photo: Jay Blakesberg

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Back in 2013, as Relix celebrated its 250th issue, our cover story featured interviews with Phil Lesh, John Bell and Warren Haynes. The goal was “to discuss the past, present and future of the musical environment that Relix emerged from some 40 years ago.”

I had the good fortune to speak with Phil Lesh for that article. Of course, most any meaningful interview quickly becomes a conversation, all the more so when one is speaking with such an open, inquisitive mind. As a result, much of what was said that day didn’t make it into the piece, which pulled together parallel responses to a series of questions. However, the nature of the assignment, which called for Phil to reflect on his life in music, makes it fitting to run here at this moment.

As Phil would sing, “Believe it if you need it, if you don’t, just pass it on…” In rereading our exchanges and thinking about what Phil’s music has meant to me over the years, I’ll proudly declare myself a true believer.

Indeed, “It’s all a dream we dreamed, one afternoon long ago…”

Who were your role models at the outset of your career?

My artistic heroes were Charles Ives and John Coltrane. They remain so to this day.

I’ll return to Charles Ives in a moment, but can you talk about Coltrane? When did you first hear him?

The first time I heard Trane on record was at summer music camp after I’d graduated from high school. Somebody took out Milestones and dropped the needle on “Straight, No Chaser,” the Monk tune. I can remember hearing Coltrane and immediately feeling this sense of outrage—“That’s not how to play tenor!” I had this righteous indignance on behalf of tenor players like Lester Young, who took a more measured, mellow approach to the instrument. Coltrane was shrieking to his own internal rhythm. My outrage quickly lifted, and I first experienced admiration, then complete awe.

A year later, in 1958, I finally saw him live with the Miles Davis Sextet. It was the two of them with Cannonball Adderley, Jimmy Cobb and Paul Chambers. Bill Evans wasn’t there but it was Wynton Kelly.

You were a trumpet player at that point. What did you think of Miles?

He didn’t quite capture my attention at that moment like he would later. I would eventually come to love what he did—not only his playing but the great bands he assembled and their approach to the music.

Coltrane was the one who blew me away. I hadn’t been in the presence of anything like that before. The sheets of sound that were pouring out of him. He was brimming with ideas—chords upon chords and such soulful expressions. Yet his phrasing wasn’t smooth; it was edgy.

Then, four years later, I experienced the highest musical experience I’ve ever had in my life when I saw the Coltrane Quartet with McCoy Tyner, Jimmy Garrison and Elvin Jones. Except it wasn’t a quartet because Wes Montgomery sat in as well. What a night! The exuberance and magnitude of it all gives me chills even now, as I think back on it. The music was continually evolving yet it would also reference where it had been. They were playing the music of the spheres and took us somewhere beyond words. That’s not something you recover from. [Laughs.]

You’ve said that both of those band leaders played a role in modeling what you would do with the Grateful Dead.

Miles and Trane assembled bands that approached the music with such freedom and abandon. Yet even as they were doing so, everyone was listening to each other. They demonstrated how deep improvised music could go. They were improvising together, and nothing remained fixed. It was sublime.

So we borrowed that whole approach from these elevated jazz musicians and applied it to rock music. When Coltrane played “My Favorite Things” for 45 minutes, that lesson wasn’t lost on us. It definitely left an impression.

Later on, of course, we even named one of our bands The Quintet, which was a nod to Coltrane’s Quintet in the early ‘60s. Of course, Miles had a Quintet or two himself. [Laughs.]

Speaking of which, in April 1970, Miles opened for the Grateful Dead with his Bitches Brew band. Was it intimidating in any way to go on after them?

Only in the sense that we asked ourselves: “How can we possibly play after this? Shouldn’t we all take some time and try to digest what we’ve just experienced?” [Laughs.]

I can recall walking over to Dave Holland’s bass amp and leaning in as much as I could so that I could be as close to the music as possible. The ferocity and force were something else. But there was also a richness and variety to the sound. I stood there slack-jawed.

Then at some point, we had to play a set. [Laughs.]

Did you interact with Miles at all during those shows?

No, only Jerry did. He spoke on our behalf. The rest of us were too intimated, I’m not too ashamed to admit. Miles’ personal reputation preceded him.

Jerry proved to be the perfect emissary though, because Miles speaks fondly of him in his book. [In Miles: The Autobiography, he writes, “Jerry Garcia, their guitar player, and I hit it off great, talking about music—what they liked and what I liked—and I think we all learned something, grew some.”]

When was the last time you played a trumpet?

It might’ve been a 40 years ago since I last touched a trumpet. Actually, one of my nephews brought one home from school and I tried to play it. I remembered the fingering, but my lips had gone soft.

Back to Charles Ives, there’s a venue named after him in Danbury, Conn. which is how I think a lot of people first hear of him these days, even if they’re unaware of his music. Somewhat similarly, if I remember correctly, you were drawn to his music before you ever heard it.

That’s correct. I was working in the college library where much of what I did was listen for scratches and pops on records, which was something of a dream gig for me at that time. But I discovered a survey of his music by Henry Cowell and his wife Sidney. Henry was also a composer, and the book contained a biography along with some of Ives’ compositions, which looked so fascinating on the page. I’ve described the music of Charles Ives as what it sounds like inside of your head when you’re daydreaming. I could read it on the page, although I wasn’t able to hear it on a recording for a few years.

Charles Ives was a transcendentalist American composer. He grew up in New England where he was influenced by Emerson and Thoreau. Those beliefs are present in his music, which makes you feel like you’re inside somebody’s mind, experiencing their consciousness. There are various excursions and distractions and side trips that he weaves together, just as happens with our own daily thought processes. He also incorporates elements of popular music and church hymns because that’s what he experienced in his life. It’s a really rich fabric that he’s able to weave together. It’s quite an achievement and truly inspirational.

In addition, particularly at that time, which was my first year away from home at college, I appreciated his commitment to the cause. He was uncompromising with his music, and he took a day job that enabled him to compose at night, so he was doing whatever he could in search and support of the muse.

Moving to another composer, when Jerry Garcia suggested you pick up the bass, Bach was an important reference point.

I think that Jerry asked me to join precisely because I was pretty much tabula rasa, at least when it came to rock bass players. I was aware or soon became aware of Paul McCartney, James Jamerson, and Jack Casady but my biggest influence was 16th century counterpoint, which you can hear in Bach’s basslines. Jerry appreciated that I had no preconceived notions about rock music and I appreciated that as well. Doing things the conventional way never held much appeal to me.

So, I began modeling my bass playing on Bach. For instance, if you listen to the basslines in the Bach cantatas, they provide a melody but, at the same time, they’re able to hold the underpinning.

Having said that, I also should acknowledge my debt to master jazz musicians like Scott LaFaro and Mingus, although it wasn’t their playing styles that inspired me in that context, so much as their commitment. 

Of course, as you well know, but some of our readers may not, Bach was a renowned improviser.

Yes, and as I was getting up to speed with the band, I became less wooden, and part of that process was drawing on the tradition of improvisational music that goes back to Bach. Actually, it goes back to a time well before Bach—prior to written language—but Bach’s work became important to me.

He was composing and performing in church for his friends and neighbors. They elicited something from him and at the same time he provided something to them. His music would vary from week to week depending on the nature of the sermon and it was often designed to alter consciousness. I soon began to think of our audience in a similar way.

With the Grateful Dead, we had our own form of congregation. They would come back week after week, looking for something they weren’t getting in the mainstream music of the day. We would switch up the setlists and play each song differently because that felt true to us but also because we hoped to tap into the group mind. We suspected that there were plenty of other people who would be drawn to that, and we were trying to create a unified consciousness. We used to say that every place we play is like church in the sense of drawing people together.

The goal is still to take the energy that’s generated by the audience and is directed at us and then transmute it. We’re trying to take that energy and transform it into something that has form and tells a story of its own accord. We want to take it higher.

In that process, the audience becomes part of the circuit that facilitates the opening of the pipeline. Then everyone in the room experiences it together. One way to describe what’s happening in that interchange and mutual aspiration is to think of it as a prayer.

Over the years, it has become any easier to attain those transcendent moments?

It’s always been pretty much the same. You can’t push a button or flip a switch and draw that energy, draw that spirit down. You can’t coerce or seduce the muse. The muse comes to you when the music is ready and what you can do is open yourself up to that every night. Walk onto the stage with a simple invocation: “I’m here if you want me. If you want to talk to me, I’m here.” That’s how it’s been since the very beginning.

We’re trying to tap into that eternal music that’s always playing in the cosmos. What I can do to facilitate that is lose myself and avoid contemplating whatever I may think the goal is in the moment. I need to become egoless to the point where all I am is ears and fingers. That gives me the best opportunity to access the pipeline. When it happens, everyone becomes aware of that— both the musicians and the audience—even those people in the audience who may not be as intently or actively keyed into it. They still receive the information.

That’s all entwined with your idea that “Dark Star” is always out there in the firmament.

Correct. We’re just trying to manifest it in some way. You can’t chase it—you have to let it come to you. That’s the music of the spheres.

To experience it, you have to get out of your own way. You need to put ego aside— whatever you think of as you. The way you can facilitate that is by not playing the music that you already know. Of course, that energy is heightened when you’re able to do it with people who are interested in achieving the common goal of joining in that eternal consciousness. Again, I’m speaking both about your fellow musicians and the audience.

Beyond the ethereal, do you believe there is some material component that can facilitate the process?

Well, by its very nature, music has material existence in the sense that it’s vibrations in the air. So do you require a physical means to generate those vibrations. Still, the art of music is infinite. So to bring it into material existence, you can train yourself both physically and mentally. Again, the goal is to become egoless and the means to do that is to take your mind off the physical actions that might occupy or inhibit you in the moment.

You can also sharpen your ears and hone your mind to the matter at hand. That facilitates the process of communication, which can take place through the notes, through body language, through verbal expression. The process is ongoing and never-ending because music is infinite.

Beyond your steady collaborators, like those stalwarts in the Quintet, you regularly draw in newer players. Can you talk about the challenges that come with that setting. What do you communicate to these musicians in advance?

That second scenario unlocks something else. When I’m playing with someone new, it changes the way I’m playing. Of course, I always aspire for my playing to be fluid and malleable, but the physical presence of a new musician can serve as a catalyst. Initially, I might play less and listen more, although I like to think I’m always listening. Then once I recognize what these new musicians are contributing to the fabric, I’ll tailor my own playing.

Ultimately, I don’t want to interfere with the process. On occasion, I’ll suggest some correction but if I’m too heavy-handed, then that’s the surest way to pull us out of our collective meditative state.

We will have conversations in advance. We might discuss in general terms a path that we’ll take between songs, as we travel to a key or a textural idea but once the moment arrives, then we’re off.

What will you communicate about your overarching approach?

Ideally, we get to the point where we can let things happen devoid of conscious thought. However, I will inform or remind everyone that we’re all equally important to every moment. This is not a situation where someone is taking a solo and the rest of us are accompanists. The way I’ll sometimes frame it is: “We’re all first among equals and we’re making this tapestry together.” From there, it’s all about listening to each other and the moment. In that way, we’re all bound together.

It’s the little moments that often matter. That’s how we get there, not with a screaming guitar lead. Someone will contribute a melodic idea or a rhythmic change and that will be what propels us. The music veers off into a new direction, which enables us to open the door. We’re in search of that and we try to do whatever we can to facilitate it. This has been my ongoing mission, ever since Jerry Garcia provided the initial invitation. That aspect of it hasn’t changed.

While you continue to welcome new faces on the stage, you’ve also been joined by two younger musicians you know quite well. Can you talk about working with your sons Grahame and Brian, including the nature of that family vocal blend?

There was no way to anticipate the exact nature of the color of the tone but I had hoped that it would sound really cool, which it did. I think it’s largely genetic in that both parents and children inherit similar vocal structures. Also, the connection that we have as family makes it easier to sing in tune and harmony. When the voices blend properly at the right dynamic level and everything’s in tune, the overtones mesh in a way that doesn’t happen with non-blood relatives— there’s just a super-creamy smooth or even sometimes a buzzy quality to the tone of the mixed voices. It’s absolutely unique and it’s unique to every family. The Everly Brothers don’t sound the same as the Wilsons from The Beach Boys gang. It’s almost like a signature to that genetic structure.

I sang with Grahame a few times when he was in school playing at school functions and the three of us sang together at our mountain vacation spot. They have a talent show, so we sang together several times at one of those, and that’s when it first struck me that we really had a neat blend. The guys weren’t really sure how far they wanted to go with music, but luckily, they decided that they wanted to continue, so now we’re able to sing and play together frequently, which is the joy of my life.

Thinking of younger musicians in general, finding their way out there in the world, what advice do you have for them?

The challenges are always great, no matter when you start or who you are. When you’re starting at the bottom, the slope is all the same. In the old days, you’d get a record contract, you’d tour behind your records and then you’d become a big star if you sell records. Then that sort of crumbled and the touring artists now are the engine that’s driving the industry rather than record sales.

So it’s always a question of, “How do you put your music where it will be heard by the largest number of people who will like it?” It’s not so much the scattergun approach but what I think you want to do today is find where your audience is or develop your own audience and play to them—as you do so, that audience will grow. People will tell their friends to check it out. Word of mouth is still the best advertising.

The internet has not made it easier for artists to break through because there’s so much of it. How do you find your way through it if you’re a consumer? So the challenges are still all the same: Find an audience and get your music out to them.

We always have to make music that seems true to us. In the beginning and all the way through, the goal is “Play music to people. Play music to people.” It’s that simple.

Somewhat to this end, at this point in your career, when you’re out there on stage in the middle of something deep, searching for the sound, will you ever find yourself feeling flustered while you’re working without a net?

That happens to some extent every night that we play. There’s always some moment where you feel like you’ve stepped into an empty elevator shaft, as Coltrane said about playing with Monk. There’s no favorite show and no favorite song. It’s beyond all that. It’s meta all of that. Everything else is secondary. What else could reach that level of necessity? That’s my reason for existence.