There’s something about the Hammond B3 organ that gets inside you. It’s not just the sound—it’s the way it breathes, the way it growls, the way it sings when you play it right. The first time I heard one live, I didn’t even know what I was hearing, but I knew I wanted to be a part of it.

Growing up around music, I played a lot of piano early on, but it wasn’t until I got deeper into performing that I found myself drawn to the B3. It was in the clubs, on the records I loved, and on the stages I wanted to be on. That tone—so soulful, so full of life—was calling. When I finally sat down at one for the first time, it felt like discovering a new language. One that could express things I didn’t know how to say yet.

Soul and Rock Roots

In my early years with Band Du Jour, I was experimenting a lot—piano, electric keys, organ, whatever added the right flavor. But once I really got my hands on a Hammond B3 with a Leslie speaker, everything changed. That classic soul-rock sound opened up a new side of my playing.

There’s something deeply emotional about the B3. In soul and gospel music, it lifts the spirit. In rock and blues, it punches through the mix with grit and authority. It’s got this raw edge, but it can also be smooth and elegant. I started learning how to work the drawbars, how to ride the volume pedal, how to make it shout or whisper—and it became a key part of my voice as a musician.

With Band Du Jour, I used it to push grooves deeper, to add texture and fire to the jams. Later, with the Derek Trucks Band, it became an essential part of our sound—sitting alongside Derek’s slide guitar, locking in with the rhythm section, and filling out the space with warmth and grit.

Learning the Language of the B3

The Hammond B3 isn’t like a piano. It responds to touch and feel in a completely different way. You have to learn how to “speak” through it. It’s part keyboard, part machine, part living thing. And when you plug it into a Leslie cabinet and start working those switches, you’re not just playing notes—you’re shaping wind, fire, and soul.

For me, mastering the B3 took time. It taught me patience. It taught me restraint. It also taught me to listen more closely to what the music needed. Sometimes the best thing you can do is hold one note and let it shimmer. Other times, you lean into it and drive the whole band forward.

That sensitivity—knowing when to lead and when to support—carried over into every other aspect of my playing. Whether I’m playing a roots tune, a jazz-inspired jam, or a Grateful Dead groove, I bring that same intention and touch I learned on the Hammond.

Bringing It Into New Spaces

When I joined Leftover Salmon in 2000, I was stepping into a world that didn’t traditionally include keyboards—especially not a big old B3 organ. Jamgrass is driven by acoustic instruments: mandolin, banjo, fiddle. But I found ways to blend the B3 into that mix without overpowering it.

I’d dial back the volume, use it for subtle pads, or bring it in for short bursts of energy. It became another color on the palette, something that could lift a chorus or build a bridge in a way no other instrument could. It helped broaden the sonic range of the band and bring a different kind of soul to the stage.

That experience showed me the B3’s true versatility. It doesn’t have to scream to make a statement. In fact, some of the most powerful moments come when it’s tucked just under the surface, holding everything together.

The Legacy Lives On

These days, I still use the Hammond B3 in many of my projects—especially with Steely Dead and the Very Jerry Band. Those bands lean heavily on organ-driven sound, and it gives me the chance to go deep into that space again. Whether I’m channeling the jazzier tones of Steely Dan or the gospel-blues vibe of Jerry Garcia’s solo material, the B3 helps me find that emotional center.

It’s also been a mainstay in my solo shows and the McKay Brothers. Even in folk and country-inspired settings, a soft organ part can add warmth and weight that makes a song land a little deeper.

And it’s not just about the notes—it’s the feel. The Hammond reminds me that music isn’t just about perfection. It’s about soul. It’s about expression. It’s about taking a breath and letting the instrument speak for itself.

A Sound That Keeps Me Inspired

After decades of playing, the Hammond B3 still inspires me. It’s kept me curious, creative, and grounded. It’s been with me in clubs, on big festival stages, in quiet sessions with my brother, and in late-night jams where everything just clicks.

It’s more than an instrument—it’s a companion. A storyteller. A bridge between genres and generations.

Every time I power one up and feel that low-end rumble, I’m reminded why I started playing in the first place. And as long as I’ve got songs to play and stories to tell, you can bet the Hammond B3 will be right there with me—still shaping my sound, still guiding the groove, and still speaking in the language of soul.

There’s something magical about live music. It’s raw, unpredictable, and completely in the moment. For me, that’s where the heart of music lives—not in the studio, not on the page, but right there on stage, when you’re locked in with your bandmates and the audience, letting the music lead the way.

Improvisation has always been a huge part of my musical journey. Whether I’m playing with a full band, doing a solo piano show, or jumping into a jam session, I rely heavily on feel and intuition. It’s about listening more than playing—tuning in to what’s happening around you and responding in real time. That’s where the real art lives.

Learning to Trust the Unknown

Early on in my career, I learned that the most powerful musical moments often come from not knowing exactly what’s going to happen. When I played with Band Du Jour, we were constantly pushing boundaries—blending soul, funk, rock, and jam influences in a way that left room for surprises. You’d start a song and end up somewhere totally unexpected.

Then, during my time with the Derek Trucks Band, I saw what deep musical trust looked like. Derek was young but wise beyond his years. He played from such a soulful, honest place that you couldn’t help but rise to meet that level. Playing with him taught me that improvisation isn’t about showing off—it’s about serving the song and letting emotion drive the music.

I carried that lesson with me into every project that followed—from Leftover Salmon’s jamgrass explorations to my own band and solo gigs. The more you let go of control, the more room you leave for something beautiful to happen.

Listening Is Everything

One of the biggest keys to improvising live is being a great listener. When you’re truly present on stage, you’re not just thinking about what you’re going to play—you’re listening to what everyone else is doing, responding to it, and building something together.

It’s like a conversation. If everyone talks at once, it’s chaos. But if you listen, respond thoughtfully, and leave space for others, the music becomes something bigger than any one person. I’ve always loved being part of those musical conversations.

As a keyboardist, I see myself as a bridge—tying together rhythm, melody, and harmony. Sometimes that means laying down a solid groove on the Hammond B3. Other times it means pulling back and letting a piano line float through the mix. But always, it’s about responding to the moment.

Reading the Room

Playing live is never just about the musicians—it’s about the audience, too. I’m always watching the crowd, feeling their energy, and adjusting accordingly. You can feel when people are locked in, when they’re ready for a deep jam, or when they want something more upbeat. That connection is a two-way street.

Some of the best nights I’ve had on stage happened because the audience was right there with us, open and ready to go wherever the music took us. That kind of energy fuels the band and pushes us to take risks we might not take otherwise.

Whether I’m playing at a packed festival with Steely Dead, a local show with the McKay Brothers, or a solo set in a quiet listening room, I’m always tuning in to the vibe of the room. That’s where intuition comes in—knowing what the moment calls for and trusting yourself to follow it.

Mistakes Can Be Gold

Here’s a secret: sometimes the best parts of a live show come from a mistake. You hit the wrong chord, someone comes in a beat early, or the arrangement goes out the window—but instead of panicking, you lean into it. You adapt. You create something new.

Improvisation means being open to those happy accidents. It means being vulnerable and willing to take chances. Not everything will land, but that’s okay. The audience doesn’t expect perfection—they want truth, energy, and a sense that something real is happening right in front of them.

Some of my favorite solos or transitions started with a “mistake” that turned into something better than what I originally planned. That’s the beauty of live music—you’re creating in real time, and anything can happen.

Practice Meets Freedom

Now, I don’t want to give the impression that it’s all just winging it. Improvisation requires a strong foundation. You need to know your instrument, your scales, your chord changes, and your bandmates. That’s where practice comes in.

I’ve spent thousands of hours at the piano, learning everything I can—from classical theory to blues riffs, gospel voicings to jazz harmony. All of that gives me the tools to improvise with confidence. The more you know, the more freely you can express yourself.

Once the foundation is there, the key is letting go of the plan and being open to the present moment. That’s when the real magic happens.

Still Chasing the Spark

After decades of playing, I still get excited every time I step on stage. Why? Because no two shows are ever the same. Even if the setlist is familiar, the energy is always different, and there’s always the chance that tonight, something special will happen.

Improvisation and intuition keep the music alive for me. They keep it fresh. They remind me that music is a living, breathing thing—and that when we truly listen, trust, and follow the moment, we tap into something much bigger than ourselves.

That’s the art of playing live. And it’s what keeps me coming back, night after night, ready to see where the music wants to go next.