by John Popper
With our second album, Travelers and Thieves, we wanted to reach a bit further. Jim Gaines was our choice to produce it, and we were starting to get choices. He’d just finished records with Stevie Ray Vaughan and Santana. He also squeezed us between a half-dozen other projects and was literally falling asleep during our takes. It wasn’t entirely his fault—apparently there was a jackhammer at work right outside of his hotel room. So he would come in and say, “I got no sleep last night,” and we would laugh about it, but by week two he was showing up and falling asleep. We would record a take and then have to wake him up.
I suppose Jim did the best he could given the circumstances, but there was still this feeling of being neglected and left on our own. This feeling was then reinforced by a situation involving Gregg Allman.
We heard that Gregg wanted to do a song on our album, one Brendan had written called “Mountain Cry.” The guys were a bit nervous about telling me, and I can see why, because that’s my area but now Gregg was probably going to sing a verse. But instead I thought, Cool, that’s going to be a valuable thing.
So we were all ready to do this. I was our big hurdle and I was all for it, so there we were, at the session, waiting for Gregg. An hour went by past when he was supposed to be there, and then two hours, and then we get a call from Dave Graham, who had picked him up at the airport and they were at a bar.
Gregg was very carefully babysat when he was on the road with the Allman Brothers and used the fact that he was going to New York to record with us as a way to get away from his handlers and have a drink. Dave said, “Hi, we’re almost ready to go down there,” and I could hear the concern in his voice. Then Gregg said, “Now give me the phone.” He told me, “Hey John, we’re almost ready.” I could tell he was practiced at assuaging the fears of his handlers, and all I could think was “Oh my god, it’s Gregg Allman, and he’s talking to me!” So we figured, “Cool, this is what they do. Everybody’s late.” We didn’t care.
He eventually showed up three sheets to the wind. And he was trying to play for me the song on the piano but—this is the sad part—his hands were shaking. I was sitting there, trying to kiss his butt, but I could see in his eyes that he knew he wasn’t doing it.
Then after we finished the song, Gregg took me aside into this little vocal booth and said, “I want 10 percent of the record.” I couldn’t believe it. Gregg Allman, who seemed all powerful, had just laid this surprise on me. We had figured he was getting paid to do this like any other sit-in we’ve ever had, so I thought we had made some arrangement with him. I didn’t know about this. All I could say was, Okay, let me talk to the guys, because we are a democracy and that seemed to be a diplomatic move.
Then he said, “Oh, I’m playing with Rick Danko at the Lone Star Roadhouse on 52nd Street. I want you to come sit in with us.” That sounded cool.
So the next night I went to the Lone Star, and the opening band had me sit in with them. Then I went backstage and Rick Danko had taken some kind of drug that made him go, “ack ack ack” like the Aflac duck, and he wouldn’t stop doing it.
Rick remained there, while Gregg, the opening band, and I started to play. We were a song or two in before Gregg said, “I’ll go see what’s keeping Rick,” which is code for “I want to do what Rick’s doing.” So Rick Danko and Friends became me and the opening band for the entire night.
After the show I wandered backstage and Gregg and Rick were sitting up there, arm in arm howling at the moon, when Gregg said, “You know, I changed my mind. I want 20 percent of the album.” I couldn’t believe this—it was getting worse and worse. I didn’t know what to say to him because I was twenty-four and this was Gregg Allman. So I said, “I’ll talk to the guys,” and he told me, “Don’t talk to the guys. Make it happen.” I explained, “It doesn’t work that way,” and he responded, “You know I wrote that song.” And now we were at the point when I had to disagree with him.
But then I lucked into the phrase that changed everything. I said, “You’re breaking my heart,” and Gregg Allman’s entire mood changed as if on a dime. He told me, “Oh man, don’t worry about it—you don’t gotta pay me anything.” Then he threw his arms around me and gave me this huge hug. He’d vowed to work for free.
When Gregg was sober, he was the nicest guy you ever met, but when he was drunk, you got the Jekyll and Hyde show that you eventually learned wasn’t personal. It was just where his brain was, and he didn’t remember a thing the next day. I don’t think he remembered asking me for a percentage of the album either time. We paid him the fee that was negotiated in the light of day by managers, and it was as if he had never spoken to me about it.
I think whatever Gregg says he means at the time. He just seems liberated from the responsibility of meaning something for all time, which is what most people expect of the truth. It’s a great thing to be that liberated, but I’m not that liberated. Whenever I see Gregg these days I just give him a hug and hold on tight.
We were trying to grow with Travelers and Thieves, but we didn’t know what we were doing. We wanted to try something in the studio that was impressive like Jimi Hendrix or Led Zeppelin would do, and that became the elephant noises in the beginning of “Ivory Tusk” and all the weird sounds we looped in on “The Tiding” before “Onslaught.”
It wasn’t like Jim Gaines was falling asleep all the time. We were proud of Travelers and Thieves because it was further than we’d come. It was a more ambitious record, and I truly believe that the songwriting was improving, but we were still figuring it all out. And A&M was stumbling around just like us, trying to learn how to make records with us. Their dedication was clear when they floated us a bunch of money to keep things going after I had a motorcycle accident because our business was about to fall apart. So these guys were trying to figure out what to do with us.
But then when nothing was wrong, there was almost no budget, and there would be no promotion. We’d sell fifty thousand records, and it felt like they’d say, “That’s great. Let’s see what happens when we give them even less money.”
On the first record they said there would be several singles, but there was only one. This would become a theme, and it’s a theme for anyone who’s ever put out a record out. The label wants to put all your songs out, but if they don’t think it’s going to make them money, it’s really hard for them to push it beyond a first single. You basically have a month to make it interesting to them.
They let us make a video for “But Anyway” on the first album (there was a second “But Anyway” video four years later when it was rereleased as a single after it appeared in Kingpin). MTV rejected it, but it got played at hockey games. It was us using a friend’s car and my old high school buddy Tom Brown, who popped out as a newsman, and our girlfriends were in it. So at least we got to have fun. It was wacky and stupid and a very family thing.
With the second record, the label tried to push things a little further. But “All in the Groove” never got very far as a single. The David Letterman band played it better than we did, but at least it got us on the show. It needed horns, and the organ was awesome on it.
This all took place around the time when Herb Alpert and Jerry Moss were leaving A&M. They sold it in 1989 but continued to manage it until 1993. I remember the one time we met Herb Alpert. He said, “There’s a buzz about you . . . it’s a small buzz, but it’s a buzz.” And he couldn’t have been more right. That was us all along. We seemed like a huge deal—certainly in our own minds—but we were barely hanging on to being a huge deal.
We were always convinced of our absolute invincibility. We just felt that the label didn’t sell us right. I would get so upset by those CBS “buy six albums for a penny” ads. I would look where our section was, and we were always next to Elton John. That pissed me off. I feel sorry for my managers because I would call and complain, “How come on the CBS records promotional deal we aren’t near Pearl Jam? They’re our age—why are we being skewed with Elton John, who’s thirty years older than u
s?” It was more a symptom of what we were going through, in which A&M was treating us like a mainstream band and not getting anywhere with us because we were too alternative for mainstream and too mainstream for alternative.
11
“DIVIDED SKY” FOR “CHRISTMAS”
Although Phish guitarist Trey Anastasio grew up in Princeton, I never met him until later. He was at the Princeton Day School while I was at Princeton High School and was a couple of years older than me. I believe the first time we crossed paths was when Phish came down to play the Ukranian National Home in New York on December 15, 1989. We’d heard of them and a lot of people were talking about them, so they sort of became the Gimbels to our Macy’s.
All of the other venues in New York City seemed to have more personality than the Ukrainian National Home. I was struck by how much it looked like a Cuyahoga event hall. It seemed like a place where you’d have a Welcome to America dance for the new Ukrainians, a getting-to-know-you dance, and the Local 200 Ice Skate Repairman’s Union meetings. It was just a big, loud, boomy space, and it was poorly lit. But the most fun part for me was checking out Phish.
We each played two sets, alternating back and forth, with Phish opening the night. I came out during their second set for two covers. My thought was, Okay, I’m meeting a new band, so I wanted to show them my stuff. I remember I was very determined to impress them, and that’s how it’s been ever since. Whenever I play with Phish, I’m always determined to make a good showing. I played on ZZ Top’s “Jesus Just Left Chicago,” which was blues, and I knew just what to do on that one. I was also on Son Seals’ “Funky Bitch,” where they got to show something that was more in their wheelhouse. It had that cool Phish thing, in which it seemed like normal funk, but there was a little rhythmic trick to it, and I was really into that.
From the start there was always something else going on beyond the music as well, another level of communication and connection with the audience. That night they decided to prank their former lighting guy, Tim, who would occasionally play harmonica with them, by pretending that I was their new lighting guy, Chris. The band was going to give Tim the tape and say that I was Chris. So before I came on, Trey told the crowd to call out “All right, Chris!” Then after I was done I said, “I’d better get back to those lights.”
From there we would do gigs with them whenever we could, and I found them fascinating. We went up to hang with them in Winooksi, and I remember eating with them at the House of Pancakes, the same place where Bobby and I had our altercation after Bill Graham died. I was enjoying this wonderful, intellectual discussion with Phish, while at the next table my band was being all loud and causing trouble, getting their Jersey on. I remember being somewhat embarrassed by them: Oh the ruffians I hang out with.
One of my favorite Phish appearances was in February of 1993 when I was in a wheelchair. They had me on stage, and I insisted on being covered with a tarp the entire show so people wouldn’t know what I was. Then they unveiled me toward the end and I sat in with them. But just to make the gag work, I sat there the entire show covered in a tarp.
After the show there were some kids who were desperate for a ride back to Long Island. Because I was in a wheelchair, I had a van and a driver. These kids were stranded, so we drove them all the way back; they woke their friend up and we had cocoa.
Trey was the one I clicked with the most and who amazed me the most, although they’re all brilliant musicians. Another time we were at a party in Winooski, I think it was at his house, I mentioned fugues. He stopped what he was doing, took me to his room, and pulled open this filing cabinet full of fugues. Some of them were his, some were Bach’s, and some were Haydn’s. He showed me all of these fugues and explained the rules of a fugue, how it transports a melody through different variations. The light in his eyes as he was describing this blew me away. I could keep up with what he was saying theoretically, but the execution of it was a really difficult thing for nonclassical musicians.
That’s why at times watching Phish is like watching a classical band. They are very intricate in their compositions; it can be difficult to tell what’s improvised and what’s choreographed. And, as it turns out, they can do both with equal aplomb—they can switch into improvisation or go back to something that’s very arranged. They weren’t just trying to make stuff move in a jam; they were trying to focus on a single aspect of a jam, and it was really brilliant. Something that Col. Bruce Hampton has always said about Phish is that “the rest of us just play.”
Mike Gordon is really cool, always surreal. I remember they had this little tiny box that looked like a beeper, and he said, “Think of a number between one and a hundred.” I thought of fifty-seven, they pushed a button, and it said fifty-seven. He would not tell me how they did it and, to this day, still will not tell me. Page McConnell is one of the sweetest, nicest guys. He is always amiable and always trying to make stuff work.
And Jon Fishman is just a madman. I think he didn’t always need to put in as much effort to be that madman, but I think he felt that he needed to do so.
The very first time we saw them play at the Ukrainian National Home, Phish opened their second set with Fishman on vacuum. Given my instrument of choice, I’ve always been intrigued by that. What I found out relatively recently is that I can play the vacuum cleaner in a very different way from Jon Fishman. I find that with the shape of my mouth, I can play notes and really play scales. But he’s already popularized the vacuum so much that it would be hackneyed to try to fill his shoes. But someday I hope to get into a vacuum cleaner duet with him. That would be awesome. I’d like to use this book as an opportunity to extend a standing offer.
In 1995 Trey became the first among us to have a child. I was so excited that I sent him every diaper he’d ever need. Literally, a semi pulled up on his driveway and out came every diaper from infancy to toddlerhood. I figured that was something nobody would give him. We calculated how many diapers a kid would need in a year, factoring in that she would have to grow into bigger diapers. It was crates and crates of diapers. He sent me a picture of his little one on top of these boxes with a caption, “Let the shitting begin.”
Phish played chess with their audience, they had beach balls going up and down, and each band member played like how his beach ball was being treated—that is beyond music. The reason I rigged a dummy of me to fall through a giant yard trampoline during the 1993 H.O.R.D.E. in Richmond was because Phish did that all the time, and just once I wanted to come up with something like that. It took all of my organizational skills, and I had to own the tour to do that.
Trey wasn’t much older than me, and for somebody to be so knowledgeable was one thing, but to see how they could command a stage with one note flying high above an interwoven musical cacophony, that felt to me like he was our Mozart. They were such composers and improvisers, and their system guaranteed that their music always was different. They had a much more efficient and effective system of improvising—there was a point when someone had to change something; it was mandatory and it would have to be a little variation. It would give me a headache to play like them—there was a lot to think about, but they did it so effortlessly.
We competed with them for rooms for a few years, but at some point you had to sit back and appreciate what they were doing. They took on musical and theatrical challenges that no other band would want to take on, and that’s the thing about Phish. So I went from begrudgingly competing with them to sitting at their feet, and I would always try to take something back to my band. Phish helped me keep my imagination going. They were the pioneers for our generation.
For a while Phish was the only music in my car CD changer, and I would constantly listen to all of their albums in succession. Compared to what we were doing chordally, there was nothing like it. Their song “Divided Sky” was my favorite—the way Trey took this simple melody on his guitar and played it without time for a second, with time for a second, and really milk it—I was obsessed with that song. Then I
realized it had the same chords as “Bingo Was His Name-O” and “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing,” which led me to think there was a Christmas melody in there. I wanted to work on something with the same chords that, at the end, would reference “Divided Sky.” I tried to get my band to do it, but they weren’t Phish fans like I was, so they kept asking, “Why are we doing this?”
But then we were approached to contribute a song to the Very Special Christmas 3 compilation album benefitting the Special Olympics. I wrote a melody to the “Divided Sky” chords, but it was nothing as elaborate. Then at the end I put the “Divided Sky” reference. Because it was a charity, I called Trey and told him, “I want to use this melody. I want to write this song and give you credit for writing it with me.” He said sure and made a few jokes like, “I’ll see you in court, buddy,” but it was for charity so he didn’t mind, and that gave me the license to “Divided Sky” the shit out of it.
There was a part when I put my melody with his, and there were eight harmonies singing each verse. It’s one of my favorite songs because you have all these harmonies working at the same time, and it was one of those times when I really hit it out of the park with the lyrics.
It was what I’ve felt about Christmas, it was what I wanted to say, it was full of all sorts of musical stuff I wanted to do, and it was on a nice vehicle, a Christmas record. And I called it “Christmas” so we could copyright Christmas. I have not as yet received any checks, I have not sued anybody, but if I could somehow sue Santa Claus, it would make one hell of a movie.
“Christmas”
Words by John Popper, Music by Trey Anastasio and John Popper