A lengthy version of "Stormy Monday" bogs down the middle of the disc a bit, though Thomas sounds professional handling a tune we've all heard too many times. The platter closes with a patient "I'll Drink Your Bath Water, Baby" (complete with testimonial from a thirsty Thomas) and a farewell of "Some Dirty Rat's Been Eating My Cheese," a tune co-written by Thomas and Joe Campbell. All told, Working is an enjoyable little record highlighted by Thomas's confident vocals, which overcome its paint-by-numbers arrangements and song selections. Those two shortcomings, Thomas says, are evidence of struggles he's still having today.
"A person with talent is a threat to a person without talent," he says. "Every time I get on stage with someone, they play for themselves. There's a lot of jealousy; there's a lot of fictitious musicians out there. All my life I've had to either go up, down or around, adapting to bands. I need a band to adapt to Tommy Thomas for a change." Thomas is searching for a new group willing to do that; his posters around town advertising his search include this important request: Please Don't Give Up Your Day Job. "I'm at the professional level," he says, riffling through a stack of photos, "and when you have a CD, the crowd expects you to sound like that CD. So I'm not going to bring out a band that's not ready. Man, you do that, they'll run you out of town. I'm confronted with gigs all the time," he notes, as if the chance for a live show were some adversary, "but I'd rather do the odd jobs and the day job. I know that someday somebody's gonna recognize my talents and give me the funding that my next CD will need."
David Rehor
A working man in his prime: Tommy Thomas.
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A moment later he shows a photo of himself handing one of his tapes to Patti LaBelle at a recent department-store appearance. Another photo shows him glad-handing Jerry Butler, for whom Thomas opened a couple of years ago. One last picture shows Thomas slipping a tape and press kit to his idol, James Brown. Brown, glorious in a purple suit, lavender shirt and freshly conched 'do, beams as he accepts the package from Thomas. "That's the Hardest Working Man and the Working Man," Thomas says with pride. On a table a few feet away is one of Thomas's cards, bearing a simple question: "What can't the working man do?"
For now, he can't play out, can't step on a stage and breathe life into his handle or his music.But he can move product through a handful of local businesses. Thomas estimates he's sold about 700 units of Working Man so far. He's also gotten a few nibbles from a pair of small blues labels in the South. He's hoping something pans out soon. And while he's got no band to back him, he's still doing the odd show. Recently he accepted a private serenade job from a judge who once sentenced Thomas to time in jail. The judge asked Thomas to croon for his mate in an effort to impress her. The judge, Thomas notes, "was as happy as a hog eatin' slop" with Thomas's performance. Thomas is now working on some new tunes, pitching his remaining CDs where he can, and filling in the last few holes on the GED he's been chasing for nearly ten years. True, he's a long way from where he wants to be, but he's not complaining. "I'm my own manager, my own salesperson, my own everything," he says. "And it's a challenge. But it's amazing what you can do if you put your heart into it. The bottom line is, I can give out but I can't give up. I've got to just keep on working."
