NoĀ BGS reader needs a rundown of Tony Riceās biography or accomplishments. Earlier this month I chatted with Todd Phillips, Tonyās close friend and bassist across multiple groups (David Grisman Quintet, Bluegrass Album Band, Tony Rice Unit) from 1975 to 1985. During these years Tony used inspiration from mid-century jazz and musical peers, along with his innate willpower, as levers to crack open a stunning new guitar vocabulary. In doing so he rose from a bluegrass badass to a global force, operating well above tribes and vogues.
When Todd emerged in the 1970s, bass guitar was a cross-genre norm. A young upright player who melded Scott LaFaroās gracefulness with J.D. Croweās timefeel was a fairly wonderful anomaly in bluegrass. I started working with Todd in 2014, and grew close with him fast. He brought something rare — a relaxed whiphand — to the feel onstage. In the van, he indulged my ceaseless fanboy questions about the old days. An equable ex-stoner with a mildly grumpy edge, heās as adept at building an instrument or a chicken coop as analyzing acoustic riddles, and his long experience working with people as unalike as Joan Baez, David Grier, and Elvis Costello gives him a high perch from which to reflect. He reminisced fluidly about Tony over the phone with me for two hours, stopping only twice, once overwhelmed by emotion and once to get a bottle of tequila. (Read more from our conversation at my blog.)
Robbie Fulks: I listened back today to California Autumn and other records I hadnāt heard for ages, and heard little passages that sounded uncharacteristic of Tony. Did gestures come into his vocabulary, stay there for a while, and then fade off as he went to concentrate on another idea?
Todd Phillips: Thatās true, yeah. He would go through cycles, get on a kick. Heād get on riffs, like hearing Billy Crystal: āYou look marvelous.ā Heād say that 40 times a day, and a year later, drop it for some other riff. The vocabulary would change, according to the era.
Thatās fascinating, to compare it to a non-musical example. So letās dive in, go back to the start. Tell me about meeting Tony — when, where, and how you guys got underway with the Grisman project.
I was a beginning mandolin player, and I was certainly in over my head, playing mandolin with David, but heād never heard me play bass, which Iād played since I was a little kid. This was 1974, and Clarence White had died the year before. And we just thought, this is a good band, we donāt need a guitar — no one else could fill Clarenceās shoes, and heād be the only guy that would work in this thing. Then David came home from a Bill Keith recording session and said, “I just met the guy that could do it.”
Shortly after that, J.D. Crowe and the New South were on their way to Japan, and they stopped in San Francisco to play one gig. They hung with us for a couple days and… I had never hung with, um, that many guys from Kentucky all at once. [Laughs]
Iāve told you about that Mexican restaurant in Berkeley. The Californians — me, Darol, and David — and the Kentucky guys — J.D., Tony, Ricky, Jerry, and Bobby — were seated at one giant round table. First, Crowe ordered: āSix tacos and a Coke!ā Then each New South guy ordered exactly the same. I guess they were used to the little three-inch tacos you can eat in two bites. So this big table ended up covered with plates full of giant tacos, surrounded by a pretty interesting mix of characters. I wish we had a photo. Polyester and tie-dye T-shirts all around.
After they came back from Japan, Tony gave J.D. his notice. He hooked up a little U-Haul trailer — clothes, suitcase, guitar, and stereo system — and got an apartment in Marin County. And we started rehearsing. At that point, we had what we had, but then Tonyās chemistry came into it. And it just catalyzed the whole thing. It was huge. Tony had to learn his harmony and a bunch of chords he hadnāt really played before — but we had to learn to play rhythm like J.D. Crowe. So we probably rehearsed for another six months before we went out and played our first shows.
Tell me about the first gig.
Our first show was in Bolinas [in Marin County], in the community center. We made our own posters and put them up all over Bolinas, so it was sold out. And no sound system. We wanted people to hear us just like we rehearsed. There were probably 200 people there.
So small room, gather round, and somehow the guitar projected through.
We played with dynamics — if Tony was soloing, we shut ourselves up. We got down light and tight under him. Since we hadnāt played through a sound system, we just did what we did every day anyway.
The first on-the-road thing, not long after, was in Japan. Our show was a bluegrass quintet with Bill Keith and Richard Greene, followed by a set of DGQ. Then, as soon as we got back from Japan, we recorded the first quintet record. So it still had that energy. We were still excited to hear it, too, every time — it would raise the hair on our arms! It was kind of a… strong existence. Life felt — pumped up, you know?
Close companions in an intense situation. A lot of people have been in a band or in the army. But on top of that, you guys were altering the course of music.
Yeah. Maybe it is a little like an army buddy. I was a cross between his bass player and his little brother. Also his babysitter, sometimes! He had left his old friends, and when he came to California, I seemed to be the guy he gravitated to. On off days, all of a sudden thereās a knock on the door at 10 a.m., and itās Tony — āHey man, letās go the boardwalk, ride the roller coaster. Letās go to the record store.ā We went to the record store a million times. Came home with bags of records and stayed up all night listening — I mean, he taught me to listen close, whether playing music or just listening to records.
Any memories of the 1975 Grisman Rounder album sessions?
Tony was hilarious! Weād go out to eat, and heād come back with a couple of cloth napkins. Heād fold one up and put it on his head, and put on sunglasses. Looking like a weird Quaker. And then drape another napkin over his left hand and go, āI donāt want anybody to steal any of my licks.ā [Laughs] Heād leave that thing on his head, with the sunglasses, for like, three hours.
Have you heard guitarists who managed not to sound like Tony, in the years since?
Well, because Tony opened the door, after Clarence, you canāt help but sound like him as a bluegrass soloist. He found those avenues on a fingerboard that you can play with a strong attack and accurate, strong expression. A lot of it is mechanics. A D-28 with semi-high action, there are certain phrases that fall naturally under your fingers, and Tony found those. So I think a lot of guitarists use those avenues because — theyāre there. You might hear different phrases but theyāre not as strong. They might be more interesting, or more academically pleasing, but the effect — I havenāt heard it as strong as in those passages that Tony found.
Tell me about Manzanita.
There was no preparation that I remember. The guys came to Berkeley and we went to work. We ran a tune for 20 minutes, then recorded it maybe three to six times.
BĆ©la Fleck said Tony didnāt like to rehearse much.
Yeah. Sink or swim.
Any road memories involving Tony?
He didnāt go out a lot. We went to Japan once, the three Rice brothers — Larry, Wyatt, Tony — and me. And Tony — maybe thatās when he started — he just never left his hotel room.
What was he doing in there?
Ordering room service. Later, traveling with the Unit, heād stick to the room. I mean…he pretty much lived in front of his stereo, smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee. Thatās what he thrived on.
How did you listen to music away from the home stereo back then?
In the early days, he drove a noisy Dodge Challenger. A muscle car, with a cassette player in the dashboard. Weād listen loud. And driving from Grismanās house back to mine every night, it was pretty much all John Coltrane, the classic quartet.
Interesting!
Yeah, and later, a lot of Oscar Peterson. Heās like Tony: you recognize the phrases, and theyāre strong as hell. Meticulous mechanics. Tony never studied music academically — but the sound of it. He took that in and itād come out later somehow, the power and the attitude, more than specific notes or theory.
Did he have any relationship to the written page?
No. Not at all.
Tony cited Miles Davis and Eric Dolphy as favorites, but I donāt hear a strong kinship.
I think those were unique voices. Like Django, or Vassar.
Individualists.
I think thatās it. The attitude. He liked those kind of characters, like David Janssen — he really had an obsession with David Janssen. Or Lee Marvin.
Ha!
Iām not kidding! The Marlboro Man.
People that laid it down.
Exactly.
Iām curious about the chemistry between Tony and other strong personalities. Youāve told me your take on the Skaggs-Rice dichotomy, the good and bad guys from everyoneās high school…
Yeah, Ricky would be class president and Tony would be Eddie Haskell. [Laughs] Thereās a little of that, but musical respect bridges all gaps.
With David, did Tony slip easily into a sideman role?
The chemistry was — not volatile, but exciting. The New Jersey hippie and Mister Perfection. You know, when Tony was new to California, Davidās living room was a real event. You never knew who youād run into — Jethro Burns, Taj Mahal, Jerry Garcia. I think that excited Tony. Heād dig in his heels, just be who he is, and people respected that. He was…I guess I want to use the word āstubborn.ā Clear-headed, with his vision.
Were cigarettes it for Tony, or were there harder things he liked to do?
No! He actually went light on the marijuana, compared to everyone else in Marin. He kinda puffed a little bit, just to participate.
Any whiskey?
No, he drank a few beers at home. I donāt remember any hard liquor at all.
I read in The Guardian obit: āapprentice pipe fitterā…?!
Yeah! His dad was a welder, pipe fitter, and Tony and his brothers did that too.
What did he do to keep his fingers strong besides play?
Nothing. He bit his nails. He had no fingernails, and his fingertips looked like blocks of wood. Like the rounded end of a wooden dowel. The guy played a lot. He had hands that physically, mechanically, work in a different way. He could push down with his thumb, on his right hand, but also push up, with his first finger. You can look at YouTube and see it — a really strong muscular mechanism between thumb and index.
His down and upstrokes werenāt ascribed to the usual beats, werenāt automatized in the normal way — and were equally forceful.
Yeah. And rhythmically, a lot of triplet syncopation on the upstrokes. People just say āsyncopation,ā but technically itās playing 3/4 against 4/4, like Elvin Jonesās drumming. You canāt tell if itās in 3 or 6 or 4 or 2. Itās all of it. Itās all of it! And those subdivisions, I learned that from Tony — you slice that up in all kinds of ways, so those polyrhythms are all churning in your hands or head at the same time. Thatās what generates good time, not tapping your foot. Tony had all those superimposed polyrhythms in him.
Bluegrassers work hard and live long, on the whole. And with so many players of your generation now in their 70s and performing as energetically as ever, Tonyās story looks more profoundly sad to me.
You know, I donāt know why Tony went the way he went. Why he couldnāt be as youthful as Sam Bush. Who knows, if there was some kind of a depression, or if that desire for perfection wore him out. You know? Because he did play with joy, but it was also that crazy obsession, to be perfect and accurate — maybe he was just too hard on himself.
He was hard on everybody around him. I know that I developed way more than I ever would have developed if Iād never known him. It was not that he was ever mean or harsh to me, but being around him, you put pressure on yourself to live up. I think everybody that played with him was like that. He jacked up the music to this level — and then it was your challenge to get up there with him. Being around him changed me forever.
Lede image by Heather Hafleigh. All photos provided by Todd Phillips and used by permission.