere..." sure. But the truth is, in Lester Young's day, the tunes were contemporaneous with the vibe in the air. "Out of Nowhere" is definitely not where we're living now. "All the Things You Are"- in 1998, these songs have nothing to do with our lives. Not that I think Madonna's songs are any better [laughter]! Look at Stevie Wonder, Simon and Garfunkle, Bob Dylan- we have had our poets. The point being that the standards are great songs because of the harmony and the melodies. That's why we use 'em. They're vehicles for learning the language. I don't really have an identification with "Night and Day" and Cole Porter. I don't care that Cole Porter had a cigarette holder or was a bon vivant.

But- the question that Tom's referring to is very important- why play a standard?- there's two ways of looking at it. As Alec Wilder, who is a great writer, critic, and musician himself said: "Why do musicians take my tunes, a.k.a. also Gershwin or anybody, and change the melodies? What right do they have to do that? Would you say 'To be or not t-t-t-t-to be-' would you change Shakespeare around? You wouldn't dare change Shakespeare around! Why do you change my melody around to fit your needs?" He's got a point. My point is, if you don't do that, why use it? So I feel that the whole point is to take a standard and make it into your own, to make it into some mode of creativity at the moment in the period, the time, reflecting your particular musical interests. This is a vehicle for you to put your stuff in a nutshell. The good thing about the standard is that somewhere along the line some listener will actually say "Ah, I know that tune. Even though you've changed it probably beyond recognition (!), there is the "chestnut" attitude, in other words, it's a nice warm chestnut on a cold winter day that feels so good to eat- you crack it open, it brings in Christmas, fireplaces, mother, grandma, it's a whole thing. OK- Oh! He's playing "My Funny Valentine." Ahhh. I have memories, they're stored up. But- more than that, it means I can compare what he's done. See, with a new, original tune they have nothing for comparison, it's a pure feeling. Whereas, with a standard, which has been recorded a thousand times, and it's a classic version at least to the real jazz listener, there is a way that they can say: look at what he did to that! He took that and made it red, rather than black. And that's why you play standards.

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