While the world awaits a panacea to avail us of an unrelenting pandemic, music has been a necessary salve for our broken hearts and crumpled spirits. Old songs have taken on new meaning as we try to reconcile our altered paths, and new ones have assured us that there is still life worth writing and singing about, inclusive of, and beyond, the confines of the many things that have divided and kept people apart over these long months.
Like many of his contemporaries who have released new material this year, singer-songwriter Grant-Lee Phillips’ latest album Lightning, Show Us Your Stuff is profoundly reflective. While many of us have relied on musicians to help heal what ails us, it turns out the need for euphonic therapy appears to be mutual.
“It’s a personal record,” Phillips offers during a phone interview from his home in Nashville. “I feel like I needed it. I craved being rooted, once again, because all of us have been knocked off our pedestals, our equilibrium, for the last number of years.”
Phillips’ tenth studio album ‘Lightning, Show Us Your Stuff’ is in stores now
That’s not to say that Lightning, Show Us Your Stuff’s intimate setting is devoid of relevant political and social observations. But, by design, they’re more introspective than the sharp-tongued narrative of its predecessor, 2018’s Widdershins.
“The word ‘widdershins’ literally means ‘moving counter to the sun or moving backwards counterclockwise,’” Phillips explains. “And that is exactly the sort of state we've been in. Everything has been turned upside down. And so, for those who are longing for that dialogue, Widdershins and other albums of mine are a little more, I guess, external in that way in terms of being a commentary. But I feel like this one was the record that I was longing to make at this point.”
Whether you’ve followed his career across its thirty-year trajectory, or you became familiar with him during his long-running stint on the small screen as the Gilmore Girls’ industrious town troubadour, Phillips’ superlative musicianship on Lightning, Show Us Your Stuff is required listening in any context. But as the year winds down and the horizon looks more uncertain, these ten tracks feel especially precious.
In early November, he also released the holiday EP Yuletide. Phillips’ original composition, "Winterglow,” first heard in the 2016 Gilmore Girls reincarnation A Year In The Life on Netflix, and an astutely hopeful iteration of the New Year’s Eve standard “Auld Lang Syne” bookend winsome covers of Nat King Cole’s “Take Me Back To Toyland” and Frank Sinatra’s “An Old-Fashioned Christmas.”
After I inelegantly reached out to him over Twitter, Phillips kindly offered me part of a mid-October afternoon to discuss his creative journey that took him from his childhood in Northern California to the making of Lightning, which is his tenth studio effort across twenty years.
You grew up in Stockton, and I think you and Chris Isaak might be the only musicians I know off the top of my head who are from there. What was it like being a kid there in the ‘60s and ‘70s?
Oh, goodness. Yeah, well I was born in ‘63, so my recollection of it is that it was a fertile place for the imagination of a kid [laughs]. You know, it’s very rural, the part of Stockton I grew up in. As a whole, it’s a farming community, but also one of the older cities in the state. It had a great downtown, which has been making a comeback gradually. My dad was very much a fisherman, so I spent a lot of time out on the [San Joaquin River] delta with my dad when I was growing up. I didn’t take to fishing too much, to be honest [laughs], but I spent my hot afternoons imagining, you know, what might be going on in the jungles of the delta.
As I said, it was rich for the mind. Quite a few movies were shot out that way precisely because of that. I think some of Cool Hand Luke was shot out there in the foothills, kind of as you’re making your way toward the Sierra [Nevada]. So, yeah, I enjoyed it quite a bit.
In terms of entertainment, there were only so many opportunities that way—at least when I was a teenager, you know? I felt like if I was ever going to follow my dream of being an entertainer, it would involve getting on the freeway and heading to Los Angeles, which was six hours south.
I’m assuming your family had some influence on your musical acumen along the way. What did they listen to in your formative years?
My parents were from the middle part of the country—my dad was born in Arkansas and my mom was born in Oklahoma. Their tastes veered toward country, especially my dad’s—he enjoyed listening to a lot of Merle Haggard, Waylon Jennings, and Johnny Cash. So, I had a good taste of that.
My mom was a little more into the pop music of the day. But she had good taste as well. She listened to Neil Diamond and the Carpenters. Somehow out of all of that, I developed a good love for storytelling, but also a sophisticated melody and arrangement, and I think all of that stuff sort of went into the pot.
What was the first record that affected you viscerally?
I have to think that it would have been Elton John, probably. That was a big one, because I was about ten or eleven at that time. And after school, I would head over to a couple of friends' places and we would sit around and sing along to Elton John records. It's almost like being in a doo-wop gang, you know? No switchblades, but pretty nice harmonies [laughs].
You were in your teens when you actually started to play music. Do you happen to remember your first real gig?
Ooh. Thinking back a-ways, well, I had a unique opportunity when I was growing up. I got a job at a melodrama and Vaudeville revival house—a sort of dinner theater in Stockton. And that was an opportunity to play music, to do magic tricks, and [laughs] some pretty disturbing tap dancing. So, that probably would have been the first time that I really played music on a stage with any regularity. A good good friend of mine, we would trade licks on “Ghost Riders in the Sky,” very much in the vein of Roy Clark, who was another family favorite. We were big Hee Haw viewers [laughs].
But then I discovered David Bowie. From Bowie, it's like a whole universe opens up, and that's where I learned about Brian Eno, and Bertolt Brecht, and then Iggy Pop, and so many others. Bowie became a conduit for a whole other universe.
You mentioned that eventual move you made to Los Angeles, and when you got there, you paid your way by tarring roofs. Was that the last job you had that didn’t involve music?
Yeah, I suppose. And it lasted for a long time—almost ten years. I continued to work my roofing job and play music at night. Back in those days when I could go on three hours’ sleep [laughs]. Now, it’s a little bit more difficult. But yeah, that was the case when I was in my twenties.
I imagine L.A. would have been quite an enchanting atmosphere for a musician at that time.
It was, yeah, very much so. I moved to Los Angeles in ‘83, and at that particular time, the so-called underground scene was really bubbling over, you know? I mean, there had already been bands like X and Dream Syndicate that came out of the independent records scene. And of course all the harder stuff, Black Flag and all of these other punk bands had been going for some time. But my typical weekend would find me at a place called the Cathay de Grande, which is where most of the punk bands played, and some of the other ones that were a little more off the beaten path in the downtown part of Los Angeles.
And out of that I found a home to play music with the first band that I was involved with called Shiva Burlesque. I was more of a songwriter and guitar player in that band, until I got to the point where I felt I needed to break free and do my own thing. But that was my first seven years or so being in Los Angeles—you found me on a roof by day and catching bands at night [laughs].
The first song I heard of yours was “8 Mile Road” in the late ‘90s. I was on a road trip with a friend of mine—I think we might have been driving to Iowa to see a concert, actually. I think it’s a great track, and I still listen to it now. Could I indulge and ask you about its history?
Oh, thank you. I appreciate that. It was literally the name of the road that connected the part of town that I grew up in to the highway and the more urban part of Stockton. It's a song about that kind of magical connection you have with the place that you grew up. Sometimes it's pain, or sometimes it's tender, or a little bit of both, you know? I gather that there are versions of “8 Mile Road” in different places across the country.
Yes, for sure. And beyond. I grew up in Winnipeg, so ours was Pembina Highway. It’s a city that’s fairly geographically isolated, so if you were planning to escape for whatever reason, that was the way out.
Yeah, right—it's like the yellow brick road.
I'd be remiss if I didn't ask you about your turn on Gilmore Girls. I’ve always liked the show, and since I knew of your music beforehand, I was pleasantly surprised when I watched and you showed up in the first season. You've spoken about your time there with great affection, and I know its creator Amy Sherman-Palladino reached out to you because she was a fan of your music. By all accounts, it seemed to be a joyous experience for you.
Oh yeah, most definitely. It came along precisely at the moment where I was venturing out on my own as a solo artist. So that made for a lot of excitement, as well. I was ready to jump into just about anything, and it seemed like a lot of interesting projects were coming my way at that moment.
I did a collaboration with Paul Oakenfold around that time. Sort of unlikely collaborations. Another one was with 1 Giant Leap. I'm not sure why that is, you know—maybe at certain times we send those signals out to the universe, saying, “I'm open!” You hang your cosmic shingle up, I guess. But it was quite a fluke and quite a boon, in terms of exposing my music to a very different audience. And it’s just amazing that the show has only grown in popularity.
Yeah, I find it really comforting to watch. I've been through the series quite a few times, and I still find it to be sharp and funny. It’s well-written and engaging. And, of course, I always looked forward to your musical interludes.
I appreciate that. Thank you very much.
Do you think you could actually live in Stars Hollow?
Oh, I think I could, yeah. I’m drawn to those small-town experiences. I mean, it seems like a fantasy, but now and then I find myself in places that resemble Stars Hollow. Northampton, Massachusetts is like that. Yeah, I keep hoping I’m going to wind up in one of those places like that.
Let’s switch gears here and talk about Lightning, Show Us Your Stuff. I love this record. It’s definitely one of my favorites of this year. I know there are a lot of layers in its messaging and that it was an emotional project for you as its creator. I’m drawn in so much by its warmth, and I think that’s something most of us are seeking right now with everything going on in the world. I think the title, especially, is so great. That was inspired by your daughter, Violet, correct?
Yeah, right, when I sought out a title, I went through some notes that I had made. I’m always trying to keep a little bit of a log book of good ideas—a lot of it on my phone. But I had remembered a situation some years ago right before we moved from Los Angeles to Nashville, where I live now. And we were out back, preparing to move, and the sun was going down, and I looked over at my young daughter. She has a stick and she's raised it to the sky, and she said, “Come on, lightning! Show us your stuff!”
I have no idea who she was channeling—some 1930s character, you know, sitting on an I-beam with a newsboy cap [laughs]. Maybe a little Burgess Meredith in there? I don't even know how she's familiar with this work at five years old. At that very moment, [there was] a crack of lightning. And I thought, ‘oh my goodness! This is some supernatural kind of child!’ And this memory stuck with me, and especially those words stuck with me. I felt like, ‘well this is perfect! This feels like what I want to say.’
Every time you set out to make a record or create anything, a part of you is invoking the forces of nature, of creativity. So, it just seemed to make sense, you know?
Right. And I think “Leave A Light On” is probably the track I’ve listened to the most with that gorgeous pedal steel. That melody line and the message just sort of envelops you like a blanket. It feels quite personal to me.
Oh, nice. Thank you for that.
I love that sentiment of “I’m heading home, be waiting for me.” I think it’s relatable to so many people who are at a distance from one another right now.
Right, yeah. That’s exactly what it is.
You’ve talked about this record coming together fairly quickly, and I know that it has some brand new compositions mixed in with a few older ones. Is that speed fairly typical of your process when you’re writing and recording?
Maybe back in the nineties it was almost expected that you would spend a little more time on an album, I think, given the budgets were higher at that particular time. It was just commonplace to spend a week or two making a record, even for an indie band like Grant Lee Buffalo. We were signed to Slash but we eventually got picked up by Warner [Brothers]. But that was quite the case.
I came to the conclusion that I liked the process when it moved quicker, though. Around the time I made the album Virginia Creeper, which is going back quite a-ways, I started approaching it a little bit differently than I had before. I came to that realization that a lot of my favorite records were done in that fashion in a very live way, where the emphasis was on the performance and you had a sense of musicians being together in a room, at least for the very heart of it. I moved away from the notion of such things as scratch vocals and guide tracks. A lot of that was customary in the process.
I basically tossed all of that out because I realized I play better when I’m singing, and I sing better when I'm playing. I like when I get a chance to do that and I can bounce off the drummer at the same time, and the bass player. It just makes it so much more pleasurable, you know? And I can forget myself. I think that's a big part of it, because it's quite easy to get subconscious when there's nothing to listen to but yourself and your headphones. And so it was a different kind of philosophy—a little exciting, a little scary at first, but now it seems like the only way to do it. We’re in a time when budgets are smaller and you only have the money to go in for a couple of days to record, So, I feel like the limitations have been a gift, in terms of making art.
I don't know that it always made for better records having unlimited finances, you know, just to spend months in the studio. I never really spent months, but [laughs]...the most I spent was with Jubilee, which was the most expensive record I was ever involved in. There was some time for pre-production, there was time to get just the drum tracks, then put some guitars down and then step away for a couple of months and come back around and do some overdubs. You know, it was really drawn out over a long period of time. The beauty of that is that you have a little bit of time together. And objectivity—some of the decision-making becomes easier with time. That's the hard thing about when you make records as quickly as I do now—you have to really know that you're on top of it.
So, I prepare. I make my own demos, but they're really just like sketches; they're not elaborate because I want to save all of that magic for when I'm in the studio and the record button has been pushed when that idea pops into one's head. It makes a huge difference. It’s the difference between discovery and a recital.
I was reading a recent interview in which you shared that there’s sort of a sense of frustration and wanderlust that propels you as an artist, and I think that’s what drives a lot of creative people. In your case, is it looking back at what you’ve accomplished and feeling that you could have done something differently, or is it a matter of analyzing what you haven’t accomplished yet and you need to get to what’s next? Or both?
I think all of these things that you mention are factors. You know, probably the most driving factor is to make an album that reflects what I want to talk about on this given day. Typically, about a year or two passes between my time in the studio, and in that period I write a lot of different things, I'm at home demoing, and I'm spending a fair amount of time on the road. And that's also a place where I work on things, either on my own in the hotel room, or sometimes I'll throw it into the set. So, I think it's a matter of just trying to present something that I'm excited about.
I knew that I wanted to work with Jay Bellerose again, who plays the drums on this album. And there's something about that chemistry that always leads me down a road that I enjoy. It inspires me because he has a very unique way of playing in it. And in the back of my head, I imagine what it would be like to play with Jay, and that's even informed some of the songs, you know, just my take on his feel, and stuff like that. As a player he's quite dynamic, really, but there's a place where we intersect, I'm certain. And songs like “Gather Up” or “Mourning Dove” are tailor-made for what it feels like when I sit down with Jay.
If there was some kind of grand design for Grant-Lee Phillips’ music, what do you think it’s supposed to say to the world? What is your mission on earth as an artist? Those are probably difficult questions, but…
Well, I feel like my stuff has a way of addressing some of the obstacles that we all struggle with. I know it's always attractive to me to surmount the human condition by telling stories and sharing these common experiences. But along with that, we are, to borrow a word from Kerouac, “we're divine creatures, as well.” Actually, I think that’s more of a Gregory Corso kind of reference, but part of us exists of the stars, too. I think music is a way of sort of drawing a bridge between the two. That’s what I love about music—that it lifts me up and takes me to a place that allows me to transcend. If only for a moment.
But I also feel firmly attached and engaged in this drama of life, as well. I think that's why I love listening to the great blues albums. I think my music is somewhere in between being quite earthy and maybe tapping into something else, on a good day.
That's actually a good segue to the last question I have, and it's one that’s maybe unfair to ask you on the spot since I can’t answer it successfully myself. What are your five favorite albums?
Oh, goodness. Right off the bat, [Van Morrison’s] Astral Weeks is always one that I come around to. And, it is really kind of a bar that I'm always aiming for that I have no expectation of reaching, but it presents a model for what an album can be, and how an album can take you on a trip, and implant impressions and visuals and provide you with just enough information that you'll write your own story as you listen to the songs. It has a very improvisational feel about it as well, which is another thing that I happen to love about it.
[Bowie’s] Hunky Dory was a really important one for me, as well. As I understand, it wasn't even necessarily conceived as an album to begin with—there were a few different disparate songs that he’d brought together for that album. That’s a hard call for me, deciding on one David Bowie album because they're so diverse, you know, but songs like “Life on Mars” and “Pretty Things”—you can’t hear those songs without feeling changed, you know? It opens up a lot of possibilities. That said, so does an album like Low, which was really important to me, as well. But I don’t feel like I ought to give Bowie two. Sorry, David [laughs]. I mean, if I could, I would pick all David Bowie, I guess.
Neil Young would have to be up there—another one where it’s really hard to pin just one down. The collection that I first became familiar with was Decade. I think you can call that an album in itself, because it has some tracks on it that hadn’t been released prior. It’s not just a compilation. But I used to put that record on when I went to sleep, and I’d listen to it all night long, and when I’d wake up, I’d play it again [laughs].
The Velvet Underground album—there’s a super-deluxe out now. But “What Goes On,” “Candy Says,” “Some Kinda Love,” and “Pale Blue Eyes” are incredible songs. And Television’s Marquee Moon would be another. That’s just an album that has such exuberance. It’s majestic.
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