By Drew AIles
By Taylor Boylston
By Bree Davies
By Emerald O'Brien
By Gina Tron
By Jon Solomon
By Drew Ailes
The story was surely blown before it began. Over the telephone, Geoff Vaughan, contact person for the groove collective Vinyl, is asked if he can set up an interview with someone in the band for early the following week.
There's a long pause. Then this: "Well, I'm the bass player, so I might be a good person to talk to...."
Maybe interference is mucking up the line -- Vaughan is speaking from a cell phone in his San Francisco hometown -- but it sounds like he might be stifling a giggle.
"It's not that normal that a band guy is on the phone doing all of this stuff, and one of these days it won't be me," he says. "It's a way of keeping it in the family, which is nice, and that's something we always lean toward, because it's one less dynamic to worry about."
Currently, there are already plenty of things to keep Vaughan and his mates occupied. Vinyl has a full roster and travels mostly in a packed tour bus that hauls three percussionists (Alexis Razon, Sean Onorato and Antonio Onorato), a guitarist (Billy Frates), a bassist (Vaughan), a saxophonist (Doug Thomas), a trumpet player (Danny Cao) and a keyboard player (Jonathan Korty). The band also seems to have a never-ending tour schedule. And most of the time, Vaughan is doing at least two full-time jobs: keeping both the group's business affairs and its rhythm section as tight as possible.
"If I was only the manager, I would be a better manager," Vaughan admits. "It suffers a little bit because I'm also doing the other stuff."
Fortunately for Vaughan, the "other stuff" is pretty cool. Vinyl is an experimental eight-member instrumental outfit that almost invariably gets stuffed under the too-broad heading "jam band." This is an unfortunate occurrence. The music most definitely has a groove, as well as smooth touches of funk and reggae that appeal to segments of the Phish/Dead set, but it also suggests an innovative, forward-looking approach to songwriting. Vinyl's 2001 release, Flea Market, doesn't feature any endless Garcia-esque guitar solos or vague song structures. In fact, most of the band's songs have more of a strong jazz feel -- sometimes sounding like Latin jazz, sometimes reminiscent of Coltrane or Davis, or with stoney, gooey keyboard lines à la Steely Dan. Still, the jam-band tag persists.
"It's sort of like, whatever you do, you're going to get categorized, and that seems to be the categorization du jour," Vaughan says. "We don't really noodle out into oblivion that often. We sort of prefer the eight-minute song to the 25-minute song, I guess."
When Vaughan and his bandmates do offer their eight-minute songs -- which are full of rhythmic, modal and tonal changes -- the tunes retain some sense of where they originated and don't meander into the self-indulgent aimlessness one often finds with less focused acts. There's a refinement to Vinyl that seems to come from the familiarity between the players. The group started in 1995, in keyboardist Jonathan Korty's garage, as a loosely knit gathering of friends, many of whom had known each other since childhood. With the exception of saxophonist Doug Thomas, a Mississippi native, all of the players are from the same San Francisco-area neighborhood.
"We started out without horns -- just as some old friends getting together," Vaughan says. "Tony and Alexis have known each other their whole lives. Sean and Jon are the same age and went to school together. There are a lot of roots we share."
Over the course of three albums (1997's self-titled release, 1999's Live at Sweetwater and the current Flea Market) and an estimated 800 live shows, Vinyl has made enough of a splash in the music community to warrant the attention of some well-known artists who aren't widely thought of as jam-band people. Les Claypool of Primus (and, more recently, Oysterhead) makes an appearance on Flea Market, as does hyperactive keyboardist Bernie Worrell, who co-wrote one of the album's songs.
"We did a tour with [Worrell] a few years ago and became good friends," Vaughan says. "I mean, here's a guy who's played with everybody and knows everything. You just sort of sit back and absorb what he brings. He's a resource. He's certainly not just regurgitating his same old thing. I swear to God, his music's just flowing through his veins. You put him behind a keyboard, and anything can happen. You just take the lid off of that and see what comes out."
It's in a live setting that the band feels most at home. On Flea Market, Vinyl attempts to translate into digital format some of the fire and edginess that comes out on stage. The result is a flowing, long-form work that -- in structure, anyway -- resembles the concept albums of old. It's almost like listening to an odd, syncopated symphony, with various movements that neatly straddle jazz, reggae, funk and Latin music. Korty's warm, soaring flute, Frates's mellow, thick jazz guitar and Antonio Onorato's rolling, almost melodic, congas combine seamlessly in songs that bleed into one another. The CD emerges as a whole composition, as if the music were carved out of one solid piece of mahogany.