Ben Kenney: Rising From The Ashes

In the summer of 2021, Ben Kenney was on tour with Incubus when he received the call that would change his life forever. While playing concerts across the country as he had for 20 years with the band, Kenney started experiencing strange symptoms including headaches, hearing loss, numbness in his face, and fatigue. He saw several doctors but received no conclusive prognosis, until a specialist called to inform him that he had a brain tumor. Shocked, as anyone would be in that situation, he decided to keep it a secret and gather his strength to finish the last month of the tour. When he finally revealed the news to his bandmates after the final show, they were as supportive as possible — but for Ben, his future as a musician, and his life as he knew it, was utter uncertainty. His situation only became more hopeless when he learned that after surgery, he would be entirely deaf in his right ear.

Surgeons successfully removed 95% of the tumor, but Kenney awoke in agonizing pain that lasted several months. He experienced not only complete hearing loss in his ear, but also debilitating tinnitus that he found would be permanent. His road to recovery was long, but thanks to the help of his partner and his family, he made slow progress with what he refers to as “little victories.” As a lifelong musician it was the first time in Ben’s life that he had been void of playing instruments, but his continued recovery was his only focus. This onslaught of painful convalescence went even deeper when his father passed away only months after the surgery. 

In time, the little victories started stacking up, and Kenney’s attitude and outlook improved as he began feeling a new lease on life and a genuine gratitude for everything he’s accomplished and everything yet to come. He decided to leave Incubus after his two decades in the band. He knew they would be in good hands with Nicole Row, and he felt a strong desire to make music that was his own. When he was finally able to pick up his bass and guitars, the experience reminded him of why he had first picked them up as a young boy — and when his hands became strong enough, Kenney did the same thing he had done his entire life: he started writing.

After a few weeks of inspired sessions, he realized that he had the makings of an album. But this album wasn’t just another solo release; he felt it was the most important body of music he’d made in his life. It was also the biggest accomplishment of his career, requiring him to navigate playing, recording, engineering, and mixing with mono hearing — Kenney performed all of the instruments including bass, guitars, drums, percussion, keyboard, and vocals. Knowing the journey that led to the songs, you can hear his renewed hunger and utter joy of being a musician on tracks like “Fourtie Fourz,” “August,” “Three Times,” “Ken & Kenny,” “A World Without Lawyers,” and “No Room Left for Doubt,” which are all especially poignant on the bass front. From start to finish, the stylistically eclectic album tells the story of his journey, while also displaying his influences throughout his life, from Prince to Darryl Jenifer. 

On April 27, Kenney returned to the stage to perform at The Moroccan Lounge alongside longtime collaborator Ashley Mendel and his new drummer, Mark Whitfield Jr. With his triumphant comeback, Kenney proved to himself that he didn’t have to give up music, a tremendous relief, having believed that his last Incubus show would be the final performance of his life. But for Kenney, this is a new beginning, and one that he is going to give all of himself to. 

How did you initially find out about the brain tumor?

I had no idea I had a brain tumor, even though I’d had it for a long time. The first symptoms were showing up in 2019 going into 2020. I started feeling really lethargic and tired. I started having problems with my balance, too. We went through the pandemic lockdown, and I didn’t feel physically great through all of that, and then the hearing in my right ear started to deteriorate very quickly. When 2021 came around, I went out camping in the desert, and my face went numb and my taste was really off and my hearing was just terrible. When I got back, I had to get to work with Incubus rehearsing, because we had a tour coming up; I figured that the hearing part was from 20 years of playing loud music 100-plus nights a year. I went on a hunt to figure out what was wrong, and a bunch of doctors gave me tests and MRIs. The first doctor I talked to didn’t believe I had anything wrong with me and told me I needed to go on antidepressants. I knew that wasn’t it.

By the time summer hit, I still didn’t have any answers, and I went out to do the tour. In the middle of that tour, I found my way to a particular brain surgeon, and they called me up to give me the diagnosis that I had an acoustic neuroma. It had destroyed the auditory nerve to my right ear, and that was never going to heal. It was also crushing a facial nerve, and if we didn’t stop it, it would damage that, which would never come back. So, I had to have it removed as soon as possible. I absorbed that as slowly as I could. You go through life hearing about other people having these kinds of problems, and then you eventually get one of your own, and you begin to question what it means. I finished the tour, and then I just hit stop on everything in my life. 

What was it like keeping that secret the whole time? 

It was overwhelming. It was this huge thing that was going to change my life and I was just wondering what I was going to be on the other side. I didn’t want to tell my parents, because they’re getting up in age and they worry about me all the time. I didn’t want anyone to have any more on their plate than they already did. The first person other than my lady that I talked to was my older brother, Ted. He was pretty devastated, but he also gave me the support that I needed. At the end of the tour, I told the guys in the band that I had a brain tumor, that I’d lose all of the hearing in my right ear, and that I didn’t know what happens after that. At that point I hadn’t decided I wasn’t coming back to the band; I just needed to get the tumor removed and find out what was on the other side of it. 

It was like a bomb went off and then afterwards I crawled out of the rubble and everything was gone. It felt like everything was over entirely.

When did you receive the surgery?

November 2021. It was full-on brain surgery, which lives up to its reputation. I woke up on the other side of it, and it was hell for a few months. My face was paralyzed, my hearing was permanently gone on my right side, and I had a headache for months that on a scale of one to ten was about a 75. I was in bed with high-dose painkillers and medicines to keep my blood pressure and heart rate in a narrow window. The doctor said my brain was going to be trying to heal for a very long time. He said I was going to be slowed down and a lot of things were going to be way too intense. I wasn’t going to really understand it, so I would need to have a lot of persistence. It sucked. 

The surgery sounds intense. What exactly did they have to do? 

The tumor was 2.5 centimeters, which is the size of a grape. It was behind my right eye, up under the skull where the auditory equipment is in the brain. It had pinched the nerve to the point where it died. It was also affecting my taste, which is kind of rare. So they cut a circle around my ear and pulled it back, and then for five hours they drilled through my skull. They went in and pushed some stuff out of the way and extracted most of the tumor. They had to leave a little because it had blended with the nerve that controls blinking, smiling, everything on the right side of my face. Then they actually did liposuction on my stomach to get enough fat to replace the mass of the tumor inside my skull. They put a titanium plate there and bolted it to my skull. I asked the doctor if he would take a picture of it, and he did. It’s both one of the nastiest things I’ve ever seen, and one of the coolest things I’ve ever seen. 

What was it like mentally and emotionally for you after the surgery? 

It was like a bomb went off and then afterwards I crawled out of the rubble and everything was gone. It felt like everything was over entirely. Luckily, my family was there for me with whatever I needed, and my partner, Georgia, took care of me. I can’t even express the lengths that she went through to make sure I was okay. That was everything. I was in the dumps, man. I played my last show before the surgery at Red Rocks in Colorado, and when I got onstage that night I knew it might be the last time I ever play live. 

What was going on in your head during that show?

It’s hard to put into words. There was something peaceful about it, but not in a joyful sense. I felt a certain amount of surrender. I knew I couldn’t talk my way out of it, and no one was going to kick in the door to save me. I was going on a ride. I had wanted to be a rock star since I was a little kid; it was the only thing that I really ever longed for, and I felt good, in a sense, that I got to do it. I wasn’t able to even process the fact that it seemed like it was all over. It was really depressing for a hot minute. If I couldn’t do music, what could I do in this world? What am I good for? I struggled, man. I’m a big advocate for therapy and for asking for help and humbling yourself and allowing other people to help you. I went through a lot of therapy and talked it all out and started to understand myself better. Even before finding out that I had the tumor, I wasn’t really happy or feeling satisfied with my life. Everything started to lose a lot of meaning. Amazingly enough, I had been thinking I would like to level up spiritually. I’m not oblivious to the fact that I’ve lived more years than the amount I have in front of me, and it’s starting to feel different. And then this happened. Somewhere deep in the basement of my brain, I wondered if I had asked for this. It made me look at my life and realize what I’m grateful for and what I lost along the way. I lost a lot of curiosity, I lost a lot of joy, I lost a lot of simple things. But as soon as I was healthy enough to travel, at the end of February, I went and hung out with my parents back in New Jersey, and I had an amazing time in this really complete, whole moment. I didn’t realize it, but that was the last time I ever saw my father alive. 

That must have been terrible with everything else going on.

In New Jersey the weather was warm and sunny in the middle of winter, and on the way home I felt like I was very complete and fulfilled with my family. A couple weeks later, my dad went to the hospital one night and didn’t make it out. He was 84. All the stuff I had been experiencing and sorting in my brain about who I was, and what I was measuring myself against, those things became top priority. I knew that I didn’t want to continue with what I was doing. I’m so grateful for my 20 years in Incubus — making music with those guys and touring the world — that was amazing. But I knew that I needed something different. I’m different now. I had to take it seriously, because there’s less time in front of me. That’s when I started having to ask the question, Do I still want to play music to any degree? 

The music industry is a rough place for sensitive people. It’s not a friendly world.
It’s big business, and the least important thing in it is the music and the people making it. I love music. I don’t consider myself a businessperson and I’m not interested in business; I’m interested in chord changes and tom sounds.

When were you able to answer that question? 

When I finally picked up my guitar again, my hand got so bad that I could barely hold a coffee cup. I had gotten surgery for carpel tunnel syndrome in 2020, and my hand had atrophied. I ended up getting that figured out, and that was one of the little victories along the way. At that point I knew I wasn’t going back to Incubus and touring — I wasn’t going to rebuild myself to go straight into that, so I wanted to do something different. I kept telling myself that this was going to be the journey of a thousand losses. So anytime I got a little win, I celebrated the hell out of it. 

I was processing my pop being gone, and I started to think about music and the music industry, which is a rough place for sensitive people. It’s not a friendly world. It’s big business, and the least important thing in it is the music and the people making it. I love music. I don’t consider myself a businessperson and I’m not interested in business; I’m interested in chord changes and tom sounds. In the process of asking what I want, I realized that’s still what I want. I went into a really dark place for a minute with the question in hand, and I found the answer — out of everything I went through, one part of me that did not change is that I want to make music. I don’t think I’m ever going to lose that regardless of whether my ears work or my hands work. I know two things about my soul: I want to hear music, and I want to make music. 

What was it like the first time you picked up an instrument again?

It sucked. Not only had all the strength dropped out of my hand, my brain wasn’t in the mode of living on the fretboard. I’m a lifelong noodler, and I love not knowing what I’m playing and watching it come out, but I picked up the guitar and it was the most discouraging thing. I knew I used to do it all the time and I was good at it, and it just wasn’t there. It hurt because of how much I love it. Music always gave me a place to hide and a place to be seen. But eventually, it got better by degrees, and I just kept at it like I always have. 

As a lifelong musician, what has it been like losing hearing on one side?

Before the surgery, I had 5% hearing left in my right ear. I could just hear low end rumble and distortion, but it still had a stereo feel. When I woke up, as soon as the morphine went down enough to where I knew where I was, I tried to snap my fingers next to my head, and it was completely gone. The only thing left on the right side is the most insane tinnitus. It’s full-blast, screaming tinnitus up in like 12,000 cycles, and it’s never going away — that’s how my brain perceives the entire right side of my sound field. I was panicked at first, because I thought it was going to make me suicidal. There were days when I woke up and all I wanted was the ringing to stop. But such is life, and it’s really not that bad in the grand scheme of things. 

If I’m going to write a song now, it has to be everything. I have to write it with my whole being. If I’m going to make something new, I don’t want to disrespect that privilege. It has to be the hill that I’m going to die on. 

What is playing bass like for you now? 

Everything has to be really clean. I’ve actually been playing a ton more bass lately and having a blast with it, because it’s liberated for me. I can do whatever I want to do with it now. But I have to fall back on knowing where I’m at. Sometimes if I’m playing on top of a drum fill, I can’t hear what notes I’m playing, whereas before, I listened more than I thought mechanically. I can picture three different shapes of how to play A minor starting off on the 5th fret, and I know where all of the notes of the scale are and all of the notes in between depending which mode, but I don’t think of that stuff when I’m playing. When I’m playing, I’m listening, without using the terms in my head — “I’m going to go two steps up or flat on this note here” — just because I know how it’s going to sound and what it’s going to do against what’s moving behind me. I always felt like I was in the music and I never had to look at my hands. I know what the words mean; I’m not looking at the letters. Now I have to take more of an approach where I have to watch how I spell things. I have to look at the letter and make sure I know what the word, and sentence, and paragraph, and book is about. It’s making me have to approach things totally differently. 

Does it change the way you write to have to view things like that musically? 

The whole experience changed the way that I write, not only the hearing element. It’s so much more serious now. The threat of losing it has made it the most important thing. If I’m going to write a song now, it has to be everything. I have to write it with my whole being. I’ve made a lot of solo records, I’ve made a lot of records with bands, I’ve recorded on a lot of people’s records, I have this gigantic catalog of music, but there are only a handful of things in there that are the right things, the pure things to me. Those are the everything songs. There are a lot of cool riffs and fun moments, but that’s bullshit to me now. If I’m going to make something new, I don’t want to disrespect that privilege. It has to be the hill that I’m going to die on. 

At what point did you decide to set out and create an album?

When I finally picked up my instruments again, I realized that I had a bunch of songs that were shaping into an album. Some of them were written more than ten years ago and I had recorded different versions over time. Some hadn’t been written until two months before the record came out. It was a huge pile on a hard drive, 300 to 400 song sketches — some of them could just be mastered and put out, and some of them you’d struggle to find the song in them. After my chiropractor got my hands working again, I started to believe in it and I knew I could do this. I started getting in the room and working on the songs every day, picking up everything where I left off. One by one the songs started to complete themselves, and the finish line started appearing over the horizon. 

With the hearing loss and the tinnitus, what challenges did you face tracking and mixing in an auditory sense?

I had to mix things in mono and just trust it. I used pans that I knew would work, the tricks of how things worked in the past, like with stereo guitars 70% left and right. Then I would check it all mono and stand in ever corner in my house. I’d turn the speaker up all the way and move around to do everything I could do to change the situation of how I was hearing it. It turns out that if one ear works and something sounds like shit, then it sounds like shit [laughs]. You only need one ear to know something doesn’t sound right. 

I knew it was important that I had the bass speaking. It carries so much importance to this material. On some of these songs, if you mute the bass, the whole song falls entirely apart to crumbs. It can’t live without it.

What was your mentality for bass on this material?

It was on a song-by-song basis, but I knew it was important that I had the bass speaking. It carries so much importance to this material. On some of these songs, if you mute the bass, the whole song falls entirely apart to crumbs. It can’t live without it. On a song like “August,” the bass is the backbone, and you can’t even play it differently than it was recorded. And the tone — if you play that with the wrong tone, it’s going to sound really wonky. A song like “Three Times” has multitrack recordings of a 7-string guitar, and the bass is just seismic. It doesn’t step out, and there isn’t a bunch of frilly stuff. It’s an earthquake from the beginning of the song to the end. So, each track is entirely different on bass, but every bass line is severely important to every song.

The album kicks off with the acoustic guitar and pad-swelling “Hymn.”

That’s something I played around with before the tumor. I wanted you to be able to taste the guitar on that. The songs sequence themselves, which I can’t explain; I just know where the songs go. Having that one first was one of the first decisions I made. It’s very gentle and very quiet. If you don’t have the attention to sit through that song, then please turn my record off. There are definitely Spotify playlists that will make you happy, but maybe this isn’t for you. In mountain biking there’s a thing they call “squirrel catchers” — they’ll put a jump as big as the biggest jump right at the beginning of the trail, so if you can’t get past that, turn around. That’s what this song is for this album. 

“Fourtie Fourz” has some crunchy synth-sounding bass. How did you cop that?

That part was me trying to chase the feeling and vibe of when I first visited South America. I was in Caracas with Incubus in 2005, and reggaeton hadn’t really hit the States yet, or at least the places I hang out, and that was my first exposure to that music. We spent a couple of days painting the town red and hanging out with the locals. We went out clubbing, and the music, the pulse, the energy was the greatest thing in the world. I wanted that vibe, so I started this song on piano and couldn’t figure out how to get it from here to there, but I ended up using a lot of synth bass with my Novation Bass Station. I got some sounds I liked out of that and layered it with a Waldorf Blofeld. There are no stringed instruments on that song. The drums are live, and that ended up being really fun to play. I kept experimenting a lot, but this one had enough gas in the tank to get it across the finish line.

“A World Without Lawyers” is centered around a gritty bass line. 

Most of that recording was a very low-effort demo using my Lakland mahogany 5-string, which John Piricello at Lakland had made for me. It’s one of the nicest instruments in the world; it’s such a beautiful bass, and it sounds perfect. I was playing that bass line rolled on the back pickup with a looper pedal, and it was upsettingly good. I kept playing it and looping it, and then I picked up my guitar and plugged into the same pedal and looped it. It’s the most lo-fi thing ever, an audio engineer’s nightmare. I took all of the parts from my looper pedal and plugged them into my laptop, and I just loved it. 

“Ken & Kenny” is all about riffs. What were you using on that? 

That song came from me playing with a 7-string guitar for a while. I tried an 8-string because like a lot of people I want to be like Tosin Abasi, but that didn’t work for me. Every bass player should go out and get a 7-string guitar, because then they’ll have a leg up on every single guitar player. You start slapping and plucking on the 7-string, and you’re like, oh okay! Playing that makes me want to make things sound nasty. I want riffs, and I want that low string flopping around in the wind, and that inspired the parts of that song. Then I built it out and played the riff to the click track for like eight minutes, and then I went and played drums to it, and then added guitars. 

What inspired the distinctly punk sound of “Fugga”?

I’ve made music like that most of my life. Very early on I was attracted to the hardcore and punk scenes in New York and New Jersey. As a teenager I was going to hardcore shows, and that energy didn’t need to be explained to me. I knew the first time I went into a room with other teenagers, and we just started smashing each other in the heads when the slow breakdown came — it just fit. It’s never left me; it just takes a little more of a run up for me to get to that speed now [laughs]. One day I was messing around and I played that riff, and I just wanted to keep going. I kept going, and the whole thing came together. It was me pretending to be Darryl Jenifer of Bad Brains underneath it all. 

The bass on “No Room Left For Doubt” has a lot of swagger. 

That’s me being very inspired by Prince, the first couple of seconds of “If I Was Your Girlfriend.” It’s kind of free and not overcomplicated. I landed on that bass line, and I got stuck on it and let it soak in. I recorded it and played it back to see where it would take me to. I messed with the sound of the bass, and I wanted it to sound like the amp was having a hernia. Then I sang on top of it. The jam part came later as a palette cleanser, but I wanted an explosive palette cleanser. The whole front end of the song is pumping bass, and then the chaotic part doesn’t have low end. I wanted that contrast. 

How cathartic was this process?

Mixing and completing a mix has always been the best moments of my life. When I know it’s done and I play it back and I think, I did this and it’s complete, that’s the best. This time, it was a huge hit of emotions for me. These songs are more charged emotionally and so much more crucial to me. When I finished I felt whole and complete and like nothing else mattered. All of the things going on that I can’t control, I was okay with those things. I’m doing the thing I know how to do, and I’m in it 100%. 

I’d be remiss not to ask you where the title Powerful Buttcheeks came from. 

The phrase popped into my head, and I thought it was gnarly. I wanted to call my record that, but then I realized I couldn’t. It’s childish, it’s silly, it’s tongue-in-cheek — but then it dawned on me that I have to call this record that, because it makes me feel a little uncertain. Even though it’s stupid, it was scary to call it that. But it made sense because I had a herniated disc in my back, and I went to my chiropractor, and he told me he’d get me fixed and the way to do it was to strengthen my gluteus minimis. He pretty much said that if I got my buttcheeks stronger that my back would realign and fix itself. Sure enough, what fixed it? Powerful buttcheeks. 

How difficult was it to step away from Incubus after 20 years? 

It was terrifying. I had achieved so much with the band and it became a huge, all-encompassing part of my life. My life was based on playing in that band. What I was going to do, where I was going to be, everything was dictated by my role in Incubus. It’s easy to have the thoughts of just pivoting and saying, No it’s not — I don’t want that anymore. But I wondered if it would be hard and painful. I thought about it, and I knew I was sure about it. Playing in Incubus was some of the highest highs and lowest lows and everything in between. It was magical. But I want to have another chapter in my life. I’ve been in a lot of situations that define who I am, and that was one of them. Now, I just want to go out into the world and be me. It’s terrifying, though. The biggest factor was whether Incubus needed me to stay: Does it fall apart without me? Does it get damaged without me? Does anything change without me? Realistically, the arc of that band is ongoing, and I don’t need to see it to the end. I could leave and it will keep going. 

How did your bandmates react when you told them you were leaving?

Everybody was cool about it. They had held the door open for me from the minute I said I had a brain tumor. They said whatever I needed to do, they’d be right there. But there was a sadness about that chapter ending. When you have a gang or a family and you spend that much time together, you don’t want to see anybody peel off, but they understood. There were a lot of bass players around who I had already visualized for that role. That ended up working out awesome. 

Nicole is the best bass player that Incubus has ever had.
No disrespect to Dirk [Lance], or to me, but if you’re going to get somebody who can do Dirk and me and still have something left in the tank, that’s the player you want.

What do you think of Nicole Row as the bass player in Incubus? 

Nicole is the best bass player that Incubus has ever had. She definitely has strengths that I don’t. I’m a musician; sometimes I’m a bass player and sometimes I’m a drummer and sometimes I’m a guitarist. Nicole is a bass player. She has a tremendous amount of respect for the instrument and the culture of the instrument, and it shows in her playing. No disrespect to Dirk [Lance], or to me, but if you’re going to get somebody who can do Dirk and me and still have something left in the tank, that’s the player you want. I was never there to be Dirk. That was the agreement for me being in the band — that I got to come in and do my own thing, and that’s what I did. Dirk carved his name up on the Mount Rushmore of that era of music. You have people who were doing their own things, and now you have someone who can take those things all the way to their rightful conclusion.

Do you miss it at all now that you’ve recovered?

Not really. But I do miss the family of touring; there were people out there that I would spend a lot of my life with. But I’m more excited than anything about getting to play with Ash [Ashley Mendel] and Mark Whitfeld Jr. I’m obsessed with that, and that’s what my brain is focused on right now. I don’t regret anything with Incubus. 

I got reminded that all the things that I love, I still love them, and all the things that bring me joy still bring me joy — I just need to fix my mind to see them and to be open to them. I’m getting back to what I love, and music is what I love.

Would you ever be interested in joining a band as a bassist again, or are you digging making your music?

I think I would like to do everything I can. I would like to be in new situations. I absolutely want to play with new people and create with new people. I want to make as much music as I can, and I want it to be as good as it can possibly be. I really got to look under the hood and get the message that this doesn’t last forever, so I’m not going to sit still. If somebody came along and wanted to play with me and it’s the right situation, then I’m there. It’s all I want to do. I’m ready to roll. 

How has your overall perspective on life and music changed?

It may sound a little ridiculous, but I do feel like this is all bonus round right now. After the situation was over, I got reminded that it’s a beautiful trip if you can allow yourself to be open to it. We get so bombarded every day with information and media and all of this stuff, and none of it has our best interests in mind. None of it cares about the individual. Life has become algorithmic and a numbers game, and the [music] community has some sharp edges right now. I got reminded that all the things that I love, I still love them, and all the things that bring me joy still bring me joy — I just need to fix my mind to see them and to be open to them. It feels like the world is ending every day, so long as it brings more clicks and more ad views. I’m getting back to what I love, and music is what I love. When I came out of this experience and I was questioning what I wanted to do, it was so damn clear that of course it is music. No matter how much I go through or change, I never chose to give up music. You don’t finish music; you’re never done with it.

Hear Him On

Ben Kenney, Powerful Buttcheeks [2025, Ghetto Crush]

Gear

Bass 2003 34″-scale Lakland Skyline Joe Osborn with JBE pickups & GHS Boomers, 2012 34″-scale Lakland USA Custom 55-94 with Lakland pickups and GHS Boomers, 2018 32″-scale Serek Sacramento Custom with a single JBE J pickup and Thomastik Infeld strings

Studio rig Everything initially recorded direct through a Vintech 473 preamp or a Grace Design 501 preamp, then reamped through either a Ampeg Micro SVT VR, Freidman PT20, or Mesa Rectoverb 2, sent into and Ampeg Micro SVT VR 2×10 or a Mesa Thiele 1×12, miked up with an AKG D130, a Royer 121, and/or a Shure SM57. Back into the computer via the Vintech 473 but into a Universal Audio 1176. Plug-ins included Neural DSP’s Darkglass Ultra, Waves C4 Multiband Compressor, and UAD API EQs

Effects Ibanez TS9 + TS7 Tube Screamers, CS9 Analog Chorus, WayHuge Conquistador Fuzz, Aguilar Tone Hammer

Picks Dunlop .73 Max Grip Nylon 

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