Toad frontman tests the solo waters, looks ahead

By Derek Paiva
Advertiser Entertainment Writer

Glen Phillips says the renewed popularity of singer-songwriters is proof that "good music, in the end, wins out no matter what." Glen Phillips 9 p.m. today Anna Bannanas $15 general; $10 advance 224-8813, 375-8440

It was 1989, and the band had been together for the three years its four members had been attending San Marcos High School in Santa Barbara, Calif. Phillips was the lead singer and songwriter, composing melancholy, angst-filled ballads influenced by musical heroes such as R.E.M. and Hüsker Dü.

Toad gained moderate sales for its first two discs, but the band's woozy alterna-pop jangle, such as on its 1.4 million-selling album "Fear," gained a surprising toehold in a music world gone grunge. Music critics delighted in calling the band's sound "wuss music" or "vagina rock," but the album spawned modern rock radio hits in "All I Want" and "Walk On The Ocean," offering welcome diversions from Seattle's virtual music-industry stranglehold.

Toad scored other hits with "Fall Down," "Something's Always Wrong" and "Good Intentions" before calling it quits in 1998 while working on what would've been its sixth album.

After reuniting Toad for a few well-received shows late last year with Counting Crows, Phillips joined the band for an intense 24-date tour last month. The overwhelming success of the tour has left Toad's members, once again, contemplating a future together.

For his part, Phillips has opted to do most of his pondering on stage, continuing to perform the intelligent, melodic and sadly little-heard, folk-tinged pop he's composed consistently since Toad's demise.

Phillips takes a break from an O'ahu vacation with his family for a solo acoustic gig tonight at Anna Bannanas. The performance will feature songs from his wonderful 2001 solo debut "Abulum," its still-in-the works follow-up, and a yet-to-be-released collaborative CD with SoCal bluegrass folk trio Nickel Creek.

And yes, Phillips even promised a few Toad the Wet Sprocket favorites sprinkled within his set list ... warts and all.

Q. Your solo debut "Abulum" came out three \years after Toad called it quits.

A. That was partially about being in a creative vacuum, and partially massive depression. (Laughs.) Some famous person — let's say Jung, for the sake of finding a name — said something about success in the first half of life being an extremely dangerous thing. My life experience was pretty uncommon in that, basically, I had done what I wanted and everything always worked for me. And after Toad, things actually for the first time started being more difficult. I had my expectations kind of readjusted to reality.

How did things get more difficult?

Well ... like not being able to get a record deal. (Laughs.) There was that. That was a big shock. I'd always kind of just made music and people always really, really liked it. And all of a sudden, nobody was that interested in it.

Did Columbia offer you a solo deal when Toad broke up?

Yeah. They actually signed me. They waited 89 of 90 days, signed me on the 89th day, and then dropped me two weeks later with no compensation after we'd told every other record company that we were not looking for a deal.

That's pretty raw.

(Laughs.) Yeah, it kind of sent me into a tailspin. I was ready to go and work. I was in one of those I-hate-all-record-company moods, having meetings with A&R (artist and repertoire representative) guys and talking about what (expletives) A&R guys were, which isn't really a good strategy when you want them to work with you. (Laughs.)

I had to grow up. A lot. And I did. But it was an interesting few years. I really had to get my life together and learn how to do things for myself.

Were you at all trying to distance yourself from the kind of writing and music style you set for Toad?

Probably. I mean, ("Abulum") is an aggressively noncommercial record. I write pop melodies, so it's still got that. But it's a very un-pop record, much more like the first two Toad records than anything else.

Were you the one who pulled the plug on the band as far as saying, "Maybe we should stop?"

I was the one who said, "Maybe we should stop." It wasn't quite pulling the plug. I was the one who asked the question about (whether) anyone was enjoying themselves anymore. And everybody answered, "No." (Laughs.) It was more of a fizzle than an explosion.

Was the feeling within Toad that the band had run its course?

Yeah, basically. And I wasn't enjoying touring, and I wasn't enjoying the situation anymore. It felt stifled and unhappy. In the years since, I've gotten back the joy from making music. That was what was gone. Now I absolutely love doing what I do.

The three years between Toad's demise and "Abulum" is a lifetime in the music business. Were you satisfied with the CD's performance critically and commercially once it did get out?

It was OK. I mean ... there were difficulties. (Label/distributor Gold Circle) was in the process of unfolding the whole time I was there. And it's a hard album to work. Coming from Toad, some critics were really into it, and others — (pauses). Toad always got pretty harsh criticism for being a band that wasn't a hard-rock band. ...

... at a time in the early- and mid-'90s when grunge bands ruled.

We didn't think we were a hard-rock band. But apparently it wasn't OK for us not to be a hard rock band. ... ("Abulum") is a mellow, unpretentious record. I think if I'd had a really cool indie background, it would've been better received. (Laughs.) But I'm happy with it. It's fine.

I think "Abulum" might've had a better chance in today's music climate now that smartly written, melodic singer-songwriter pop similar to it is getting airplay for artists like Jack Johnson and John Mayer.

It's an interesting era right now. What I heard when I was going out trying to get a record deal before "Abulum" was made was that nobody would ever sign a singer-songwriter, and I could not call it "Glen Phillips" because there had never been a successful male singer-songwriter in the last 15 years, and there wouldn't be one again.

"Get another band together and come back!" — I heard a lot of that. ... What people in record companies used to do is hear something that affected them and that they liked, and they'd figure that other people might have taste like theirs, and so they would try to get it to those people.

But they're in a situation (now) where they've overspent, (are) having to try for only the huge thing and not worry about anything else. It's why Warner Bros. can say they're still fine with having dropped Wilco when Wilco sells a half-million records ... because "we can't make any money off of a half-million records." When a gold record equals financial failure for a record company, you know that things are terribly out of balance.

I think the industry still sees the success of Johnson's and Mayer's music as a fluke rather than the result of the public's desire for more music like it.

But it's not a fluke! People are, I think, starved for real music that doesn't sound like it was extruded out of a machine. (Johnson's and Mayer's) success bubbled outside of radio. They weren't radio driven. They were word-of-mouth driven because these people could show up and play a show. I think good music, in the end, wins out no matter what.

How'd the tour do?

Everyone played really well. The audiences were astounding ... just great. And it was a good vibe. It wasn't picking up where we left off. It felt more like we were going back to the "Dulcinea" era. ("Dulcinea" was the band's fourth album.) It was a much better place than where we stopped before. Everybody was more grateful.

The tour ended on March 9. What are the chances of the band recording or touring together again?

As of today, it's 50-50.

For both touring and recording?

Yeah. I mean, if we don't record again, I don't really want to tour again because it becomes a nostalgia act. And I don't want to do that. I want to be working on something that's going somewhere. But if everybody wants to do it and really gives themselves to it, then maybe there's a future.

Even if Toad did get back together on a permanent level, do you think you could leave behind smaller intimate solo gigs like the one you're doing in Honolulu?

I'm always going to play solo. I love it. I absolutely love it. (The solo) shows are freeing. It manages to be entertainment, but intimate in a way you really can't do with a rock band. I love the immediacy of it. I love the reality of it.

If a show falls apart, it's completely my fault and my job to get it back. I love that there's no way to go to an acoustic show and drink your way through it, talk your way through it and walk home and go, "That was a great show!" You've got to listen. And it's amazing having audiences that are really listening. ... They hear every word, they get it, and I love that.

If you had the kind of success again — either solo or with Toad — that you enjoyed with the band the first time around, is there anything you'd do differently?

I'd appreciate it more.

You didn't the last time around?

No. I'd never seen the other side of it. We happened pretty quickly and effortlessly. We made an indie record and somebody else sent it out. We didn't even send it out to (record) companies (ourselves). The next thing we knew, we were on the road. So (this time) I'd appreciate it while it's happening and make it good. There are lots of tactical, marketing and things related to this and that, but mostly I wish I would've enjoyed it all more because it blows away pretty fast.