Interviews

Bill Cutler: With a Lot of Help from His Friends

Jonathan Lane — Fri, 30 May 2008 09:21:32 -0700

Garcia and Other Top Bay Area Rockers Make This “Debut” Album Memorable

Drum roll, please…The 2008 Patience and Perseverance Award for a Rock Recording goes to….BILL CUTLER! Yes, 33 years after singer-songwriter Bill Cutler—older brother of Grateful Dead/Garcia Band sound engineer John Cutler—went into Wally Heider Studios in San Francisco with Jerry Garcia and others to lay down tracks on a bunch of Bill’s songs, the album is finally out. Cutler’s Crossing the Line was released this past March on Magnatude Records and has been garnering some seriously good buzz in the Dead Head community. Not only does it include six fine songs with Garcia on lead guitar (tracked in 1975), it also features a slew of other top Bay Area players, including Jorma Kaukonen, Mark Karan, David Nelson, Bob Weir, Matthew Kelly, Dave Torbert, Michael Falzarano, Jerry Miller and many others. Of course, the impressive guest list wouldn’t mean much if the songs and Cutler’s own lead vocals weren’t consistently strong and compelling. Make no mistake about it. This is his album, through and through. There’s a really nice balance of styles here, from solid rock (“Flash Flood”), to ballads (the lovely “Delta Nightingale”), to blues (“Sugar for Sugar”), to hot-pickin’ countryish tunes (the “Cumberland”-ish “Rockingham Mill”), to the exceptional, obviously Van Morrison-influenced “Ridin’ High,” which has Garcia blazing at his best.

How the album came to be and why it had such a long gestation make for a very interesting tale, which Bill Cutler shared with me recently. We started by talking about growing up on the East Coast…

Did you and your brother John move to the West Coast together or separately?

We came out here separately but around the same time. I actually started coming out here in ’67. That’s when I dropped out of school. So I came out just exploring; then I came back in the summer of ’68 again, and then I made the final move in 1970. It took me a few years to sort of organize myself and move out here.

Where did you grow up?

I grew up in a combination of Manhattan and Stamford, Connecticut. We moved to Connecticut from around the time I was 9 or 10 until I graduated, then my parents moved back to Manhattan, so John grew up more in Manhattan than I did., but we both went back and forth.

Had you been in bands back east?

Yes, my whole life I’ve been singing. I started out as a kid singing in glee club and stuff like that, and then I was in two or three bands back East. I was in a band called the Mourning After—how psychedelic is that name? [Laughs]—which played all the clubs you could play in Connecticut and fraternity parties and other little college things. The repertoire was a combination of originals by me, very primitive early psychedelic tunes, and covers of Moby Grape and whoever already had a record deal in the psychedelic world. We covered early Stones and Yardbirds; things like that. I was in another band called Dr. Fate’s Experiment…

Oh, man, you can’t make this shit up! [Laughs]

Exactly! A great name, isn’t it? I was also friendly with and influenced by a band back there I wasn’t in called NGC 4594, which had a song called “Goin’ Home,” which was an early psychedelic hit tune.

But I actually spent most of my time back there playing in Greenwich Village as a singer-songwriter-folk musician. I did the regular, standard clubs—Gaslight Café, the Café Wha, The Bitter End and The Four Winds. For me, Dylan had been my major influence going back as far as ’62-’63—he’s the one who made me think I wanted to be a songwriter. I opened shows for Eric Andersen and David Blue, Phil Ochs. I even opened a show for Dylan at the Gaslight.

How did the San Francisco scene in ’67 compare to what was happening in Greenwich Village?

It was completely different. The New York scene was much more about little groups of people who played certain kinds of music and were in their own little circles. The San Francisco scene seemed like a movement. It was like walking into a place where everyone was in one tribe together. And I hadn’t experienced that. On the East Coast, you kept your cards a little closer to your vest and [in SF] it was a more visual, less verbal sort of a culture.

When I was growing up in New York and learning how to play guitar and stuff, I was looking at the kinds of musicians that would play in New York sessions, and they were tremendously disciplined—jamming was not even a part of the picture. If you had a session in New York and it was called for 10 o’clock, you arrived at 10 o’clock and you were given parts to play. What I was aspiring to in New York was the whole Brill Building songwriter thing, which was very controlled and business-like. The minute I got to San Francisco, I immediately ran in to the other extreme: “You’ve got four chords and we jam on ‘em for 25 minutes.” [Laughs] So it was interesting to take my disciplined New York songwriter side and collide it into, for lack a of a better way of putting it, a Grateful Dead non-navigated experimentation side. It turned out to be a good combination for me. It loosened me up and let me see the value of letting players really do something unique with my music.

Culturally, out here I got into psychedelics more, I met some fascinating people, and I said, ‘I’ve got to live out here.’ The scene was so open and people were so accessible, whereas in New York, the music business people were far more remote and hard to reach.

At Coast Recorders in SF during the last set of tracking sessions for the album are (L-R): Pat Campbell, David Perper, Bill Cutler, Chris Solberg, Mark Karan and David Nelson

So when you come out in ’70 with an eye on music, it’s changed a bit—a lot of musicians have dispersed to Marin…

The real bridge for me into the scene when I moved out here came when I decided I wanted to make a demo of some of my tunes so I’d have something of a calling card. I looked around and thought, “Well, the engineer I liked the best is Steve Barncard,” [who’d recorded American Beauty and David Crosby’s first album, among others], so I called him out of the phone book and asked him to make a demo with me at Funky Jacks’ Recording [actually known as Funky Features, run by Jack Leahy] in the Haight. And he said, “OK!” It blew my mind! [Laughs]. So we made the tape and as a result of that it kind of got circulated around to whoever Stephen bumped into, and one day it fell into the hands of [Canadian folk singer and songwriter] David Rea. I’d been here a couple of years by then, passing the hat playing for tourists at the Cannery [in SF], playing in places like the Coffee Gallery, and gradually starting to put a band together. Anyway, I got a call from David Rea saying he liked the song “Ridin’ High” off my demo and he wanted to know if I wanted to audition for his band. So I did, and the other guys at the audition were Matthew Kelly, Chris Herold, James Ackroyd from James & the Good Brothers, and Pete Sears. At the end of a long day of people jamming and talking, David hired me. So I went from doing my own thing to being a support player in that situation.

They were in the middle of cutting the David Rea & Slewfoot album for Columbia, so I wound up on some of the tracks on that album, playing rhythm and singing backup and stuff. And Bob Weir and Barncard were co-producing that record with David, so that put me into that world. There were a lot of good people on that record: On this track the drummer was Spencer Dryden, on that one the keyboard player was Keith Godchaux, or Charles Lloyd was playing horns; with the core of us. Meanwhile, Matthew and Chris Herold and I were becoming good friends. Slewfoot played around as a band a little, including the Columbia Records convention in ’73, but right about that time, as the record was starting to do pretty well, Clive Davis was fired as president of Columbia and a lot of the acts he had signed that weren’t super-successful—which included us at that point—were dropped from the label.

It’s an old record biz story…

It is an old story, but it’s amazing how often it happens. Still! You need a guy at a label who supports you, and if you don’t have that you’re in trouble. The Sons of Champlin were dropped. We were dropped. Copperhead, which was John Cipollina’s great new band, was dropped. Once Clive was gone, it left a big hole in the northern California music scene.

So at that point I found myself on my own, and that’s when I put the band Heroes together. There were a lot of incarnations of Heroes…

We met originally in 1976 at Weir’s studio when you were recording with Heroes. I had just started working for BAM [magazine] at the time.

That’s right. In 1976, we were the first band to record there, and that’s when you and I met. We probably recorded half an album’s worth of material there. We also recorded a bunch of other stuff at Wally Heider’s. We actually did quite a bit of recording, but we never got a record out mostly because we had this awful string of bad luck—just as we started to get somewhere, a member left or a member died or something happened that would set us back and make us change course. But we did some demos and we played around and we developed a pretty good-sized draw—we headlined a lot of places in San Francisco.

Since you’d had a relationship with Herold and Kelly, was there any talk about you joining Kingfish, which was developing around that time?

Well, originally, Kingfish was going to be a very blues-oriented band, because that’s what Matthew wanted to do. Blues wasn’t really my background—I was more rock, country-rock, folk, R&B. Then, shortly after the band got started, Bobby announced that he wanted to join as the rhythm guitar player and lead singer, and that would’ve been the spot I would’ve had.

Aced out by Ace!

[Laughs] Well, it wasn’t really like that, because I was never close to being in that band. I co-wrote “Home for Dixie” and other things with Matthew and we were pretty close. Before Kingfish, I had worked on Wing and a Prayer, Matt’s solo album, with him back in ’73, after Slewfoot broke up. [That album was not released until the ’80s.] That was the first recording of “Ridin’ High” and that was also the first time I played with Jerry and played with Bobby, because we played in the studio together. I also helped with production on some other tracks I didn’t play on.

Let’s talk about how this album was put together. It’s amazingly seamless considering you’ve got tracks on here that are more than 30 years old combined with things of a much more recent vintage.

Well, it was my desire to make a timeless album that was a songwriter’s album on which the song could be focused on and you weren’t distracted by any of that. A lot of the credit for how seamless it sounds belongs to Russell Bond, who is a very skilled engineer and put in countless hours with me on this project.

Would it be rude of me to say that this album sounds like it could’ve been made in 1974?

Not at all. An album that sounds like this could have been made in 1974; but this album couldn’t have been made in ’74, because the technology required didn’t exist then. If it had been made in ’74, there would be more bleed and hiss and all that kind of stuff.

But in terms of the songwriting, the instrumentation, the feel…

Right. The approach.

How did it end up being this combination of sessions from different decades?

What happened is this: In 1975 I went in and cut what was really the first half of this album at Wally Heiders with a core group of musicians that was sort of becoming Heroes, which included Pat Campbell on bass—he later played in the Good Old Boys with Jerry, and played with Mike Bloomfield and various others. We also had Austin deLone on keyboards—he was great then and great now. Scotty Quik was on lead guitar—he’d been friends with Matthew and Chris and had been in Horses and other bands that fed into that world, and he and I knew each other from the Wing and a Prayer days. I played rhythm guitar and did vocals, and Carl Tassi played drums on the original sessions. Unfortunately, only one of Carl’s tracks survives on this record, bceause the most difficult thing to preserve over 20 or 30 years is drums, because they’re usually on the edge tracks of the tape, which are the ones that tend to decay first.

How did Jerry get involved?

Well, we met on the Wing and a Prayer sessions and in the course of seeing him around, he heard a bunch of my songs and said, “If you ever make an album of your stuff, I’d be happy to help out.” Which was a pretty exciting offer, of course! [Laughs] In fact, I’m not sure I even believed it at first, because people say that kind of stuff all the time and nothing ever comes of it. And I knew how busy Jerry was.

As it turns out, though, before I went in the studio with Pat and Austin and Scotty, Jerry heard that I was going in to record and told me he wanted to play on the tracks. Because the Dead weren’t touring then [during the Dead’s performing hiatus of ’75-’76], he actually had some time and he came by, rehearsed a little with us, and we recorded about half an album with him. He seemed really comfortable in the group. We got some great stuff down, recording a bunch of basic tracks with scratch vocals, and then Jerry added his solos. Steve Barncard was our engineer at Heider’s.

The plan was to cut a bunch more tracks at some point, but what happened is the Grateful Dead went back out onto the road [in mid –’76] and then they got so busy that there was just never an opportunity to do more, so I literally put the tapes in a closet and they sat there for many, many years.

But you talked to Garcia later about working on the album again, didn’t you?

Yes, we re-connected at a Garcia band show at the Warfield in 1993.

Wow, that’s a long time later.

Yeah, it was. I was working with a hip-hop group called the Mystery Tramps and we did a rap version of “Like a Rolling Stone” that Dylan allowed us to use a sample of his voice for—him going, “How does it feel?” Which was a big deal because Dylan had never approved a sample before. So I brought a copy of it to the Warfield to show it to Jerry, and I was surprised that he asked me about what had happened to the tracks we’d recorded at Heider’s all those years ago. He said, “We should finish that album!” At his suggestion I went into Front Street [the Dead’s studio] with my brother and Jeffrey Norman to bake the tapes [to eliminate the build up of sticky emulsion on the analog tapes], and when we played them they did still sound really good. But, unfortunately, we never got back to it in time, and of course by the summer of 1995, Jerry was gone, and I put the tapes back in my closet again.

Literally a closet?

Sure. It was dry and dark. I’ve seen tapes stored in much worse places, believe me. [Laughs]

So at some point, though, you got back to work on this and cut the second half of the album…

It took me a year or two after Jerry died to feel like I wanted to work on the material; just to get over the raw emotions and everything. Then I started looking for a backer and it was a hard project to explain to people. I wanted to have complete artistic control and make it my album with the contributions of all these people. I didn’t want to misrepresent it.

You mean by emphasizing Jerry’s participation?

Right. I mean, I knew that would be interesting to people, and I’m proud to have Jerry on there, of course, but I didn’t want people thinking that’s what the album was about, because it’s just part of it, obviously. Anyway, eventually Greg Torre and Kurt Burgess, who are both great guys, decided to back the project. That was in 1998.

You managed to snag some pretty good guitarists to help you out on the next round of recording: Mark Karan, Barry Sless, Jerry Miller, Jorma…

I was very fortunate. They’re all people I’ve known for a long time; I’ve known Mark since the early ’70s when he was in the Sarah Baker Band. I’ve known Barry since he started playing in the David Nelson Band. Jerry Miller played with Heroes as a guest guitarist at the first Haight Street Fair in ’78, and Jorma and I recorded together in the ’80s with Michael Falzarano. I wanted to find people who would sound right for the material. It wasn’t just guitarists, either. We cut new drum tracks and keyboards and all sorts of other things. The basic tracks for the next round of recordings were done at Coast Recorders. I was able to cut new lead vocals on all the material, which was done at Russell Bond’s studio, called Howling Point, in Los Gatos. The backup vocals were recorded at Jeff Watson’s studio in Mill Valley by Russell and me. Gary Mankin, another great engineer who I’ve worked with for years, was the main engineer on the second half of the record, though Russell recorded the overdubs and did the mixing.

Was it difficult to match the sound of the older tapes?

We listened to the old tracks and we didn’t match the sounds exactly, but we used some of the same gear [as the original sessions] and that signal path. The new material was cut analog through a Neve [console] onto a Studer [multitrack tape recorder] just like the original stuff. We did the basic tracks at Coast Recorders in San Francisco, which was the closest thing I could find that was like the old Heider’s studio. It had all the right gear and a big, good-sounding drum room, which we needed.

We also worked with Pro Tools. By this time—1999 or 2000—Pro Tools had gotten to the stage where I was willing to put this beautiful analog stuff in there and it didn’t feel like a sonic sacrifice. Once we moved everything into Pro Tools [for editing and overdubs] we would take our rig wherever we needed to and that gave us more flexibility.

How different do you sound now as a singer?

I sound much the same. I sang in the same keys. I haven’t lost any of my range.

Do you have a favorite track?

Well, they’re all important to me in different ways. I guess “Delta Nightingale” is one, though, because it was such a revelation to hear it after all these years and hear all the sensitive work from Jerry on it and to have these wonderful backup vocals on it now.

I like the sort of Van Morrison-ish feel of a lot of the backup vocals on the album.

Well, the female back up singers are Desiree Goyette, Conesha Owens and Sandy Griffith. They were terrific to work with! I didn’t have a target record I wanted it to sound like. I just let it be what it was and I wanted it to be cohesive from track to track and make sure the bottom end was consistent. There were three different bass players on the album—Pat Campbell, Chris Solberg and Dave Torbert—so it was a challenge to unify the sound. Joe Gastwirt did the mastering and really helped tie it all together.

What’s the story behind “Starlite Jamboree,” which has Jerry on it but also seems to be about Jerry?

How that came about is that Jerry and I used to bullshit about this idea I had for a film. He had bought the rights to [the Kurt Vonnegut book] Sirens of Titan, and was really into film and science fiction and all that. So one day I said to him, “Wouldn’t it be cool to have a Twilight Zone where you could play music with guys who had already died?” He loved that idea and we nicknamed it the “Starlite Jamboree.” We used to say, “I’ll meet you at the Starlite Jamboree,” but it was a joke. Anyway, I also had these [chord] changes I used to call “Starlite Jamboree,” though I didn’t have any lyrics for them. I’d try a lyric and it’d suck. Jerry had played some guitar licks over these chords that I really liked, and I thought, “I’ve gotta finish that someday.” Then, when Jerry died, I decided to write the lyrics about him. I re-recorded the whole song with Barry [Sless] and Mark Karan and [drummer] David Perper and various others, and I was able to import Jerry’s track and put it on at the same tempo as the old one. I’m really happy with how it came out.

So when was the album completed?

We mixed it in 2001.

Why did it take so many years to get it out, then?

Well, after that we ran into the issue of clearances for all of our players and all the legal ramifications—there was turmoil around the Garcia estate, so it took a long time to settle all the legal issues around the record.

You must be thrilled to have this album finally out after all these years.

I can’t even put it into words. It’s been the strangest and most exhausting thing I’ve ever been involved in, but it’s also been so exciting and so satisfying. I’m getting letters and emails from all over the world. Because Pete Morticelli at Magnatude Records chose to release it in Europe and Asia and made deals with iTunes and Amazon and dead.net, it’s available everywhere, no matter how you like to get your music. I’m hearing from four generations of people, and most of the feedback has been extremely positive, so it’s been an incredible experience. And we’re still just getting the word out…

I presume you have newer songs, too, that will perhaps see the light of day?

Sure. I’m always writing, so I have a huge backlog of material; certainly more than enough to do another album, which I’ll think about depending on how things go with this.

And hopefully you won’t be 90 when it comes out!

[Laughs] Yeah, maybe the next one can come out a little quicker! Of course, I’ve been on other records in between, and in bands, so it’s not like I’ve been sitting around for 30 years only working on this. But amazingly enough this is my debut as a solo artist!

* * *

To order Bill’s album click here.

Jackie Greene: New Album is Out; Touring with P&F and Solo

Analise Dubner — Wed, 09 Apr 2008 11:04:37 -0700

These are exciting days for Phil Lesh & Friends singer/songwriter/guitarist/keyboardist Jackie Greene. Not only does he have a truckload of dates with that group planned for the spring and summer, but he just released his much-anticipated new album, Giving Up the Ghost (on the 429 label, a subsidiary of Savoy) and will also be playing shows all over with his fine solo band.

For anyone who has followed Greene’s remarkable pre-P&F career, the depth and excellence of Giving Up the Ghost will come as no surprise. Over the course of a handful of superb albums through the years—each a revelation in its own way—Greene has shown himself to be a unique and formidable talent with strong connections to a variety of musical styles—blues, rock, soul, folk, country; pretty much the whole American roots cornucopia. His lyric style is similarly eclectic—he moves easily and naturally between straight-forward musings and more abstract poetic rambles; he can be amazingly forthright and self-revelatory or deliciously opaque—sometimes within the same song! He’s written incredibly simple, delicate love songs and complex journeys into the darker parts of the human psyche. Just in the songs of his that he’s performed live with Phil & Friends, you can get a sense of the range of his writing (and singing): The marvelous, folksy “Gone Wanderin’”; the lusty “Tell Me Mama”; the exotic Latin-flavored “Mexican Girl”; the big bounce of “So Hard to Find My Way”; the dark power of the rockin’ “Cold Black Devil”; the infectious soul of “Like A Ball and Chain.”

That dynamite last tune—certain to be a radio favorite if there’s any justice left in radioland—is one of several tracks from Giving Up the Ghost that Phil & Friends have played live. (The others are “Don’t Let the Devil Take Your Mind,” “Downhearted” and “Prayer for Spanish Harlem.”) No doubt others will find their way into the repertoire this spring and summer. The album was recorded in the fall of 2007, before, during and after P&F’s tour. Los Lobos’ Steve Berlin, who co-produced Jackie’s 2006 masterpiece, American Myth, with Greene, once again was at the helm for Ghost. It was recorded in Sacramento, San Francisco (at the studio Jackie shares with Tim Bluhm of Mother Hips, called Mission Bells), L.A., Chicago, Brooklyn and Portland (where Berlin lives). As was the case on Myth, some of the tracks feature a band made up of L.A. session musician friends of Berlin’s who collectively go by the name Jackshit: guitarist Val McCallum, bassist Davey Farragher and drummer Pete Thomas (of Elvis Costello fame). On half the tunes, though, the basic tracks were laid down by Jackie’s superb band: guitarist Nathan Dale, bassist/guitarist Jeremy Plog and drummer Bruce Spencer. Guests on a track or two each include the incomparable pedal steel guitarist Greg Leisz, Los Lobos’ David Hidalgo, drummer Cougar Estrada and Berlin on various instruments, horn players Mic Gillette and George Brooks, P&F string wizard Larry Campbell (on violin, mandolin and vocals) and Phil Lesh—he recorded a bass track for the song “Animal” backstage at the Nokia Theater in New York during the band’s ten-night run there last year.

It’s an album of many moods: There’s the dark, atmospheric love song “Prayer for Spanish Harlem” (“Hot night, Spanish Harlem / full moon creeping low / I was standing at the bottom / your blue window”), and the light, Steve Miller-catchy Cajun romp “Another Love Gone Bad”; the driving and menacing “Don’t Let the Devil Take Your Mind” (“Temptation’s like a crooked finger / calling for us all”), and the acoustic guitar-driven anthem “Uphill Mountain,” in which he optimistically sings, “tell John Henry and Cassius Clay / swinging iron for a living is a hell of a way / but whatever you do don’t let your hammer stray / and I believe we’ll be just fine.” Jackie has said that perseverance is one theme that’s running through the album, and that’s something he knows a thing or two about, having had his share of music biz setbacks (like his last label, Verve Forecast, flaking out on him) even as his following has grown each year. It’s never been more hazardous to predict success for someone in the music industry, but Giving Up the Ghost feels like it could be his commercial breakthrough: There are solid hooks galore, a wide variety of unusual guitar and keyboard textures that always keep things interesting, and, typical of Jackie, his chameleon voice is amazing throughout—soft and gentle here, gritty and soulful when needed. All in all it’s a varied and vital work; certainly among the year’s best. And if you’ve enjoyed his tenure in Phil & Friends, by all means come out and catch one of his shows with his band—they put on a great show. (He also tours from time to time with Tim Bluhm as the Skinny Singers, playing other material, and has been known to work as a duo with guitarist Nathan Dale.)

Although I’d interviewed Jackie a couple of times last year for dead.net (and reviewed American Myth back in 2006), I’d never actually met him until I went to his funky-but-functional Mission Bells studio, located above a Peruvian restaurant, in February. Dressed head-to-toe in black, save for white socks, he was open and engaging as we talked shop about the recording of the new album, Phil & Friends and even a bit about his youth and teenage years.

I like the new album. I had to adjust to it a little; I’m not sure why. American Myth had a certain intimacy to it in songs like “Love Song 2 a.m.” and “Walking Away” that made it feel very personal, and this seems to be a little less folk-y.

It’s a little more abstract. It has certain kinds of sounds and a different quality of the sounds. It’s a little more lo-fi, you might say, on purpose. We did things like put vocals through a Tascam 4-track cassette recorder—used the preamps just to fuck ‘em up.

How Tchad Blake-ian! [Tchad Blake is a sonically adventurous engineer/producer who recorded many of Los Lobos’ classic mid-period albums.]

Exactly! Just mess with it on purpose to add a sort of glaze to the whole thing that blurs it a little bit; makes it a little ghost-y.

Tell me a bit about your approach following American Myth. Are these songs all ones that were written since that album, or are there tunes that date farther back?

They were all completed since that record. And there are some songs that are over a year-and-a-half old. I keep a lot of notebooks and I’ll dig around in them when I’m looking for songs, or I’ll listen to old demos and think, “What about that one—anything I can do with this one? Nah. How ‘bout this one? Well, maybe.” If it seems interesting I’ll probably do a lot of re-writing of it. With this record in particular, though, they’re fairly new.

But you didn’t write them in the studio.

Not really, no. Though “Another Love Gone Bad” was kind of written in the studio because all I had was a demo and melody for it and a couple of verses, and I sort of did it on the spot.

Do you write on guitar always?

Mostly, because that’s what’s always there. Like, if your on the road in a hotel room, I don’t have a piano in there. [Laughs] I will write on piano occasionally, though, and sometimes on something I don’t play that well, like the banjo or mandolin; something where I don’t really know what I’m doing.

Well, that pushes you in some interesting directions. Garcia used to say he liked writing on piano because he didn’t play it well.

Right. It limits you: What can I make out of these three chords I just learned on this instrument? [Laughs]

How elaborate will your demos be? Steve Berlin told me that “Animal” started out as one of your demos.

That’s right. In fact we used a lot of stuff from the demo on the finished track. Almost everything you hear is something I played originally on the demo, but later we went back and put a better drummer on there, and added a few other things. For that song I wanted it to be a certain way, with fake strings—mellotron and other things around the sides.

Where do you found a mellotron in this day and age?

You find them in some studios—like Sonora down in L.A. has one. Or you can get pretty good samples of mellotrons now. On “Animal” I wanted to have this big fat groove in the middle that’s almost like some lo-fi rap groove.

Well, that tune and “Ghosts of Promised Lands” have that sung-spoken thing happening.

They do. It’s a little Lou Reed-ish I guess.

Are those things you write out as poetry first and then fit to a tune?

Not “Animal.” That was straight-up a song. I just started singing it and had the mind-set of sort of rambling on with it, and I pretty much wrote it down all at once. And “Promised Lands” was the opposite—it was from various writings and piecing it together with the structure of a song, and it fit, so I got lucky.

Tell me about the process of making this album. I know you went initially to a studio called The Hangar in Sacramento, where you cut “Look Out Cleveland” for the Band tribute album, and then also did a few tracks for what would become this album.

Right. We did the basics for two or three songs there. We probably did 2/5 of it here [at Mission Bells], 2/5 in Sonora and 1/5 at The Hangar. Then the overdubs happened in all kinds of studios.

In this studio, all the basics were done on that one-inch tape machine, which arguably is the noisiest format you can use, but there’s some kind of charm about it that I like; again that kind of mid- lo-fi thing. All of it was done on tape in the beginning stages and then moved onto Pro Tools [digital workstation].

It was a record that was made in many cities because it was kind of made on the Phil Lesh tour, which was definitely different than anything I’ve done before. You know—waking up Chicago and Steve [Berlin] calls up and says “We’re in CRC [Chicago Recording Company] today!” “What are we working on?” “Well, we need you sing this and this and do this other overdub.” “OK!” [Laughs] We did that in New York, too. It was like being in touring mode while recording, so when I listen to it there’s a certain sense of restlessness, like you’re not at home.

Well, that’s kind of a theme running through your work, from Gone Wanderin’ on down.

That’s true. And I don’t mean it in a negative way at all. Maybe I hear it more, too because I know how it was done. [Laughs]

Are there things you and Steve wanted to avoid that you’d done on American Myth?

Not so much avoid, as certain things we wanted to go further with. When we talked about it, we decided it had to be different and darker than the last one.

When you say darker do you mean sonically or thematically?

Both.

Are you in a dark space right now?

No, I’m not, but the songs are, I guess. [Laughs] But particularly sonically. Like on “Don’t Let the Devil Take Your Mind,” instead of acoustic guitar, we have a clanging Dobro playing chords, instead of slide. It’s a little more sinister; things like that.

Ultimately it was going to be what it was going to be.

I was surprised when Steve Berlin told me that originally Verve didn’t want him producing the album after American Myth. I don’t know what their complaints were.

The former president of Verve doesn’t like Steve, and it all boils down to an argument they had many years ago. I’m like, “C’mon, you guys, act like adults!” It was retarded.

For better or for worse, I’m glad I’m not still with Verve. It became sort of a sinking ship and I got the chance to jump ship and I did. This record label [429/Savoy] loves Steve, so everybody’s happy.

How did you pick the songs that ended up on the album? I know you write a lot…

Steve definitely has more say than I do. There were like 20 songs that he had demos for and he starts saying, “How about these?” and I say, “But this one has to be on there,” and so I’ll get my one song on there. [Laughs]. I’m kidding—for the most part we agreed. It was sort of obvious which songs we should do and which ones didn’t quite fit or couldn’t be done.

How about in terms of which musicians to use on which tracks. Was that obvious, too?

No, it wasn’t obvious. It came down partly to time. The guys in my band knew some of the songs, because they’re ones we’d been playing [live], so it was obvious they’d do those.

Let’s see: “Ball and Chain” is Jackshit, “Shaken” is Jackshit, “Animal” is my band, “I Don’t Live in a Dream” is actually just me…

I like that tune, with the cool percussion; it’s kind of hypnotic…

There’s actually two drum kits, with me playing the main kit, and then on the bridge Cougar Estrada of Los Lobos comes in with a completely separate kit that sounds all room-y. Then there’s a phffft! and it sucks back to the main kit. The bass is not actually a bass but the low-end of an organ.

Doors-style.

Right. And then the percussion is Cougar played congas and I played cajon.

“Uphill Mountain” is my band, but also, in the chorus, Pete Thomas plays kick and snare to double it, so it’s a little beefier.

How would it occur to you or Oz [Fritz, engineer] to do that?

It occurs to all of us when we listen to the chorus and determine it needs to sound a little fatter. When we recorded it here [at Mission Bells] we taped a tambourine to the snare, we used ride cymbals as hi-hats and fucked up the drum kit to make it not feel like a regular drum kit, but when we got to the chorus I wanted to have a snare sound, and who better to overdub to an existing drum track than Pete Thomas?

“Don’t Let the Devil Take Your Mind” is my band, “Spanish Harlem” is my band. “Downhearted” is Jackshit, “Follow You” is Jackshit, “Love Gone Bad” is Jackshit, “When You Return” is my band, “Promised Land” is Jackshit. So it’s about half and half. And there’s intermingling, too—like Val, the [Jacksit] guitar player, plays on just about everything, and Greg Leisz is on there, too.

How much do you play on there?

I play guitar or electric guitar or electric piano on everything. On some tracks I have a couple of guitars on there. On “Uphill Mountian,” I’m doing a couple of guitars and Val is doing baritone guitar and Nathan [Dale]’s doing another kind of guitar. On “Devil” I’m doing the acoustic and electric guitars in the bridges. It’s a little like painting.

When you have a song that’s you’ve worked out with the band onstage, is it difficult to then re-imagine it in the studio in a different way?

No because the guys in my band are really good at de-structuring, too. So if I say, “Oh no, let’s try it way slower or way faster, and on that last turnaround let’s do it twice,” they can do it like that. They’re all pros.

On a song like “Follow You,” when we started playing it live, even though it was the other band [Jackshit] that did it, it’s a lot different live. When you play something a lot with a band you definitely get into a certain comfort zone: I’m used to playing this guitar in this spot because we know it sounds good and the crowd likes it, but that doesn’t automatically mean it’s the right thing once you get in the studio. You might listen back and think, “God, that guitar is really awful!” [Laughs] So you have to keep an open mind about it.

What’s the studio in L.A., Sonora, like?

We did a lot of American Myth there, too. It’s smallish for an L.A. studio and very, very state-of-the-art 1972 sort of place. It’s got a great API console. They have a great Studer 2-inch [multitrack tape recorder] and loads of funky compressors and a bunch of stuff with knobs and lights, and really great-sounding drum room and a great piano. They also have an apartment piano which is this little thing with something like 76 keys and it only has two strings for each hammer, so it’s very Beatles-sounding and it’s also great when you squash it with a compressor. I want one of those so bad for this place now.

I know you’re a Tom Waits fan from way back; I was going to ask you which era of Tom Waits—the folkier stuff at the beginning or the more idiosyncratic later stuff?

All of it! It’s not fair to ask me because I’m like a Tom Waits freak; I like everything he ever does, touches, smells…I pretty much like it. [Laughs] So I’m not objective about it at all. I like the weird shit, I like the normal shit. I like the pre-gravelly voice, I like the super-gravelly voice.

I haven’t heard much Tom Waits or anything else recently because for the last six months all I’ve been listening to is Grateful Dead music. [Laughs]

Besides Waits, who are some of the people who have influenced your aesthetic. I’m guessing Tchad Blake…

Definitely him.

He likes the weird keyboards and altered vocals and strange drums…

He does! There’s this record that [Los Lobos’] David Hidalgo made called Hound Dog that sounds almost as if every microphone had a sock over it; everything’s really muted.

Well, the Latin Playboys were like that, too.

They were, but this is even more so. It’s fuzz violin and super drugged-out drumming that’s way behind the beat. [Laughs]

Well, then I’ve gotta ask you how you can square that aesthetic with your professed desire to have a real hit…

I can’t! [Laughs] I guess that’s the weirdness of me. Certainly I want to have successful records—who doesn’t?—but I’m not willing to make anything other than what I want to make it sound like. If this is not considered commercially viable, so be it. But if there’s a song on this record that for whatever reason ends up catching the public’s attention, I’m totally for it.

I thought “Ball and Chain” was the obvious radio focus track; I was sort of surprised to hear your record company thinks it’s “Shaken.”

I chose “Ball and Chain,” too, just because it so jumpin’.

In the studio, do you tend to do many takes or try to get it down when it’s fresh and not belabor it?

We do a few takes, but a lot of times we’ll listen back and it’s “Oh, the first take was the best.” I have kind of short attention span for that kind of stuff, so we’ll do maybe five takes, ten tops, before I go “Screw it, you guys can do it without me and I’ll go smoke a cigarette.” But it usually ends up being one of the first three takes because of that sense of freshness and spontaneity.

Do you always do a scratch vocal with the band?

Almost always, and sometimes I’ll even do a final vocal with the band. On American Myth there were a couple [of basic tracks] with final vocals. On this one I don’t think there are any.

I heard the studio in Brooklyn was really nice.

That’s probably my favorite studio I’ve ever been to. It’s one thing to have great gear, which they definitely have—but the most important thing to me is the space; not only how it sounds, but how it feels. It has this beautiful, skinny long room with all this light coming in from the windows on the outside and it’s great-sounding, and they have lots of great instruments.

You have no compunction about going into a studio and picking up a guitar you’ve never seen and an amp you’ve never heard before and recording with it?

No, I love it! I’m not like I’m a Fender guy and I have to play a certain guitar and amp combo.

Hey, it says on your albums you play Gibson guitars!

Well, yeah, I am, because they hook me up! [Laughs] But if the Les Paul through the Vox doesn’t sound right for the song, I’ll use the Strat through a different amp or whatever…

And then not tell Gibson!

Of course not! [Laughs]

Where did you get your gear knowledge? I gather you’ve been recording forever.

I’ve been an avid home recordist since around senior year in high school. I started out with a [Teac] Portastudio and then I used to get little quarter-inch reel-to-reel machines and sync them together. I’d record on one, bounce it to the other one and keep bouncing back—to multitrack.

Hey, it worked on Sgt. Pepper!

There you go. I’d sit in the garage and do that. I had a crappy little mixing board and I’d learn how to bus things out of the mixing board to get four tracks on one track. Then Pro Tools came along and that was amazing. I was kind of late getting into Pro Tools because I was so used to knobs on a mixing board, but I eventually got an Mbox and I started doing demos on that. Then I realized I wasn’t really satisfied with the process of using that, so to this day I still use the Tascam, too.

Did you have your own studio?

No it was just a bunch of stuff piled in my living room. A lot of this stuff here [at Mission Bells].

How did you know what to buy and how to use it? Osmosis?

I read a lot. Things like Tape-op [an ultra-dweeby tech mag]. Also, using other people’s stuff. Most studios had certain pieces of equipment, and you learn that way.

It must be an advantage to be able to articulate what you want to an engineer.

Definitely it’s helpful if you can speak that language. You don’t have to say, “I want it a little more ‘purple.’” [Laughs] I can say, “Let’s use a 20:1 ratio on the compressor and input gain high; output—squash it.”

How does your early stuff sound to you now?

Like shit! [Laughs] No, it is what it is. Rusty Nails was done on a one-inch machine and even some ADAT. Sweet Somewhere Bound was done on ADAT, and Gone Wanderin’ was basically done on an Mbox. It turns out that I prefer tape, and it’s not just the sound of tape—because Pro Tools sounds so good now you can get it to sound any way you want—but the workflow is completely different. I like the fact that on this Otari MX-70 [multitrack tape] machine there’s 16 tracks and track 3 is fucked up; in fact two tracks are broken. So you have 14 tracks to work with, so everything counts. I like to commit things to tape. Committing yourself to a certain thing, like a reverb or effect, is helpful because then you build around that initial color. It’s like building a painting. If you put a giant thing of red in the middle—oh, you’re screwed now! [Laughs]

“Oh, this is going to be one of the red paintings.”

Right! You build around it. I like that. Because otherwise it seems ambiguious. I love Pro Tools, because it’s a life saver, but I hate it because you can sit there and wank on the guitar for 40 tracks and never have to make any decision about it. At some point you have to erase them and get one part that’s right. If you’re working with tape it forces you to do that. Tape is definitely more expensive than hard drive space, of course, but it’s still worth it to me.

When you were going from city to city adding parts to the album, had you plotted out: “Well, this song needs another acoustic guitar and an organ and this one needs a backup vocal?”

To a certain extent. We had roughs that we listened to and we’d decide what we needed to do, and because our time was so limited, we had to be fairly serious about sticking to what we wanted to do. We had an agenda and decided what we had to do on the road and what we could do once we got back. Like, we knew we wanted Larry Campbell to play violin on “Shaken,” and we knew we’d do that in New York because he lives there and we were going to be there for however many shows with Phil.

Did playing any of these tunes with Phil affect how they came out at all? You played “Ball and Chain” a few times with Phil…

That’s true, but we actually did the recording before I started playing it with him. Or the basics at least. Phil had the roughs of some of the songs and that’s how he learned them.

What’s the experience of playing in Phil & Friends been like for you?

It’s been great! It’s super-tiring and it’s a lot of work. It’s a really different way of playing music and it’s really interesting.

I would imagine it’s done things for your guitar playing.

Are you kidding? [Laughs] You have to step it up! Larry Campbell’s out there and all these guys are such great players, I can’t fuck around now. I’ve gotta really try and do something. I’m a glutton for punishment. I don’t mind getting my ass kicked by Larry every night because I’m learning so much from him; I’m stealing all his licks! [Laughs] It’s humbling.

Is it still fun to do even though you’re on the eve of the release of your own thing? You’ll probably be going back and forth working with him and your own band and whatever.

It’s definitely fun because the two projects are intertwined at this point. We’ll do some of these songs with Phil & Friends and they’ll have that vibe, and then I’ll do them with my band and it’ll be different. But the song is still the song; just a different cast of cretins. [Laughs]

I love playing in Phil & Friends. Playing those Jerry songs… I kind of feel like I love a lot of those songs like they’re my own songs, and I want to treat them as if they were mine.

You’ve certainly connected with “Sugaree.”

Yeah, that’s a big one for me. I love “Sugaree”!

What is it you love about it so much?

It’s a perfect soul song. I see it as a very bluesy and soulful tune.

What do you think when you have to perform some of the more lyrically abstract songs, Like “China Cat” or even “St. Stephen”?

I love “China Cat”! And “St. Stephen” to me just fuckin’ rocks; I love playing that song. It’s only abstract in certain parts—in the sort of B-section part, like “lady finger…”—and Phil sings that. But that’s part of what makes it a great song. If it was just the rock part it would still be a great song, but then all of a sudden there’s this weird part that adds so much to the overall song. “China Cat I love because the groove is so infectious and the way the parts go together is really cool.

So you’re committed to working with Phil & Friends though the rest of the year?

I am. We don’t have the final dates for the year, but there will be summer stuff around and after Bonnaroo and then some fall dates as well. And by the end of the year I’ll pretty much be dead, because my band is also doing a lot of stuff in both the spring and the summer. [Laughs]

I noticed quite a few Dead Heads at your band’s Great American Music Hall gig [in December], so it seems like you’re attracting some of that crowd to the base you already were building.

It’s great. I love it. I really want to make the right move and still play some Dead songs in the shows with my band, because there are a bunch of songs I feel really close to. “Sugaree” is definitely one of them, of course. In fact, at this point in time it’s probably my favorite song. I also really like “Bertha”; I’m not sure why.

What I figured out about that song a number of years ago is that it’s basically a bluegrass tune.

It is! But with a straight beat, and then it’s got that half-time feel at the chorus; it’s great.

So do a lot of your friends think your freak for playing with Phil: “What are you doing with that old hippie?”

No, everyone’s been really supportive. Some of them don’t really know what it is before they hear it. And I guess I was in that category, too. [Laughs] But most people are really stoked.

Was playing ten shows in one place[the Nokia Theatre in NY last fall] an interesting experience?

It was. It was really cool. It sounds great in there. You’d think it would be easier because you don’t have to leave and go anywhere, but what happens is Phil just makes the shows longer! You leave the show, you get back to the hotel and you get up at noon…

And then there are the famously long soundchecks.

Right, like a two-hour soundcheck! You wake up, “Shit, I gotta go to soundcheck!” You end up being there for like eight hours—it’s like working a 9 to 5 job except it’s even more stressful and tiring! [Laughs]

Well, that’s what you get for playing in a band with a medical marvel.

I don’t know how he does it, lugging those big basses around. I’m choosing the lightest guitars I can. It’s been really cool, though.

Are New York fans crazier?

They definitely wait outside longer and through more weather before and after the show. But they’re really nice and they seemed to take a liking to me, which made me feel calmer. With a lot of these Phil shows I feel like I’m trying out for the Lakers every night, because I don’t know these people and I’m going to sing a lot of these songs they love so much and I don’t want to let ’em down. So it’s a lot of anxiety for me.

It doesn’t show.

Well, then I’m a good actor. But I think I got through to them.

What’s the story with the Skinny Singers?

Well, it’s me and Tim [Bluhm], my partner in the studio and it’s all songs we’ve written together. Tim is one of my favorite songwriters of all time, and a great musician. I was a fan of the Mother Hips and we were both in New York—he was playing a solo show and we were there and had the night off, so I went to see him at this little coffee shop called Jack Stirbrew and they had him sitting in this little window. We had never met but we’d talked on email, and afterwards we went out for pizza and beer and we’ve been friends ever since. It turned out we were both into home recording, and it turned out we both had Tascam one-inch machines, and at the time I lived in Sacramento and we started recording at my house there and at his house in Sacramento and we decided we’d get a space together.

Did you feel like you’d gone as far as you could go in Sacramento?

I have nothing against Sacramento. I just wanted a change of… More than a change of scenery, I wanted a change of attitude and that’s a big reason I moved to San Francisco. It seems like I run into a lot of creative people down here, a lot of musicians; there’s so much going on.

I’ve been to every great restaurant in Sacramento, but I haven’t even been to a quarter of the great restaurants in San Francisco. That’s something I like to do. [Laughs] But most of all it was this studio, which was called Wide Hive Recorders, which did hip-hop records, I think. Before that I think it was a bank. It’s been really great for us. For a low-end studio we get a lot of people working here.

I have a couple of questions about your deep, dark past. I know your mother is Japanese-American. Is Asian culture anything you identified with growing up?

Not really. My grandparents on my mother’s side basically came over from Japan and worked in the sugar cane fields in Hawaii before ending up in California, and they were fairly traditional.

Were they in the internment camps?

Yes, they were. But my mother married a white guy and culturally she was always more tuned into American culture. I mean, she grew up in San Francisco and used to go see the Grateful Dead, so she was pretty Americanized. But I like Japanese things, sure. I really like Japanese stationary. [Laughs]

When you were growing up in the foothills of the Sierra [in Eastern California], did any of that Western vibe seep into your life? I mean Placerville [where he went to high school] was a Gold Rush town.

Right, it was called Hangtown. Oh yeah, you can’t escape it up there. It was kind of neat to grow up in an Old West kind of town.

But it didn’t make you predisposed to like country music or anything…

No, because most kids didn’t. Honestly, most of the suburban and rural white kids seemed to like rap.

You were born in 1980, so when you were about 12, which is a formative time usually, is that like Nirvana and Pearl Jam and all that?

Nirvana and Pearl Jam and rap. I was really into Pearl Jam growing up. Then, later, when I got out of high school, I discovered ’60s music and then moved backwards from The Beatles, Zeppelin and Stones, and then when you get into that and you’re sitting around reading liner notes, you say “Who’s Willie Dixon?” and then you find Muddy Waters and wow—I became this guy really into the blues. Then I got into old-time folk stuff like Doc Watson, and also bluegrass.

Who are some of the people who influenced your guitar style?

I’d say definitely for a lot of the fake flat-picking that I do—because I’m not that good at it—Doc Watson. For the bluesier stuff, Buddy Guy. I used to go see him play in high school. I couldn’t drive and so I’d drag my friends with me and make them drive so I could see him play. I’d be saying “This guy rips!” with all the 50 year-old drunk guys. [Laughs]

There was a moment at a recent Phil & Friends show when you and Larry were playing some blues tune that I thought you guys sounded little like Mike Bloomfield and Elvin Bishop in the Butterfield Blues Band.

I can see that. I had a couple of Butterfield albums.

I think it’s time for you to do “East West.”

That’s a great song, for sure!

You could have the harmonica goin’…

With the harmonica mike! I had one of those with Phil & Friends but the sound guys thought it was too hard to control. I’d love to use it on “Caution.”

Your keyboard playing is an underrated part of your game. Who were your influences there?

I was really into Tumbleweed Connection-era Elton John, but in terms of playing, every blues lick I know I learned from Ray Charles. I found these vinyl records in my basement, and the first one I put on was The Genius of Ray Charles and I was like, “What the fuck is this?” [Laughs] I was totally thrilled that there was this kind of music. This is before I’d heard Buddy Guy. Before that I was sort of playing pretty piano stuff.

Did you have formal piano lessons?

Only for about three months. I always played by ear, sort of figured stuff out, so I put on this record and it was a revelation: “Oh, I see—you have to slur that key; it’s like bending a guitar note, but on piano. That’s rad, man!” So I just sort of copied Ray Charles. Later I got into Herbie Hancock jazz, some of the funkier stuff, but I’m not really good enough technically to pull that off. I understand it from the ear perspective but those guys are just so damn good.

What sort of cache did playing in bands give you in high school and a little beyond? I remember thinking that my high school friends who played in bands were very cool.

Well, for a long time most people didn’t really know that I played because I kind of kept it to myself. People thought I was a decent guitar player, but I wasn’t trying to play Green Day or whatever was popular at the moment. Instead I was trying to like Doc Watson: “That’s stupid, man.” “No, it’s not stupid it’s actually really, really hard!”

I had a Spanish teacher who had mandolins in his class, and banjos, and I’d sit there during breaks and try to figure out stuff on them. He’s the guy who got me into bluegrass and gave me all these tapes, and I’d sit there and try to learn these licks: dit-dit-di-di-dit-a; rewind play it again, over and over. So to answer your question, being into that kind of music didn’t get you laid in my high school. [Laughs] It wasn’t cool. But it was what I liked and it’s what moved me. I wasn’t moved by most of what was on the radio.

What’s the earliest song that you wrote that you still play?

Gee, I don’t know. Probably “Rusty Nails.” There were a few songs from before that that we used to play; but I can’t even remember what they are now.

When you perform a song, do you tend to get in the space in which it was written, or do they evolve with you?

They totally evolve.

Does it sometimes seem like a different guy wrote them?

Absolutely. I don’t even remember writing “Gone Wanderin’” any more. It seems like I’ve know that song forever. Songs always take on different flavors when you play them a lot over many years. And sometimes we’ll purposely change things so that they sound completely different than how they were originally written. That’s fun, too. “Tell me Mama” is one. That used to be like this fast jump tune, and now it’s become like a Ray Charles blues.

Has your life gotten crazier as you’ve become more successful?

I wouldn’t say “crazier.” But between doing interviews and being on the road and recording and helping out on other people’s projects and any sort of promotional activity, like a radio visits, it’s much busier and its harder to find time for yourself—not just to write but just to be by yourself.

I’ve been painting a lot lately. I was into painting a number of years ago. I just recently learned that Jerry Garcia painted; I didn’t even know that. So I was looking at some of his stuff online and it’s good. So that partly inspired me to get back into it.

I dated a girl who was a really good painter and I liked watercolors and she was an oil snob and she told me that watercolors were for wimps—“You just don’t get the right colors.” And I was like, “Oh, OK.” I couldn't really argue with her because she was really good. She turned me off to it. So I’m into watercolors now. [Laughs] Now that I don’t see her, I’m like, “Fuck you, I happen to like that they’re messy and you can see through them!”

How often do girls come up to you and say, “I know you wrote that song about me.”

Never, because I hide it really well, so they’ll never know. They can assume whatever they want but if they ask me I can say, “God, aren’t you egotistical?!” [Laughs]

* * *

For tour dates and news about Phil & Friends, go to www.phillesh.net. For news about Jackie’s concerts (plus lyrics, merchandise—musical and otherwise—and a whole bunch of other cool stuff) go to www.jackie-greene.com.