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Toad the Wet Sprocket's Glen Phillips on success, depression and going it alone 


click to enlarge Life begins at the hop: 'I'd be like, "Wait a second, I thought I was legit. Why am I on the outside now?"' - ASHTIN PAIGE
  • Ashtin Paige
  • Life begins at the hop: 'I'd be like, "Wait a second, I thought I was legit. Why am I on the outside now?"'

Hindsight is 20/20, or at least it can be. For Toad the Wet Sprocket's Glen Phillips, that became all too apparent during the traumatic episodes he's gone through since the breakup of the band he'd been fronting since the age of 15.

The four Santa Barbara natives first met in high school, borrowed a name from a favorite Monty Python sketch, and scraped together $600 to record their indie debut album Bread & Circus. The album was subsequently reissued by Columbia Records, for whom the band spent most of the '90s releasing platinum alt-rock albums and hit singles like "Something's Always Wrong" and "Fall Down."

Eager to keep the momentum going, the label gave the band a $200,000 recording budget for 1997's commercially disappointing Coil, which would be Toad the Wet Sprocket's major-label swan song. A year later, they disbanded to pursue their own projects.

Phillips, who's currently touring with Toad the Wet Sprocket keyboard accompanist Jonathan Kingham, doesn't shy away from speaking candidly about what came next.

"I was bitter, and it's still sometimes hard for me." says the singer-songwriter, who spent a number of years trying to land a solo deal. "I'd be like, 'Wait a second, I thought I was legit, why am I on the outside now?'"

Phillips gradually established his career as a solo artist, raising three kids along the way, but only recently recovered from the bouts of depression he suffered in the wake of a 2014 divorce. "I felt entitled to my marriage, to my house, and to my definitions of myself. But the fact is, you're not entitled to anything. I mean, you're lucky for every breath you take and every beat of your heart."

Last year, Phillips and his old bandmates went out on tour to commemorate the 25-year anniversary of their "Fall Down" single. He expects they'll be hitting the road again next summer, although a new solo album is his main priority at the moment. "I love switching between the two," he says, "and it's amazing how freeing it feels to do the band by choice."

Even so, Phillips and his bandmates have sometimes wondered whether they should have just taken a break, rather than actually dissolve the band. "We're like, 'Wow, a brand name means a lot,' and I hadn't quite realized that," he says with a quiet laugh. "I thought it was my songwriting."

Self-deprecating comments aside, Phillips' songwriting was, in fact, a major contributor to the band's success, and that talent has only deepened over the course of 10 solo releases. Last month, he released his latest album, Swallowed by the New, which in many ways sounds like a cross between Paul Simon and, well, Toad the Wet Sprocket.

Lyrically, Swallowed by the New is both heavy and hopeful, and not without good reason. "I was in kind of a fragile state," says the songwriter, "but I was adamant about not writing breakup songs, because I didn't want to go there."

It also didn't help that Phillips had a severe case of writer's block. He overcame it, he says, by joining an 18-person songwriters group led by Matt Sever, an Austin musician who performs as Matt the Electrician.

"He sends out a song title on Wednesdays, and then you have until the following Wednesday to send back a song," says Phillips. "Every week, he would just open up a dictionary, pick out a couple of words, go 'that sounds like a title,' and then send it out to everybody. And I just started writing the songs I need to write."

Three of those songs made it onto the new album: "Reconstructing the Diary," "Criminal Career," and the especially poignant "Leaving Oldtown." "I need a new town," sings Phillips over a minor-key string arrangement, "where no one knows me, no one heeds a thing I do, and no one's ever heard of you."

So last month, the lifelong Santa Barbara resident packed his bags and moved to Nashville. "I knew I needed to get out of town and go somewhere, but I wasn't quite sure where that would be," he says. "I have a couple of friends who were touring musicians in Santa Barbara, but it's really great in Nashville to just have this community of people who understand the kind of life I lead, and to not feel so strange or even so special."

That last part is easier said than done, but Phillips says the bouts of depression are much less frequent these days. He's also been working on understanding the source of his fears, which he wryly describes as "the same crap as everybody else, things like family of origin and fear of failure."

"We are scared to death that anytime we open up, anytime we love, anytime we take a risk, we'll be crushed," he says "And the answer is, we probably will be, in one way or another. And that's not a bad thing. You get to love more deeply, and you get to be hurt. And what the hell else are you gonna do while you're alive?"

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