Friday, Nov. 1, 2002 | 8:43 a.m.
When it comes to well-known musicians, 2 1/2-hour interviews aren't just rare. They simply do not happen.
Writers can generally count on about 15 minutes, which is what I was told to expect for my Oct. 14 conversation with Jon Fishman. As I would soon find out, however, the interview would be anything but standard.
As instructed, I call Fishman's hotel and ask, somewhat sheepishly, for the bizarre assumed name under which he's registered a name I can't repeat here, since he checks in regularly under the same moniker.
Assumed name? That might seem unnecessary for a drummer touring with a five-piece groove-rock outfit called Pork Tornado, which it's safe to say is well off the radar of the public at large.
But when you consider Fishman's "other" group just happens to be Phish an amazingly popular jam band famous for its cultlike legion of devoted followers, and a group set to reunite after a 2-year hiatus his desire for anonymity makes perfect sense.
The 37-year-old Fishman answers groggily, just waking up at noon Eastern time. An inauspicious start, as Fishman proceeds to yawn frequently throughout the first 10 minutes.
The clock is ticking, and I begin to panic as my time with the legendary dress-wearing, vacuum-playing musician slips away. At this point, I'm simply hoping for a few concise quotes for my story, intended to be a preview of Pork Tornado's Sunday show at House of Blues at Mandalay Bay.
But, much to my relief, Fishman seems in no hurry to get off the phone. Far from it, he proceeds to take me on the longest, strangest trip I could possibly have imagined over the next 2 1/2 hours.
I ask him about Phish's hiatus, and the chance it has given him to devote his full attention to his "side projects," Pork Tornado and the Jazz Mandolin Project. Pork Tornado released its first album this year.
"Phish is sort of like your wife and kids, your family, and Pork Tornado and Jazz Mandolin Project are kind of like my friends," Fishman says. "When you need to get out of the house for a little while, you go hang out with your buddies, and you love them too. But ultimately, it leads you back to your family."
Fishman explains that during the two years away from Phish mates Trey Anastasio, Mike Gordon and Page McConnell, he wavered between thinking the band had played its final show and believing the quartet would form again.
"I definitely flip-flopped around. For the break that we took to be really restful and healthy, all of us at some point had to accept that it being over was legitimately among the possibilities," Fishman says.
"If someone had held a gun to my head, I would have probably said, 'It's more likely that we probably will do something.' But some days I remember being completely convinced that we were done, done, done."
In August Phish announced plans to reunite, starting with a New York City New Year's Eve concert and a three-show January run at Virginia's Hampton Coliseum. I ask the drummer whether a full-fledged tour will follow.
"Yeah, it's not just like four gigs and back to the break," he says. "We're definitely planning on touring more during 2003. We just really don't know the details yet."
A new studio album, the follow-up to 2000's "Farmhouse," has been announced. Titled "Round Room," it is scheduled to hit shelves on Dec. 10.
Delving further into Fishman's life during the past two years, he shows a surprising willingness to provide personal details.
"In the time that we took off, my mother died, my girlfriend got pregnant and I had a kid. By the time Phish plays again I'll have a 1-year-old daughter, Ella," Fishman says. "My life took this whole other turn that had nothing to do with Phish. I went out and focused on getting my own previously neglected personal life in order."
And then comes the stunner.
"There were days when I thought, 'I'm going to run for governor of Vermont.' "
I chuckle, as the image of a bumper sticker depicting Fishman the candidate garbed in his traditional Phish attire -- a blue muumuu-style dress dotted with pink record platters -- pops into my head.
But there's no laughter on the other end. As I'd come to learn over the next hour and a half, he's serious about his intentions to run for political office.
"In all seriousness, I really feel like the only other calling I have is politics. When the day comes that Phish doesn't exist anymore, I might run for public office and try to serve my community and get involved in the things that make me angry.
"I'm not the kind of person that likes to sit around and bitch about something and do nothing about it. And I bitch a lot."
As I hastily switch tapes, I ask which specific issues he gripes about the most. Impassioned and articulate, the liberal-minded Fishman weaves his way through topics ranging from Iraq to Jimmy Carter's efforts to aid the disadvantaged.
A sampling of his thoughts:
On conservatism: "Ever since Reagan got into office, there's this disease of fundamentalism, and I'm not just referring to Christian fundamentalism. We live in a country where we're supposed to be guided by free will. And you're supposed to grasp the notion that you're not allowed to shove your beliefs down your neighbor's throat."
On Iraq: "Saddam Hussein is definitely a dangerous man, but so is George W. Bush. How do you think the Iraqis feel? We're the ones holding all the nuclear weapons, and we're the only ones who have used them."
On Carter: "He's done so much good, and he's incredibly low-profile. I read a great article on him, and it was in Mothering Magazine, which is like a homemade version of Parenting that you'd find at the local co-op."
On interest groups: "I feel confident that I'm incorruptible. Rock and roll's been good to me, and by the time I run for public office you're not going to be able to bribe me. I'm not going to do the bidding of any particular corporation."
Around this point, I politely thank Fishman for being so generous with his time, clearly giving him an out should he wish to get on with his life. He'll have none of it, though, instead informing me of his plan to make legalizing hemp a priority should he ever step into the political arena.
Fishman is not discussing the type of marijuana to be smoked, but rather industrial-strength hemp he says can be used to produce more comfortable, higher-quality clothing, while helping farmers in his home state.
"I would say, 'If you really want to save family farms in Vermont, we could do it really quickly by allowing them to use part of their land to grow industrial hemp,' " he says.
I remind Fishman that a musician running a campaign that includes legalizing hemp could face quite an uphill battle.
"I have articles out there saying that I ate acid, that I've been naked onstage and that I've had a sex with a lot of women. There's no way around that. My history is my history, and I'm not ashamed by it.
"I'd say, 'Look at me now. You can throw my past up and try and distract us from the issues, but I'm going to keep my eye on the ball.' If my constituents think I'm damaged goods, that I'm really burnt out because I did too many drugs or something, then that will come out in our debates. But I don't think that's what will show, and people will move past that relatively quickly."
Fishman then touches on a variety of other subjects from Napster (he loved it) to playing in Las Vegas, which he terms, the "not-taking-yourself-seriously version of Wall Street."
And then it's time for the grand finale: the story of his original concept for Pork Tornado's album cover, one soundly rejected by the folks at Rykodisc. It centered on one of the CD's songs, "Kiss My Black Ass," a tune that made his label's executives quite uncomfortable. So Fishman decided to really make them squirm.
"The original cover was a picture of Joe Moore, the black guy in the band, standing on a hill with his arms folded, looking defiant. And in the background, are the four of us, all in full Ku Klux Klan regalia," he says, laughing almost hysterically.
"And when you flip the cover over, there's an up-close photo of Joe bent over with his pants pulled down and one of the Klansmen on his knees behind him kissing his ass. You can see the lips right on the ass. It's great.
"And I am that Klansman. I kissed his ass. I had to. Art is art."
With nowhere left to go after that story, I thank Fishman again, feeling as though I've just sat through a once-in-a-lifetime experience.
"I'm talking to you a lot, but I hate interviews," he says. "I know it doesn't sound like it, but I do. But if you happen to catch me when I wake up, you can't get a word in edgewise."
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