Few drummers need an introduction to Billy Cobham. You’ve heard him, you’ve heard of him, or you’ve heard someone influenced by his playing. An innovator who coaxed volcanic eruptions of toms, kicks and cymbals from rigorous rudimental technique, Cobham has helped redefine the drummer’s role behind the kit and away from it.

While playing with Mahavishnu Orchestra in the early 1970s, Cobham took double-bass technique to another level, helping birth fusion music in the process. His run of mid-’70s solo albums forged sophisticated jazz forms with ripping funk, establishing him not only as an unrivaled groove machine, but also as a composer and bandleader. He was an early explorer of effects units and electronics, searching for new sounds and textures live and on record, especially in his solo pieces. 

Cobham’s music and licks have had long-lasting reach, too. His classic track “Stratus” underpinned a hit for U.K. trip-hoppers Massive Attack (1991’s “Safe From Harm”) and also became a staple of guitar legend Jeff Beck’s live sets. His galloping double-bass intro on “Quadrant 4” inspired Alex Van Halen’s approach to VH’s classic “Hot For Teacher.”

Cobham’s eclectic resume ranges from jazz royalty — Horace Silver, McCoy Tyner, Miles Davis — to singular artists like James Brown, Peter Gabriel and the Grateful Dead. The maestro recently celebrated his 80th birthday and continues to follow his muse in small jazz combos; modern fusion; Latin, world beat and electronic collaborations; and touring/festival ensembles revisiting his repertoire.

This interview, done by phone and email, was originally conducted in 2009 for a profile in Wax Poetics magazine. Much of the discussion, especially the drum-specific bits, fell outside the scope of the magazine’s focus. But there were too many good insights into drums, music and Cobham’s career to leave on the cutting room floor, so it’s been re-purposed here.

Do you remember your first exposure to the drumset?
Yes. It was Sonny Payne, playing with Count Basie. I think it was on Ed Sullivan or some musical show. It was the beginning of television. He made that band soar. The band just levitated, this 15-piece big band. All he had was a hi-hat, snare, bass drum, floor tom, one ride and a crash. This cat just did some things that were beyond understanding.

That was your personal Ringo-on-Ed Sullivan moment?
Yeah. I felt that Sonny opened a door and gave me purpose. But I had a lot of questions. I was always kind of an observer and would want to analyze. What did that mean? How did he do this? I wasn’t asking anybody else questions, just doing it in my own way.

How did you start playing?
My dad had a little working band, doing dances and stuff like that. Sometimes I’d get a shot at playing. Dances in the Panamanian community were a big society affair, and there was always some kind of attraction. Somebody’s kid would come up and play a little bit, a chance for them to show off the family. I got my licks in from time to time.

You went to a high school for music and art?
Yes. Until then, it was all about listening and learning, observing, trying to figure out how I wanted to be a musician and a specialist at the drumset. At first I thought I wanted to be a percussionist and play more classically-oriented music, so I chose to study marimba, xylophone, and music theory. But I didn’t feel as much of a kinship with the other instruments as I did with the drumset.

Who were you listening to at the time?
Miles, Coltrane, Nat Adderley. I didn’t listen to the drummers as much as I listened to the musicians. I listened to the bands, how they functioned. If the drummer stood out to me, that was a problem. Because drummers aren’t supposed to stand out. It’s not like they’re not supposed to be heard, but rather, the band is supposed to function as a unit, of which the drummer is one part.

Sonny Payne stood out, though.
Sonny Payne stood out because he threw his sticks in the air, twirled his sticks while his bass drum foot was still moving and keeping time. There was a visual, circus aspect to his playing. But he lent musical support and played in such a musical fashion while doing all that, and the foundation was so solid that the band could just do anything. They knew he was there.

Louie Bellson was another. He used two bass drums and very complex solos to present his ideas, but when he played behind the Ellington band, or even with the Basie band for a minute, boy did they rock. You didn’t think about Louie and the Basie band as separate things. You just thought: The Basie Band. Or The Ellington Band.

So you were more influenced by the ensembles themselves than the individual drummers?
Yes. I loved the way Trane, McCoy, Elvin and Jimmy Garrison functioned together. I loved the way Miles’s band with Trane, Cannonball, Bill Evans, Paul Chambers and Jimmy Cobb functioned in a certain way. They had longevity. The band had a personality. Miles’s band with Hank Mobley had another personality. Same with Wynton Kelly. The band with Tony, Herbie, Ron and Wayne, and even with George Coleman, had another personality.

Anytime someone changed in the band, the personality changed. But it still sustained a certain integrity. So when Jack DeJohnette got in the band, and Chick Corea became piano player, and Dave Holland played bass, it was a different personality. But it was still Miles. All of the parts functioned in a very special way. When you listened to one of Miles’s bands, it was like going to a museum of modern art, looking at Picassos, and asking, “Which period is best?” They’re all valid. They’ve all got merit and weight, and you’re affected in a different way.

Your first gigs out of the Army were with musicians like Horace Silver, Stanley Turrentine, Shirley Scott, Kenny Burrell. Are you mostly playing straight-ahead bop at this point?
No. It was a crossover thing. Yeah, we played some straight-ahead, but there was also this groove. Stanley, for example, was not a straight-ahead player. He had this gospel-esque, church-feeling tenor saxophone thing that was just very special. To me, he was an organ group-style saxophone player, the kind of cat you’d hear in an organ trio or quartet with guitar, organ, tenor and drums. A big, fat sound. When he spoke through the saxophone, it was like he was shouting.

I loved working with him because of that. They were going down. There weren’t too many people playing organs then. That kind of gig was limited in popularity. You had Groove Holmes, Don Patterson, maybe two or three other organists on the scene that were very important. Johnny Hammond Smith was another. You had to take that big old [Hammond] B3 down from back behind the bar, load it up and go to the next gig. Not an easy fate. These were people who are forgotten heroes of the business.

And there were tenor players that just fit in, and guitarists like George Benson who fit into situations like that. They had to have a certain personality to make that thing work. Tenor players like Grover Washington came out of that same kind of school. It was a really very special time.

• • •
MILES To MAHAVISHNU

You started working with the Brecker Brothers and John Abercrombie in Dreams, but also worked with Miles on the “A Tribute to Jack Johnson” material around the same time. Then Mahavishnu Orchestra comes into view. This must have been a pretty pivotal period for you.
It was. I mostly only recorded with Miles. If I did any live playing with Miles, it would’ve been in the 1980s, actually.

Jack DeJohnette suggested you to replace him on the Miles gig?
I was working with [pianist] Junior Mance and Jack was working with Miles downstairs at the Village Gate. And he came up and said ‘I’m leaving Miles. I told him about you. You want to do it?’ And I said, ‘Sure.’ Jack said Miles would probably come up and take a listen, which he did. I saw him in the back during a set and a few days later he gave me a call.

I would’ve loved to go out [on the road] with Miles, but I had commitments to myself and about working with a band that was developing. I was already recording a little bit, just testing out some things in a small home studio with Wayne [Shorter], Joe [Zawinul] and Miroslav Vitous (a combination that would later evolve, sans Cobham, into Weather Report). At the same time, I was also working with Dreams on some ideas. It was a tremendous developmental period for me. I ended up leaving the Miles gig and going with Dreams, and from Dreams ended up in Mahavishnu.

Pretty gutsy move. So the seeds of Mahavishnu were sown during those Miles sessions with John McLaughlin, correct?
Yes. I actually met John in England, prior to joining Miles. Coincidentally he just showed up in New York. I didn’t even know he was coming to work with Miles. I saw him in the studio. He told me he had some things he wanted to do and asked if I’d be interested in working with him. Of course I said yes. In those days you didn’t turn down anything. The competition was so acute. You played wherever you could, whenever you could, with whomever you could, just to keep your chops up and expose yourself. You never knew who’d be listening and watching.

So John and I started working on some things. I remember we made a recording with a French poet (Leo Ferre). We were practicing pretty consistently over a two- or three-week period, before even [future Mahavishnu bandmates] Jerry Goodman, Jan Hammer or Rick Laird [joined]. It was just to play, to understand what we could do together.

• • •
SOLO SURVIVAL

You’ve said you ventured out solo just from a need to survive and continue working after leaving Mahavishnu, and set to work on your first record, Spectrum. That album is a bonafide classic, a cornerstone of instrumental funk, rock and jazz fusion. Did you have a sense you’d hit a home run in your first at-bat?

A home run? No, no. I knew that was I was awarded, in a backhanded way by being associated with Mahavishnu Orchestra, a popularity that I could never have gained on my own. Mahavishnu worked so much. Colleges, universities. So I thought, ‘What could I do that was different from what [Mahavishnu] presented? That band had a complexity that I didn’t feel a need to duplicate. It had been done.

What Mahavishnu didn’t have, that I felt I owned and contributed, was the groove. And since I was coming from experiences in the studio with people like King Curtis, Chuck Rainey, Gordon Edwards, and Richard Tee, I felt that it would be nice to make the groove — the foundation, the funky part — much more dominant. Then add a taste of the technical, the pyrotechnical side of Mahavishnu. And it worked.

Were you unaware the album was getting airplay?
Yeah. I didn’t listen to the radio. I wasn’t expecting it would be on the radio.

“Stratus” is a huge track from that album. How did you come up with that bassline?
At the time, I played piano and it was two-finger typing. And that was as good as I could get (sings bassline). And it worked. I was playing the piano a lot, as I wanted to develop my skills on the keyboard. I also believed that understanding music theoretically would make me a better musician at my instrument, so I started to take music theory very seriously.

I found that people are into what makes them feel good. People want to dance. They don’t dance in 7/4 time in the United States. They do that in Bulgaria. So you come up with something where everybody can tap their foot, go ‘Yeah, cool. I can relate to that.’ And if you can grab people with something that they feel comfortable with, you notice that their shoulders go down and they feel real comfortable. All of a sudden they’re just tapping and humming along. Now you just control something on the top and they go ‘Wow, I never heard that before.’ But they still have a sense of security and that’s very important. And that’s how I came up with that piece.

How do you feel about that label, ‘fusion’? Mahavishnu, Weather Report and much of your early material is generally grouped under that umbrella.
I don’t have any problems with labels. They don’t make the music. They’re a way for people to categorize what they hear. Picasso’s got his geometric period, his pink period, his red period. So it’s a label. I don’t need to spend time or energy trying to decide what people want to call what I do.

Your follow-up, Crosswinds, is another record now regarded as a classic with DJs, funk enthusiasts, and beat junkies, with some of those blazing Latin-feel workouts alongside classic grooves like Pleasant Pheasant and the title track. Did you have a specific plan for building on Spectrum?
No. At the time that I was just enjoying success from the popularity of Spectrum. I was also extremely naive as to my musical direction in live and recording concepts and was just trying to keep that positive momentum going. All that happened was a complete surprise and akin to a boxing match where the 800-to-1 underdog wins the world championship without a manager, trainer or any real backup support. I was really not prepared for the future. I also muffed a lot of great opportunities that came my way.

In what way? What kind of opportunities?
Mostly things like one-on-one relationships with [Atlantic Records] reps. I didn’t know how to effectively work with the record company establishment. I couldn’t establish a worthwhile business rapport with those in a position to make decisions in my favor, such as marketing my product. I didn’t have a manager, which made me very vulnerable with my marketing direction and insecure about my business relationship with WEA (Warner Elektra Atlantic). As a large corporation, I was small potatoes and fell through the cracks by missing opportunities and generally misinterpreting the music business playing field.

I also lacked understanding about music publishing and copyrights. Understanding publishing is very important, followed by an understanding of recording royalties, live performance payments, and all the various offshoots. I was in the dark and lost quite a bit of money due to my ignorance of these things. Even today, I’m not quite comfortable with these elements.

And understand, no one in the business was offering free lessons in Music Business 101. Everything has its price and the two routes to learning have their pitfalls. I lament that if I only knew then what I know now, I might have greatly improved my chances of success.

Sly Stone, Stevie Wonder, Herbie Hancock and the Headhunters were all happening during this period. Did they or anyone else particularly inspire your funkier moments on Spectrum and Crosswinds?
I don’t believe these very, very special people were part of a conscious effort on my part to choose a specific musical direction. That being said, I can’t deny that they are, and always will be, a major part of my subconscious stream of thought. They’re major members of the musical cadre, worldwide, and therefore a musical factor in some way in what I do.

Looking back, you recorded two very good first solo records. Did it feel like it at the time?
At that time, all I could do was take my best shot and hope that I got over with my musical approach or concepts. I believe that I had the element of surprise on my side and that many in the recording industry were not prepared for me as a front-line artist. Drummers are generally not expected to make hit records without the help of others considered more astute, creative and imaginative.

Looking at your discography during this period, it doesn’t look like you were doing many sessions, although you appear on some key material with guys like Larry Coryell and Stanley Clarke, even the Brothers Johnson. Were you pretty much exclusively touring and recording your own bands during this period?
I was working wherever and whenever possible.

Were you enjoying being a bandleader?
For many years, I didn’t feel like I was enjoying the experience. There seemed to be no time to reflect upon what was going on, fronting a band. I had so much to focus on and never enough time to simply meditate on what was happening, what had happened, and where fate might direct me. I think I started to feel more at home with being a leader, front man, maybe within the last 20 years.

Let me ask you quick about the Cobham/Duke Band. George Duke said you guys had been talking about forming a band for some time, while you were with Mahavishnu and he was with Zappa. The band eventually released the Live In Europe album, but why didn’t we hear more from you guys?
I was trying to find a partner with whom I could work and I feel comfortable with both on and off stage. I thought with George I could develop this relationship over time. But the economics, combined with George’s timely success, prohibited me from continuing to work in this musical direction.

On paper it was an all-star combination with guitarist John Scofield and bassist Alphonso Johnson. Was it just destined to be one of those short-lived but classic projects?
I believe that it was destined to be a hit or home run for the time we invested. In later years, we would find that the concept, although musically logical and rewarding, would not be so easy to reassemble for one more fling. Even now we try, but the timing is elusive. I would not say never, but the longer we wait, the greater the chance it will not come to be [editor’s note: this interview was conducted before Duke’s death in 2013).

Looking back on your 70’s work, what stands out most to you? You released some iconic funk and mind-bending fusion.
I really enjoyed working with Dougie Rauch, George Duke and John Scofield. It was not a long-lasting experience due to Dougie’s unexpected death, but that band did have its moments. I’m only too sorry that we didn’t have more time in each other’s presence, making music. Some recording sessions like ‘White Rabbit’ (George Benson), ‘Sunflower’ (Milt Jackson), ‘Magic’, ‘Simplicity of Expression’, ‘Matterhorn,’ (Louie Bellson), ‘Sky Dive’ (Freddie Hubbard) or ‘Jack Johnson’ (Miles) really make me smile at the memories.

• • •
THE EIGHTIES

Into the ’80s, you’re still recording prolifically, what looks like an album or so a year. Then you back off a bit into the mid-’80s. Is this when you started to do more work with guys like Jack Bruce and Bob Weir?
Actually around 1978, I began to feel as if music played in the U.S. was no longer attractive to me. Groups like the Village People and others were successful with cover songs of well-known classical pieces like Beethoven’s Fifth, for example. [The Village People’s] In The Navy was a successful pop tune then, and looking back on that scene, I remember it was a deciding factor to take my life to another part of the world (Cobham moved to Switzerland in 1980).

Did you feel creatively spent, as a drummer or composer? Was it a relief to not lead a band for awhile?
I felt that I needed to learn more about myself as a person than as an artist. I felt that I could not sincerely play my history. I did not feel in control of what I played because I wasn’t sure where, how, when or why these ideas emanated from within me. The beginning of the 1980s was a period of inward searching for me. I also wanted to better understand why people are so easily duped into accepting a particular dogma, set by a few, as the direction. I decided to take a break from fronting my own band and follow someone else’s for awhile.

Granted, one of the bands I ended up in was based in the U.S. anyway (Bobby and The Midnites), and the other, Jack Bruce and Friends, was managed by a North American agency. But I found that living outside the bubble really helped me develop a broader sense of self, in all aspects of my life. I felt I could bring a more unique approach to playing as a supporter of musicians than if I had stayed in the U.S. and not pursued my interests globally.

Did you envision the move to be as permanent as it has proven?
No. I thought I would stay in Europe for about six weeks and then return home to New York. After almost thirty years, it has been a long, extended six weeks.

Do you ever envision a return to the States?
No, it doesn’t seem likely. Time has gone by and definitely shaped my life to enjoy the world as my stage. Of which, the USA makes up a portion of no less significant importance than any other country on the world map.

Speaking of that Bob Weir project (Bobby & The Midnites), a collaboration with a member of the Grateful Dead seems bizarre in the context of your career up to that point. Did it seem as strange then as it sounds even now?
At first, yes, but after listening to the music that Bob wrote and falling into step with it, I found that the collaboration was well worth the effort to learn the music and develop a strong rapport within the band.

• • •
TECHNIQUE

There’s a clip of you playing with Horace Silver in 1968 where you take a solo. You’re playing a small kit, what looks like a standard bop kit, but sitting pretty high, towering over the kit. And I noticed that you’re already riding with the left hand, developing that open-hand lead style. When did you start developing that?
I believe that started around 1955. When I was told you could only play the drumset if you were right-handed and you had to use the traditional sticking in order to play, I asked myself “Why is that?” I think I asked one or two teachers and they just said ‘because that’s the way it is.’ I wouldn’t accept that. ‘That’s the way it is’ doesn’t work for me.

So what would happen if I did something different? I don’t like cross-sticking. I don’t like to have to put one stick across the other. What would happen if I lowered the hi-hat stand? What if I played matched grip and put my ride cymbal on the left side next to my hi-hat so that I wouldn’t have to spend so much energy going across my body? Wouldn’t that make more sense? And logic said yes. So I did it.

And you’re doing this at 14, 15 years old?
Yeah. Because I’m trying to find the easiest way to play the drumset. For me, this isn’t a sport. I’m just trying to play more musically and effectively for a longer period of time, using the energy I have, without having to pant after every solo or after playing a song. I didn’t know about posture and breathing yet, but it all seemed to lean in that direction.

Had you been playing the kit long enough that you hadn’t yet developed the right-hand hi-hat habit?
I had, but then I thought, ‘This is stupid, let’s try something else. I know I can do this and it can’t be that difficult.’ Understand also that, at the time, certain aspects of the drum set, like the hi-hat and bass drum pedals, they weren’t very highly developed. Drummers then weren’t doing what they’re doing now with the hi-hat. They weren’t concerned so much with their ability to play the bass drum, to control the pedal, as they were with just being able to play four on the floor and support the band for as fast and as long as they could.

Generally speaking, drummers weren’t thinking melodically. They were thinking rhythmically. Today, many drummers have moved up to the idea of thinking musically, incorporating dynamics, velocity sensitivity, phrasing, and being more selective in what they play. Then you’ve got speed and dexterity, and all of that is based around the center of power within the body. You’ve got all these things that you have to pull together and coordinate to project your ideas and thoughts. This is new world. So the instrumentation, the equipment that you’re using, has to reflect this.

You’ve said John McLaughlin suggested adding a second bass drum to your set. Had you played much double-bass before that?
No. John asked me to add the second bass drum for the new music he was developing. I balked at first because I did not have a clear concept for the additional drum. But as I thought about what to do with in the following days, ideas began to develop. I just needed to understand for myself what the general parameters were as related to the musicians and the music as an end result. Then it wasn’t difficult to move forward.

The double kicks have become a trademark of your setup. Any feelings on the double pedal?
I sometimes use a double pedal, more out of convenience than preference. I don’t receive the same satisfaction from the double pedal that I do from two single pedals working two bass drums.

How much did you military experience shape your rudimental approach?
The rudimental training started prior to the military [in drum corps], but the military kind of rounded everything out. I also developed a sense of discipline that I could live with.

How conscious are you of that rudimental training when you’re phrasing or blazing around the toms?
It’s not just rudimental training. Not all of it. It’s also concept, development. It’s: Where do you play what you know, and when do you play what you know? For me, it’s about timing, what you hear, and how you utilize it to interpret your thoughts. The drums are just an instrument that projects a reflection, sonically, of what you’re thinking.

• • •
CONTEMPORARY EXPOSURE

You’ve been sampled by contemporary hip-hop artists and producers like Massive Attack, DJ Shadow and Souls of Mischief. Have you noticed any benefit to the newly-found exposure? Besides the royalties, of course.
I can’t assess the exposure these projects have brought me, but I hope the success of the collaborations involving my tunes causes some to go back and see where the ideas of their idols have come. Of course, everything has a price and this I can live with on the royalty end.

What are your personal feelings on sampling?
A good thing if used and expanded upon. It’s an art form within itself. I look forward to expanding upon my concepts through this avenue in the not-too-distant future.

Do you follow much hip-hop or electronic music?
No. But I don’t dislike it, either. When it’s good, it’s good. That probably means I understood the message within. Being an instrumentalist, the tune and the groove are more important than the lyrics, especially if the message is a sad one from the vocal side.

Thinking back to the ’70s and ’80s, were you aware that guys like John Bonham and Alex Van Halen were fans of your playing?
I did not know that John was familiar with my work. I did meet Keith Moon once, in Atlanta. Aside from that experience, I’ve never thought much about my fan base in this way.

Odd question, but did you ever feel any competition with Tony Williams during that period? Both of you were Miles Davis alumni and fusion pioneers. Didn’t you and he once ‘battle’ on stage?
Tony Williams invited me to perform with him in Japan in the summer of 1979. The idea was for us to play together, and from what I remember of this project, the first requirement put to me by his manager at the time was to pare down my drum set. Play fewer drums. He said that Tony wanted me to do this. So I went to Tony, in the presence of the manager, and asked ‘What should I remove? Tony said, ‘Leave it all up.’ So I did, and we played a very short piece in collaboration. So much for managers.

Your work seems pretty varied these days. I’ve heard or seen clips of you in small acoustic groups, world beat and Latin projects, jazz combos. Which ways are you consciously moving these days, and what projects are you most excited about?
I’m currently in the middle of a four-CD project that reflects what you’ve noted above. I do play within many different musical environments and find the transitions from one to the other easy and seamless. I like the idea of multiple musical presentations, expressing myself comfortably within more than one musical environment at a time, with minimal need for adjustment.

Playing within the realm of the WOMAD projects, performing with Ron Carter and Kenny Barron in a jazz trio, working with [Afro-Cuban ensemble] Asere, Okuta Percussion or my band Culture Mix make me feel very fortunate and transition comfortably from one musical stop to the other. There are quite a few different performance opportunities out there for me and I try to find a way to connect with as many of them as I can.

What do you like to do outside of playing the drums and making music?
Photography is a passion, has been for 45 years. It has pulled through some very rough times during those years. My camera has been my partner when there was no portal through which I could find release.