Thai Long Ly: Listen for the Humanity

What's up with that bass behind you? That bass looks beautiful. Is it handmade?

Yeah, thanks! Years ago, I owned a boutique bass guitar store, and Mark Browne, bassist for Melissa Etheridge, came in one day with serial number 1 or 2. He said, "My friend makes these in his garage. Think you can sell 'em?" Man, it was so unique, well made, felt great, and it resonated like a baby upright. "Yeah, I'll sell the shit out of that." And so, we did, helping put Rob Allen Guitars on the map. Regretfully, I never kept one for myself. Fast-forward 22 years, and with limited contact throughout, Rob reached out recently to deliver this gorgeous Deep 5 fretless model. Inside the case is a handwritten "thank you" note. I should probably frame it. It's one of the last two instruments he personally made before retiring to Italy. I couldn’t be more humbled and honored.

You owned a boutique bass shop?

Yeah, in a former life. When I first moved to L.A. from Northern Virginia...

You grew up in Northern Virginia? That's crazy! I grew up in McLean.

Holy shit! I went to Cooper Middle School and Langley High, graduated in '89, then went to George Mason [University].

That's crazy! I went to Cooper and Langley too! Did you play in a band?

Yeah, I played the field parties and keggers. I even played the McLean High homecoming dance as my first professional gig at 14. [laughter]

What did you do after high school?

I was going to GMU, and one of my friends had moved to California. He called one day, "I'm working on a TV show and need some help. Want to come out and get into television?" I said, "Nah, I'm playing in a band, I’ve got a new girlfriend, and I'm just chilling at Mason." But he said, "Come on, I'll pay you a ton of money," and promises me this gigantic payday. "Be here in three weeks." Excitedly, my girlfriend and I drive across the country with a packed car, bald tires, and $1500 to my name. Of course, it all goes to shit immediately, and the TV money never materializes. I was dejectedly stuck in Los Angeles with no gig, no connections, and there was no way I was going back to my mom’s basement. I found myself doing charity work, helping the homeless and inner-city youth, which, though fulfilling, didn't pay.

Yeah, and it's emotionally tough.

It was challenging and rewarding, but hardly sustainable for a 20-year old in L.A. I got a job at the Sherman Oaks Guitar Center, and I was in charge of their bass department, with seven whole Ibanez basses – all black with dead strings. [laughs] I did that for two years. Down the street was The Bass Centre, owned by a British chap named Alan Morgan, where they had all the high-end gear that you couldn't pronounce, couldn’t afford, and only saw in magazines. Alan offered me a way cooler job, so I quit GC and worked there for two years until he shut the doors towards the end of '96; and that's when my life came to a pivotal crossing. Not only had I lost my source of income, but that same girlfriend cheated and dumped me dirty, and my father suffered a stroke – all this right before Christmas. I was emotionally and financially drained. But I pulled myself together, and a month later, I started the original L.A. Bass Exchange in Tarzana at age 25.

How did you build up your inventory, starting from zero like that?

Well, I didn't have a lot of capital to start. In fact, the only thing of true value I had was my dog. But it all happened so fast; within a couple weeks of closing with my investors, I went to the NAMM Show with my assistant, Dave Avenius. I remember us walking in with a list of eight or nine manufacturers that I hoped would supply us, and we miraculously walked away with nearly 40 companies who were interested. The majority of manufacturers sent products and said, "Pay us off when you can." I was able to stock the store right out of the gate. We sold the top one percent of what the industry offered. Proudly, Dave went on to become the CEO of Aguilar Amplification and is now the VP of DR Strings.

That's amazing! What years were that?

Grand opening was April of 1997, and I was forced out by 2002. But that’s another story, for another day.

The dot-com crash happened in the year 2000 – the first big recession of our lifetime. You were definitely riding that roller coaster of economic growth.

The store had been successful up until that point, and we definitely had our ups and downs. But once the recession hit, we were toast. Running a full-time operation like that was a trial by fire, and in hindsight we were old kids acting like adults, learning day-by-day. That entire experience was amazing in so many ways. I met a ton of incredible people as we quickly became a centerpiece for the bass community. Touring pros from around the world would stop by, and, of course, all the local cats were hanging – sometimes for hours on end. We hosted numerous concerts and clinics. Victor Wooten, Victor Bailey, Gary Willis, Matthew Garrison, Alphonso Johnson; the list of bass luminaries was crazy. Marcus Miller hosted a clinic once. He had played the Hollywood Bowl the night before, and we set him up to play this tiny Starbucks two doors down because we didn’t have the room – from 17,000 fans to 70, in 24 hours. [laughs] I was able to sweet talk the manager, "If you let me put a band in here, everybody will buy a latte." She was like, "Well, we're open to the public, so as long as you're not selling tickets..." Of course we were selling tickets; that's how we paid for the event! The band was Marcus, Tim Carmon [keys], and Poogie Bell [drums]. The place was packed, and Starbucks sold a ton of Frappuccinos. There's footage on YouTube.

How did you go from owning a boutique bass store to being an engineer and producer?

I've always been fascinated with the process, ever since my first studio experience at 15. I liked how what was put on tape had permanence, and how ideas took shape with every pass. As creatives, we leave artistic breadcrumbs for others to experience, long past our expiration. I love that. Early on, I had a TASCAM Portastudio I'd mess with, but it was never anything serious. That is, until I started writing music with a close friend, Caren Lyn Manuel [now Tackett], and we needed a way to capture ideas in a decent manner. That's when I bought a little mixer and an ADAT, and I paid a friend in pizzas to show me how to make it all work. At the same time, I was burning out of retail and needed a change. The universe conspired to launch me towards a new career. It's funny how we might not get what we want, but we always get what we need. It all started when [bassist] Christian McBride came into the store one day and said, "Come down to Catalina Bar & Grill. I'm playing with George Duke tomorrow."

Holy smokes!

I went to check it out, and afterwards he said, "Come by George's tomorrow. We're cutting a new record. Show up at noon." I showed up on time, made it past the security gate, and knocked on the door. George's long-time engineer, Erik Zobler, answered and looked at me surprised. "Who are you, and why are you here?" I answered, "I'm here to see Christian." He said, "Christian ain't here." And we stood in awkward silence. Then George came up, "What's going on out here?" I said, "I'm here to see Christian." Equally confused, George replied, "Well, Christian ain't here." So, I said, "Yeah, I know. He said to be here at noon. Forget it. I'll go sit in my car." They both looked me over, and George finally said, "Well, ain't no use in doing that. Come on in." So, I found myself inside George’s home, staring at all the gold and platinum records on the wall – none of which I’d ever seen in person, let alone that many together in one place. As I sat and waited, they're cutting beds to what would become George's Face the Music album. I was blown away at what I was hearing, and I could barely contain myself. Aside from the incredible playing, I wanted to jump on the console and interrogate Erik, because I had never heard raw tracks sound like that before! I would periodically blurt out something ridiculous, and Erik would lower his glasses and shoot the, "Not now kid, I'm working" look. Eventually, he motioned me up to the Euphonix [console] and said, "You've got 2 minutes. What do you want to know?" I immediately squealed, "How do you get that huge tom sound?" He showed me on the console, "You've got to grab the EQ like this." I said, "I thought you weren't supposed to EQ when you record?" He said, "What? Who told you that? Don't ever be afraid to get the right sounds from the start." It went against everything I'd heard, up to that point. "Don't touch the EQ. Move the mic. Track it flat." But Erik is all about, "If it sounds good, it is good." So, 12 hours later at the end of the night, Erik asked me what I wanted to do with my life. I basically said, "I'm sick of retail. I want to be an engineer, like you." He said, "Well, do you have Pro Tools?" I said, "No." At the time, to put together a TDM system with a computer was about $10,000 to $12,000.

Which in today's money is $25,000.

Yeah, and that's just one TDM card! You needed an 888 and all that. I had three ADATs and a [Panasonic] RAMSA [WR-]DA7 [console] at the time. Erik said, "If you don't know Pro Tools, you're never going to work in this town." I said, "Well, I guess I'm never working because I don't have $12,000." Shaking his head, he goes, "Come to my house on Sunday." I showed up and he lent me his spare Pro Tools rig, including a rackmount Mac G3, a fancy mic preamp, and a couple of nice mics.

That's crazy. Did you take it home?

I loaded it in the back of my Volvo wagon, drove it home, and immediately hooked it up. Then I stared at it for hours, devouring the manual like a madman. Subsequently, whenever I got lost, I'd give him a call. It could be 2 a.m. "Hey, how do I get this thing to do the thing?" He'd be in session with some icon – Dianne Reeves, Anita Baker, Rachelle Ferrell, or whomever. But he'd always take the time to help, "Okay, go to the pulldown, look for this, and click that." He taught me so much about that program, as well as how to seamlessly Auto-Tune, "If you get great at undetectable tuning, vocalists won't know why they sound so good, but they'll always hire you." I've built a career off that advice. He taught me how and what to listen for. I would go to his place, and he'd randomly test me. "Alright, I'm going to play you something." He'd press play, stop, and play again. "A or B?" He'd never tell me what we're listening for. I'd have to come up with what I liked and why. We'd be concentrating on dither, converters, or how hard he's hitting a tube – always some ultra deep geeky shit. We perceived sounds differently, but somehow always preferred the same thing. Though he’ll disagree if you ask him today, Erik taught me so much and I'm forever grateful. I assisted him several times over the next few years, including sessions with George, who eventually started recommending me for gigs as well. That's partly how my career got started. 

I remember thinking when I first met you that you're incredibly trusting and sincere, and you exude all the right energy. Heck, 15 minutes after we met, you offered me one of your motorcycles to ride!

I appreciate that. So, I've got to rewind. I was in this rock band back when I was working at GC – long hair, tight pants, and more wattage in the hair dryers than on stage. That was a band called Black on Blonde, which later became Bret Michaels' [of Poison] band. Al McKay, from Earth, Wind & Fire, came down one day and cut a solo to one of our songs – just killed it. That was the first time we met. Years later, I ran into him in a parking lot. "I don't know if you remember me, but you played an amazing solo on a track for my band years ago." He said, "I remember that session. I was really nervous." I go, "Why? You were in Earth, Wind & Fire." He said, "Oh, it was a rock thing, and I don't do rock." I said, "Well, it's funny you say that. I'm actually more into R&B, soul, and funk, and I'm working on some new shit. I'd love for you to check it out. Plus, I could use some guitar." I grabbed a CD-R of roughs, scribbled my number on it, and gave it to him. Totally expecting to never hear from him, he called me within the hour. "If you need a guitar player, I'm in." He rolled through that weekend, cut the nastiest shit all over the record, joined my band, and we did a show.

That's just crazy!

Right? He's forever ruined me for guitar players! When I finally finished the project, I called him up and said, "The album’s done. Can I drop off a copy?" He was in the studio with Rusty Hamilton, musical director of Kool & The Gang at the time. I crashed the session, and we listened to the entire record, front to back. He absolutely loved it and asked me to come back the next day to work with them on some new stuff. So, that led to me co-producing, co-writing, playing bass, and engineering an entire project with him over the next couple years. I even mixed one of his concert DVDs [Al McKay Allstars Live in Kaunas Jazz 2004] in 5.1. He took me around the world as a monitor engineer in 2005, despite me having never done it before. Hell, my very first gig on that tour was at Java Jazz Festival in Jakarta, [Indonesia], for an audience of 20,000 people. We shared the bill with James Brown.

Amazing! What was the record you did with Al? Is it available?

It's not. We never finished it, though I'd love to one day. Looking back, I was desperate for that material to come out, if only to validate my existence. Which is ridiculous, because achievements don’t define us as people. But selfishly, I wanted the world to hear that I could write, play, and sound like that. Over the span of his career, Al collected seven American Music Awards and six Grammys, including a Lifetime Achievement Award. He was also inducted into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame. He had nothing to prove, yet I had nothing to lose. He would slip me $500 cash every week, gas money, and all the takeout I could eat. I had a key to his house. It was the greatest paid internship I never imagined. The lessons I absorbed were invaluable, including recognizing the difference between groove and pocket, and what constituted a good song. The man wrote "September"! Life intervened towards the end of our run, and we never got it together. But by then, with the support I'd gained from Al and Erik, as well as additional mentoring from composer Gary Chang and artist Eleanor Academia, I had set my sights on producing and engineering full time. These four instilled in me the confidence that maybe, just maybe, I could make this a career.

How did that go?

As someone once said, there was no finer way to starve! It's one thing to get a gig, but the trick was stringing enough of them together to pay the bills. I was too stubborn to fail or too stupid to stop, so I kept at it. Eventually, I found myself doing bigger and better things. From Dionne Warwick, Elle King, Pink… to Hadrien Feraud, Stanley Clarke, and Thundercat… I ran through L.A.'s jazz, R&B, and fusion scenes, most of it at Bell Sound Studios. That was definitely the next big step for me.

What are the rooms at Bell Sound like?

Studio A is a Scott Putnam [oldest son of Bill Putnam] room, and the control room is a Vincent van Haaff design. It was built in 1965. It's a really dry, tight-sounding space. There were three other smaller rooms, but I was mainly in A.

Did you have a mentor there?

Definitely. Sherwood Ball, son of Ernie Ball [guitars, strings, and accessories], knew I was interested in engineering and suggested that I meet one of Bell's owners, John Osiecki. Bell was a jingle and voiceover studio, but John's roots were in music. I cold-called him, and he invited me down for a tour. He asked to hear some music, so I played him some roughs. He was impressed with the production and asked if I'd be willing to work with a contact of his, Ashley Ballard. If I remember right, at 14 she had been signed first to Warner Bros., then Atlantic; and now, dropped at 18, she was looking for a new sound – something different from her prior work with Rodney Jerkins and Narada Michael Walden. John basically said, "I'll give you free studio time, but the caveat is that you have to use my assistants." I asked, "Wait, hold up. I get to use your studio for free, and I get assistants? Hell yes!" I had never worked a room like that on my own before, let alone a large format Neve, so I was stoked! Ashley and I wrote some material together and used the A room to track, where John watched us work. I must have passed his test, because afterwards he offered me the studio during downtime for whatever projects I thought would be appropriate. That arrangement lasted for years, before he officially offered me the A room on a full-time freelance basis. I jumped at the chance, grabbed a key, and moved in all my gear immediately.

Who else did you bring in during that time?

So much of L.A.'s thriving unknown, but also the names – Kimbra, Kamasi Washington, Stanley Clarke, Vinnie Colaiuta, Rocco DeLuca, David Garfield, Sheila E., Thundercat. Man, so many hundreds over the years. Just about every gospel drummer in L.A. I would have to go through my hard drives to recall all the artists, but it was a great mix of some of the best musicians from around the world.

Then the pandemic happened.

Yep. I took the first two weeks off, like we all did; and, as the lockdowns extended, I still had projects to deliver. I went to Bell, grabbed a pair of speakers, an interface, and set up a basic mix rig at home. As the pandemic wore on, I kept driving back to the studio for more gear. Eventually, I ended up with racks of all my outboard in the living room. Once lockdowns were lifted, a session at Bell would've required a U-Haul and a full day of wiring. The juice wasn't worth the squeeze, and after a 20-year relationship it was time to move on But I'm forever appreciative of John for his belief in me and for the opportunities he provided. Soon afterwards, EastWest Studios heard that I needed a room, and they've been incredibly generous.

Wow! From Bell Sound in Hollywood, to your "pandemic studio" at home, and finally to EastWest, where some of the most iconic records were made!

It's an honor to walk the halls, let alone create there. For the record, I still mix at home, but EastWest is my first choice for tracking. Everything is well maintained, the staff is great, and the assistants are all properly trained. And man, those consoles – the Neves, Trident, and SSL? Come on now! Plus, Candace [Stewart, studio manager] and Keith [Munson, assistant manager] are great, and I'm always happy to see them. Recently, I've been working on projects for Spike Lee and Denzel Washington, Stanley Clarke, Gorden Campbell, Hadrien Feraud, and a couple feature-length films. I'm a member of CAS [Cinema Audio Society] as a re-recording mixer; I like to dip my toes into post-production here and there.

Did you record Robbie Williams at EastWest?

We actually recorded vocals for his double album XXV at Robbie's home in Beverly Hills, working one-on-one and occasionally with producer Guy Chambers, over Zoom and Audiomovers [Listento].

How did Robbie contact you?

A drummer friend, Louie Palmer, passed my name on to an artist in England who needed an engineer to record Robbie for a new single. Like many Americans, I had no idea who he was. I went to his sprawling compound and quickly realized he was definitely somebody! [laughter] Because it was mid-pandemic, we recorded outside on his front steps. I brought my portable Antelope Audio rig, tracked him out, and figured I'd never see him again. As I was leaving, he said, "Hey mate, I've got a studio downstairs. Would you be interested in coming back and working with me?" I didn't think anything of it, figuring he was just being cordial. A year later, I got the call. We did a few singles and various projects before he asked me to work on XXV. It went straight to #1 on the UK charts, and it's his 14th – the most for any solo artist in Britain. By the way, if you watch the new Netflix documentary on his life [Robbie Williams], look for my explosive split-second performance in Episode 1. It's only two frames long, but quite Emmy-worthy! [laughter]

Is he a great singer?

Absolutely. Every time he opens his face the air moves. The first session I did in his studio, he was 20 feet behind me. We were in the same room, with my back to him. When he started singing, everything was resonating – the desk, my chair – all while he was effortlessly projecting that unmistakable tone and that incredible swagger. It's partly the reason why EMI signed an £80 million contract with him – the biggest record deal in Britain's history at the time. He's definitely legit.

What about the Hadrien Feraud Bass of Doom Sessions? I chose the first video from that YouTube series as one of my picks for Tape Op's 2023 Staff Favorites.

Thanks! That whole thing was crazy. Katja [Koren] and I were talking about recording a cover from Joni Mitchell's Mingus album for her solo project, and we naturally wanted my old housemate Hadrien on bass. Coincidentally, a few days later I got a message from him saying he's borrowing Jaco [Pastorius]'s actual Bass of Doom from Robert Trujillo [Metallica], and that we've got to record it. Crazy, right? So, we chose two of Hadrien's new originals and Joni's "Black Crow'' and booked a last-minute session in Studio 1 at EastWest. There were no rehearsals, some crappy charts, and we only had time for a couple of takes of each song. I'm incredibly proud of how it turned out, and as a lifelong Jaco fan I'm still in shock that I got to hold and play – let alone record – that very instrument. For anyone questioning why the bass looks different in the videos, it's because Jaco smashed it to bits and had it restored. It was painstakingly reconstructed and refinished, but that unmistakable tone is still there.

How did you connect with Scott Bradlee and Postmodern Jukebox?

Scott emailed me on a recommendation from tap dancer Sarah Reich, whose album New Change I had previously worked on. He didn't really say much other than, "Would you be interested in coming out to Encino for a few hours on Friday afternoon to record a video?" I live in Pasadena, and Encino is not that far by way of crow. But it might as well be Mars during L.A. rush hour! I thought to myself, "Hell no." Plus, I had no idea what PMJ was and wrongly assumed I'd be subbing a one-off. Though ever curious, I had a change of heart and accepted the gig. I showed up and there was a collection of fair-to-decent gear already set up – equipment and placements I wouldn't normally choose. But I used what they had, where they had it, wanting to leave no trace. I ended up doing one... two... three videos over time... and I was thinking, "When's this other engineer going to come back?" I asked, "What's the deal? I'd like to make some different choices, but I don't wanna mess with your engineer's setup." Scott's said, "Do whatever you want. You're now the guy." Now I'm handling the entire PMJ audio department. Which is entirely me. [laughs]

Scott Bradlee and Postmodern Jukebox gained a viral video craze of amazing session musicians performing a popular song that's been rearranged to match a particular theme, so that the song ends up being not just a cover, but an unexpected mashup. You're working with a strong creative direction that he's already pictured in his mind, right?

One hundred percent. Part of Scott's success is allowing those around him to do what they do best. He's concise, but not controlling. He knows what he wants, but, more importantly, what he doesn't want. He has excellent ears, and his pitch is astounding. When we're tracking, he trusts me to do whatever I envision, and it's the same when mixing. We'll compare notes when it comes to choosing takes but he always has the final say. He'll give notes like, "Bump the vocal a dB, and lower the snare," Or, "Let's try a different reverb and ditch the delay," But he's entrusted me to help shape the current Postmodern Jukebox sound, and I cherish the freedom.

Isn't it more complicated than that? Every single song has a different aesthetic, and each song is taking something that exists in modern times and is putting it back to an era or genre from the past. Also, you're mixing to picture.

To me, mixing to picture is much more restrictive than mixing without, and proper soundstaging is imperative. It's something I'm always conscious of, so what you see aligns with what you hear. As for the sound, mashing sonic eras together is the fun part! The aesthetic challenge is finding that balance where something new must sound old, yet the old must present as new. It’s either vintage clear or hazy modern. We're consciously blending eras so that someone who was actually there in the past would today say, "This sounds like yesterday." And someone growing up on heavy Auto-Tune and EDM can listen and go, "Low key. This slaps." 

How do the musicians hear themselves? How do you handle monitoring?

There's no monitoring whatsoever. This forces everyone to listen intently as they’re playing to the rooms, which historically have been acoustic nightmares. Until recently, it's been Scott's various living rooms, or perhaps a restaurant or roller rink, but rarely a proper acoustic space. Hence the inconsistency in sound over the years. Now that we've built a new soundstage in Nashville and upgraded all the gear, the sonics have taken a tremendous step forward. The entire facility is purpose-built, and Scott had me configure it with good gear. I've had working relationships with certain manufacturers over the years, so we've got AMS Neve, Daking, Tube-Tech, Antelope Audio, plus a wide selection of mics from DPA and Lewitt, as well as a handful of Schoeps and Neumann. Primacoustic panels control the acoustics. I designed it to sound like a medium-sized club, but without the slapback and sticky floors. There's no control room, and I'm 20 feet from the band wearing Focal headphones. We do have some JBL LSR6328Ps flanked by an ASC AttackWall for cranking playback.

Do you always track live, or are there overdubs?

Everything goes down live with no click, no overdubs, and no punches. The biggest sonic challenge is that camera-framing dictates that everyone is packed tightly together without gobos or dividers. Drums are 6 feet from an open piano. The horn section stands 8 feet from the background vocals, while a muted trumpet aims directly at the back of the lead singer's neck. Upright bass is 3 feet from a kick drum, with an acoustic guitar seated under a trombone across from a string quartet. It's a bleedy mess. On a typical tracking day, I'll stumble in with coffee, check out the set-dressing, and work out the blocking and sightlines. Piano here, horns there, etc… working together until everyone is happy. I'll start running lines while figuring out what I want to capture and how. I’ll hide mics for a clean visual, but Scott doesn’t mind the cables being a little messy to show we’re legit recording live. Eventually, musicians show up, charts get printed, and as they run down the arrangement for the first time I'll start getting tones – usually 15 or 20 minutes. Once the band is confident, we'll start recording. If I need more time I'll take it, but when musicians are ready to record, I press record, because their impact is forever greater than mine.

Every session must be a trial by fire!

Definitely! I love that. Every arrangement is different than the last, and I never know what’s happening until I arrive. I’ve learned so much doing this gig, and I discover something new every session as I’m experimenting endlessly. One of the greatest lessons I've learned from this experience is to quickly recognize the truly important details. In today's world, we can fix everything, so there's a tendency to over-scrutinize and clean up – nudge this and push that – at the risk of ending up with something antiseptic. I've let go of things that would have driven me crazy in the past, and now I listen for that humanity. As engineers, that's ultimately what we're doing, right? We're capturing audible emotions. "Does the performance move you? Great, we're done. No? Let's do another." We may hear issues with our professional ears, but nobody's buying a record because of a snare sound or because the vocals were tracked with a vintage Tubefukr251. They're buying because some artist gives them an emotional hit. They're freely experiencing the music and not the audio. I'm not saying sloppy is okay, gear doesn’t matter, or that we shouldn't fix a bad note – far from it. I'm merely suggesting that perfection might not always lock to a grid and that quality exists along many planes. Everything matters, except when it doesn't. As long as the moves we make have an emotional purpose, we'll be fine. The funny thing is, Scott mixed the majority of the early PMJ on his laptop, and I don't mean he used a laptop connected to an interface connected to speakers. He used a laptop, listening to the built-in speakers. The fact that you can be so successful mixing music on a laptop – and now have over six million subscribers and two billion views on YouTube – throws a rotten banana into everything we obsess over as engineers. I've definitely relaxed a bit, and it's changed the way I listen, produce, and engineer.

Incredible. Where do you go from here?

Who knows? My spirit is open to whatever the universe has in store. Though honestly, I'd like to open my own spot, and I'm open to investors. So, if everyone reading could kindly send $5! [laughter] It wouldn't be a commercial joint, but a private professional space for collaborative explorations. There's an amazing community of artists here in L.A. that deserve great-sounding recordings but don't have the financial means to deliver them. With my own facility, I know I could help!