Tony Saunders continues to profess his love for his longtime music teacher.
“I love my dad and I miss him a lot,” said Saunders, who plays the bass, “especially now that I can play a lot better and now that I’m a better musician. Now all the stuff that he taught me is in my head and I remember stuff that he told me and then I’ll play it – it’s pretty cool – and he’s still telling me stuff to do.”
Tony’s dad was keyboardist extraordinaire Merl Saunders, who died in 2008 at the age of 74. Merl, who will forever be linked with Jerry Garcia. suffered a stroke six years before his death that left him unable to talk for the remainder of his life.
“Everything I do now, he taught me,” Tony said of his dad. “Produce, engineer and make music.”
Tony, 59, runs Y-Not Muzic Studios, where he produces various local and national artists and writes music for the television show Break Down Media. He also released two albums of his own music: Romancing The Bass and Appaloosa.
Jambands.com spoke to Tony by phone from his San Francisco home.
When your dad suffered the stroke, you contemplated leaving the music industry. What made you decide to keep going and not walk away from what you love?
I was sitting there in my studio and his pictures were in my studio from stuff that we had done over the years and I was sitting there looking at those pictures and I was just like in one of those stages: “What do I do?” So when I really sat down and thought about it, he would want me to continue playing music, so I thought about what I was going to do and I turned around to the piano.
We had started this project together and that was the first time he had acknowledged that I was good enough to produce him and all the times growing up it was the dad and the son but this time, he wanted my help to produce, so I wrote this song called “The Music Man,” and that helped me turn the corner. When I went to the hospital to look at him after he had the stroke, he looked normal and then it just changed. His whole body and his features started to change over the next week or so. So one of the turning points, that made me change my thinking was the Sunday following the stroke.
We had the family standing around because he had gone from better to worse to better to worse, so I asked him, “You know dad, we understand if you have to check out. You’ve done enough nice things for all three kids, we’re all here and your cousins are here – you’ve done enough nice things we understand if you want to check out because this is going to be a hard road. If you want to check out, we understand it but if you want to stay squeeze our hands and we’ll help you fight and stay here as long as you can.” With tears in his eyes, he shook his head that he wanted to stay and I told him a joke, I said, “Dad, it’s about 3 o’clock and I’ve got a gig at 5 o’clock so now you understand that I’ve got to go,” and he started laughing, and that was the first time he had laughed after being in the intensive care unit for five days.
When he started laughing, I knew he was going to be OK and I knew it was OK for me to do music and you know how sometimes you don’t feel right about something, I just didn’t feel right. After I did that gig, I went back to my studio and I sat at the piano and I finished that song and I also played stuff on the piano that I could never remember playing. It was like he shifted his energy into me and made me have an awareness that I’m worth something and don’t give up on your music and that you’re a good player, and you can help me carry on my legacy just by being you. It pushed me over and on that project, I got to use all of his friends.
You got Huey Lewis, Bonnie Raitt and Mavis Staples to help. How did that come about?
Basically, I called them up. Every year, he had this amazing birthday show where he got all of his friends to play with him, plus I knew all of those musicians: Roy Rogers, David Grisman, Norton Buffalo, Melvin Seals, Steve Kimock with the other names you said, so they all just agreed to be in the project. I actually called all of them and they all said, “Yes,” and they didn’t want any money. Some of the people wanted money but for the most part the stars did not want any money. I think he did pay Mavis Staples because her part was already done. He had just done a gig in Chicago and he called me, and he was so excited, “Tony, I just finished recording with Mavis,” and he let me hear the recording over the phone.
One of the more interesting ones was the trombone player, who had been in Legion of Mary, Eddie Neumeister. He was living in Sweden at the time. I sent him a track to Sweden and then he sent it back. Everybody was excited to help my dad and when he heard the music of that CD at The Great American Music Hall a year later, he actually cried. We did it up for him – we had a choir, Bonnie was there, David Grisman, Melvin, Norton Buffalo. We all played the stuff for him and he was ecstatic.
Can you talk more how “The Music Man,” came together as a musical tribute to your dad?
It’s a duet between Huey Lewis and Jeanie Tracy and they both loved my dad tremendously. Huey worked a lot with us on the New Twilight Zone (1985-1989) and Jeanie and my dad had been on the Grammy Committee together, and the background vocals were sung by people who worked with Narada Michael Walden. And one of my dad’s protege who is doing really well now Ray Chew — who is from New York and now the musical director for Dancing With The Stars and the musical director of musical directors — played the piano solo because he could best exemplify my dad’s style of music.
The words were about how my dad travelled far and wide to get to his music heard. He travelled a lot and he loved doing it. He played 200 dates a year – so it talks about that and how he was the music man and how people just loved him everywhere he went. One of the satisfactions I get now of days is that whenever I do a gig as Keystone Revisited, so many people come up and tell me, “Your dad was just great.” It’s a real comforting thing and by the end of the night, I have a bunch of tears in my eyes. It’s a good feeling but he’s not here no more. They are tears of joy that he left me because he was just the coolest guy.
*Your love for your dad comes across so strong as if he were still alive today. Is it possible to describe in words your relationship and the mutual love between you to?
We were really super close because we had the musical bond. Yes, he was my dad – we had father son stuff but the music thing was never a barrier. The only reason that I played with other people because that was part of the growth process. I played on pretty much every studio record of my dad’s, plus every project that was really important to him. And then we would just chitchat like two girls on the phone and laugh about stuff.
We had the sports bond. My brother wasn’t really into sports, so my dad and I would call him the blue collar part of our family. But me and my dad would go to 49ers and Giants game. We both loved football and sports. My dad ran a record company with Wilt Chamberlain, so we got to meet Wilt. He was definitely dad — you had to go to school and do stuff.
We got exposed to stuff probably a lot younger than other kids like pot but he kept everything in perspective. He wanted everything to be in the house. You couldn’t be out wild on the streets doing stuff. As far as me growing up, that was the house everyone wanted to come to to and hang out, so he was like Mr. Dad. He even came to my football games and filmed them and this was at the height of Merl and Jerry. This was in the 70s, I went to high school in ’70, ’71, ’72 and ’73 and my dad filmed all my football games. He was like any dad you could be. He was definitely a disciplinarian but as we grew up as friends, we would laugh about stuff.
Later in life, he would tell me about girls and stuff. He was just a fun guy and that’s why I have so much love for him. And then I was mad to myself because I probably should have played with him more but all kind of people called me, but he would understand: “Go get the experience and play with other people too.” Our love for music made us really close — as far as laughing about stuff, crying about stuff. I produced his solo record Meridien Dreams and that was a big thing for me because when your dad trusts you to do something you got to come through, you can’t be goofing around. I had to tell him, “Hey dad, I think you should do that one more time.” I remember I was nervous to say it but I had to because of the integrity of the project.
Whenever I was going through something I could always call him and he would tell me what I was doing. Like any dad, he bailed his kid out of troubled times. The music thing was such a bond. This is how close we were, when he was lying on his death bed, I was in L.A. and a friend of mine from Concord Jazz gave me some of the recordings that never came out out of Concord Jazz. So I hadn’t heard these recordings since I was under 10 years old and I would go to him and play it. He sat there and smiled as I remembered all the titles of the songs.
How did that musical bond get so big?
It was a culmination of things. My dad used to play at this place Jack’s of Sutter, where they had morning jam sessions so all the musicians from the road, and we’re going back to the early 60s, so Miles Davis, Herbie Hancock, Sonny Rollins, Stanley Turrentine. I was always around musicians. He would always take me along because sometimes he had to babysit us. And then when he started playing with Jerry Garcia at The Matrix, we would come there on Sundays and lie on the pillows and that was when my dad and mom had split up, so we had to spend part of the time with my dad and part of the time with my mom. But whenever, we would be with my dad, we would go with him to these music gigs and then it carried over when he would take me to studios. I would always ask to do stuff in the studio and wanted to learn about it. So when they were doing music and fooling around, doing what men do, I would be in the studio trying to figure out how to work the eight-track machine.
When we lived on Haight & Ashbury, there was a studio right across the street, so I would go there every day with my dad and hang out there and start to learn about engineering. And as a kid I played piano and when I would be around Herbie Hancock or someone like that, my mom tells me now that I always wanted to do something beyond the lessons of piano and I was always making up my own songs and stuff. I remember when I went to conservatory, they had to make me play piano for an hour in the book and once I did my hour in the book, I could play whatever I wanted to.
Me and my brother had a radio show with Sly Stone—he was a disc jockey before he made it. I knew Sly Stone when I was 10 years old and he gave me an organ. We used to walk his dog Stoner for money. I don’t know anything else but being around musicians. I was into music and sports and my dad loved the 49ers and we never missed a game. And one of my dad’s friends was on the Cleveland Browns, Walter Beach. They were in the Air Force together in Germany. The Browns always played the 49ers during the preseason and then the players would spend the night at our house, so we met Jim Brown. My sister, Susan, played the piano for a while and my brother played the guitar for six months but they just weren’t into it. I was into it and even at a young age. My brother, Merl Jr., was a roadie for Michael Jackson and Robert Cray and later in my dad’s life my sister toward the end of his life, ran his office, so we all spent a little time around it, but I worked with him the most. I worked with him for 40 years.
You were the only sibling that played music for a living. Did you feel extra pressure, because you were Merl Saunders’ son trying to make it in the music industry?
I think that it didn’t hit me till later. I didn’t realize where I was and I think that helped me. First I was a roadie when I was 12 years old when my dad went to play with Paul Butterfield. Me and my little brother would move equipment. I had moved organs most of my childhood. When Jimmy Smith and Richard Grooves Holmes would come to town, we would move their organs. There were these clubs that my dad would play at when we were young kids, so that’s how we would make our money. And that was before the dolly, where they tie on the organ and you lift it up with the little end thing. This was like moving organs, physically moving then but I did it because this was my dad and it was a way I could make $5.
So we were roadies and we went down to a gig with him at Selland Arena down in Fresno and I had never seen any other type of musicians. We set up my dad’s equipment and we were going to go back to the hotel to rest because then that night we had to drive from Fresno to San Diego. The Sons of Champlin came out — these white guys with long hair, and I was like, “Let’s hurry up and go back to the hotel.” And then they started playing and I was like, “Oh my God! This is incredible!” I fell in love with the Sons of Champlin that day. I never thought about the pressure because I was always around musicians and when it got to me, it was later in life when I wanted to make sure that I was good enough. I always wanted to please my dad and he would always tell me whether I was good or bad. When I started getting good, he was definitely my biggest supporter.
My dad put me up on a pedestal where I could shine, even though I had limited skills. But he knew what those limits were and he still have me a place to shine. And then when I could play better and stay up to the plate, he could still gave me that pedestal to shine. He was like a dad in that instance because he never made me look bad. He always made me look good. I listen to solos that I played when I was 17 and 18 and they’re not comparable to what I play now at the age of 59. He made me shine even when I sucked – that was kind of cool for a dad to do.
In addition to your dad’s musicianship, you also received music lessons from several legendary bassists.
I’ve been really blessed. He had the best people around me, not many people can say that they had bass lessons from Jack Casady, Chuck Rainey, John Kahn and James Jamerson. Not many people can say that they had all those great people around them, but it really made me study the bass more and it made be a better as a player because I was representing him, my dad. I still play piano, I play good enough to play on some of the recordings I do. I could play stuff in the studio but I can’t solo. But I can really solo on my bass and that’s the gift that I’ve made through him.
What was it like having those guys teach you how to play bass when you’re a teenager?
I was like 13, 14 when I started the bass and it was incredible because at first I didn’t know the magnitude of the people around me because all I really knew was music. I didn’t really know that they were really super famous, but they all helped me. John Kahn actually started with me and he made me play these basic things and he taught me to listen to James Jamerson because that’s who he liked to listen to. I went to so many Merl and Jerry shows when I was a teenager, I could mimic everything John Kahn did. I could still do it.
Then when we went to New York, my dad introduced me to Chuck Rainey and I would spend days with Chuck Rainey going around to sessions with him. It was an incredible experience because he was like “the cat” at the time. He would show me everything how to do. He was a typical New York guy, he was like, “Tony, when you play this bend over, don’t really show people how to do this.” I saw him play some great sessions with Ralph MacDonald and that whole little clique there, and he’s still one of my best friends today. And on my first album on San Francisco records, he wrote on the liner notes that he knew me since the beginning of my journey and he was glad to see the progress that I made and that I was a great player.
Jack Casady gave me a ton of equipment and he made me express myself more because he never played the same thing for too long. And he made me express myself and that’s what I learned from being around him, plus he was so giving. He missed seeing me play for 12 or 13 years and then he saw me play at this event that we both played at the Fillmore and he cried on my shoulder. He was really proud that he was part of my learning process and he gave me one of his signature basses. All of these people have been so awesome to me basically because my dad got me into this stuff and I never knew anything else I would do except music.
You were 17 years old when you got to play with Jerry on stage. How intimidating was it?
At first when I was learning how to play with John, they would let me do a couple of songs at the end. John would let me sit in for him because he was teaching me. And then one day, we were driving to the Inn of the Beginning (Cotati about 30 minutes from San Rafael) and we’re halfway there and my dad goes:
“Tony, I have to tell you something, John’s not going to be there tonight.”
“Huh?”
“I said, ‘John’s not going to be there tonight, you’re going to play.’”
“What?”
“You’re going to play.”
“The whole gig?”
“You know all the songs right?”
“Yeah.”
“I know you can do it. You just stand by my left hand and what you don’t know, I’ll show you.”
There’s a real granulated picture of that gig and I’m this little guy. Steve Parrish interviewed me about it on Bob Weir’s TV show and told me that they were all nervous because they didn’t know how I was going to do, but then after the first set they all relaxed because I came through and it was incredible. They didn’t know that I would be that good. But I tell you what, I saw John Kahn so much, I just mimicked everything that he did. I could play just like him, I could stand just like him, I could put a cigarette in my mouth and let it dangle like him because I idolized him so much. I didn’t get the butterflies until we were halfway to the gig. And it still happens to me now, when I get on stage, I get a little nervous and then I play the first couple of notes and then I’m cool.
Some of that stuff from that show is on YouTube. When it says Merle and Jerry: “Cucumber Slumber,” that’s definitely me because John never played that song, and the same with “All Blues,” because I knew that song too. They were accommodating me on those tunes. When I stop to think about it, what can you say, “You’re 17 years old playing with the icons.”
Yes, I was scared to death but I didn’t have time to get it. It was like the greatest thing in the world. I thank God to be able to step up to the plate and play decent enough for them to have me around, because they did try out someone else to sub for John when he wasn’t around. They only tried him out once but after they heard me play, then they just used me as a sub.
I even got to play bass in the New Twilight Zone because Phil Lesh didn’t want to do it, so I got to be around John Cutler, Brent Mydland and Bob Weir and Jerry would be there once a week. It was an incredible experience. They were just like normal people to me. I didn’t realize the magnitude until later and I was like “WOW!”
How would you describe your dad’s relationship Jerry as you saw the bond between these two men from start of finish, including seeing your dad re-teach Jerry how to play guitar following his diabetic coma?
Jerry was one of the most incredible learners that I’ve ever met, and part of my determination comes from watching them two. Jerry was always determined to get better and he always wanted to get better. At first, Jerry started coming around when it was just Merl and Friends and then it turned into Merle and Jerry. Jerry would always wanted to learn more music. My dad would add more gigs besides Merl and Jerry. There was was a club we played at called the Sand Dunes and Jerry would show up with no roadies. He would have his amp and play with us and hang out.
I’ve never seen a man who wanted to learn music so much. I never saw it, not be a good relationship because Jerry was into learning music: bluegrass, rock, country, jazz. The guy studied music. He might make a mistake and he would figure out how to do certain things. He used my dad as a muse to get to the jazz stuff, and to watch him relearn after that coma that was amazing. The first day I remember, he couldn’t play it, and then in a couple of weeks, he started to get it back. They went through three or four different groups and played a lot of different music, but when Jerry wanted to learn some new stuff, he would always come to my dad.
What was it about your dad, personality wise, that he was able to re-teach Jerry how to play the guitar?
I think he had such a passion and love for Jerry that to see him in a compromised position that he just wanted to reach out and help. My dad really loved him genuinely. He gave 200 percent to Jerry Garcia. It wasn’t about the hang. It was all about the music and the furthering of music. It was such a pleasure to watch it on stage. If you remember, there weren’t many musicians, especially black musicians, playing with the white guys. I learned stories being around Paul Butterfield and Nick Gravenites, when they were only the white guys around the black guys in Chicago. This was a music heavy population that was basically white music that didn’t have many African Americans or whatever we are, playing with the white guys.
My dad was one of those guys that crossed over along with Chester Thompson. You could pick them out on one hand. I remember my dad when he was just a jazz guy, so for my dad to embrace that music and flourish in it, I was really proud of him because he really embraced it and his love for Jerry was great. When my dad was doing the Twilight Zone, Jerry really didn’t have time to do it, but he would come by once a week to do whatever my dad wanted him to do and that’s a great love for somebody.
One of the things that gave my dad joy, besides his kids, was playing with Jerry. He had an undying love for him and he would go to bat for him 24/7. And to see when Jerry drove up after he had the coma and to see them embrace and to see them go downstairs to my dad’s studio, I would go down and hang out with them. It was like, “Wow! It’s really great.” I know whenever Jerry called my dad, they would play. It’s documented that if Jerry had more time in a day, he would play with my dad.
