Reid Anderson: Complex Emotions

The release of the Bad Plus’s These Are the Vistas, the second studio album by drummer Dave King, pianist Ethan Iverson, and bassist Reid Anderson, was one of the highlights of 2003. Thanks to the band’s singular ability to skillfully reconfigure a wide range of rock, pop, and classical favorites, listeners have perhaps overlooked the band’s catalogue of powerfully original tunes. But 15 albums later, it’s clear that the Bad Plus has joyfully exploded old ideas of what a jazz piano trio could be, and a huge part of that magic is the adventurous low end and sophisticated writing of primary composer Anderson.

Iverson, who left in 2017, was replaced by Orrin Evans, who departed in 2021 after two albums. Two outings with guitarist Ben Monder and saxophonist Chris Speed, The Bad Plus (2022) and Complex Emotions (2024), showed a band still reaching for new vistas, and succeeding wildly. But in January, Anderson and King announced that their 2026 tour would be the band’s last.

On a warm L.A. night in February, the rhythm section showcased a near-telepathic connection (and a playful sense of humor) as they shared the Blue Note stage with masterful improvisers Chris Potter on saxophone and Craig Taborn on piano. Near the end of the first set, Anderson shined as the band played a heartfelt rendition of Charlie Haden’s “Silence,” where Reid’s sumptuous tone and lean, lyrical playing were on full display. We met over lunch the next day.

Your playing has such a strong Charlie Haden influence.

He’s my cat. I heard him as a young musician, and I knew I wanted to play like him.

That style of playing seems to have fallen out of vogue. 

Sometimes music becomes almost like an athletic event, and that’s never really had any appeal to me. If you step back and think about it, there’s no law of the universe that says you have to comply with that. There are other perspectives to have and other things to explore.

Did you feel pressure to play that way when you first arrived in New York?

Of course. When I moved to New York around 1994 or ’95, I didn’t actually have much experience playing jazz. I had studied classical bass at the Curtis Institute, and during my formative years at school I wasn’t really playing jazz. After I graduated, I realized classical music wasn’t going to be my path, so I started figuring out how to play jazz. I was in Philadelphia for a while meeting people on the scene, making a fool of myself, doing all the things you do when you’re learning. After about a year of that, I moved to New York and just tried to figure it out.

Sometimes music becomes almost like an athletic event, and that’s never really had any appeal to me. If you step back and think about it, there’s no law of the universe that says you have to comply with that.

But then you realized that you didn’t want to be a freelancer who took every gig.

Freelancing is a real skill, and there’s nothing wrong with it. There are musicians who are very good at lots of different styles and situations. But when I thought about my life and the way I feel about music, that path wasn’t going to fulfill me. I don’t play music just to survive. I play music because I feel something from it. I need to have some kind of self-expression in what I’m doing. 

What would you say to someone who’s struggling to find their path?

It’s not easy and it doesn’t happen instantly. There’s almost a conversation between the practical side of life and the metaphysical side; you open yourself up to that conversation and you pay attention to what comes your way. When you see a door crack open a little bit, you start to feel more confident about following your own path. Over time, that gives you more confidence in what you’re doing.

Your tone is quite recognizable. Do you think that tone is in the hands?
Your tone comes from your mind, from your imagination. Generally speaking, people can recognize someone’s tone no matter what instrument they’re playing. So, in that sense it’s almost metaphysical. 

I don’t play music just to survive. I play music because I feel something from it. I need to have some kind of self-expression in what I’m doing. 

Do you have any particular requirements when it comes to gear?

Not really. I usually just plug into the amp and let the front-of-house engineer do their thing. I might roll off a little low end. For pickups I usually want something like a David Gage Realist or a Full Circle, something that gets the bass sound through. Otherwise, my threshold is pretty simple: The instrument has to be playable. Last night I was playing a rental bass. It was probably a plywood bass, something like a Shen. It’s not a particularly deep or generous instrument, but it gets the job done. If I get a really nice instrument, that’s great. But I’m very happy as long as it’s playable.

What’s been your experience on electric bass?

A few years ago, Dave, Craig [Taborn] and I recorded Golden Valley Is Now [available on Bandcamp], and I needed an electric, so I walked into a music store and bought a ’78 Fender Precision. It’s pretty heavy, and it has this sunburst that looks like something from a Sears & Roebuck catalog. It’s not the beautiful sunburst — it’s the ugly sunburst [Laughter]. When I play electric, I approach it the same way I approach upright bass. It’s not about flash. It’s about the function of the bass.

You’ve said that you consider yourself a composer first. When did composition become central for you?

I didn’t really start writing music until a few years after school. My first two records [1997’s Dirty Show Tunes and Abolish Bad Architecture, released in 1999] were very much in the style of ’90s jazz — complex forms, sophisticated harmony. Eventually I felt like I had gotten that out of my system. So, I stepped back and asked myself a simple question: What music do I actually want to hear? That led to an album called The Vastness of Space [2000], where I embraced a more direct sensibility, almost like pop music in a way, while still drawing from influences like Charlie Haden and Ornette Coleman. That aesthetic eventually became part of the musical language of the Bad Plus.

I’m always thinking about voice-leading and about the harmonic implications of where the bass function lies.

You, Ethan Iverson, and Dave King had such incredible chemistry.

I met Ethan during my first year of college; he was still in high school, but we played together a lot, and when I moved to New York, we had a connection. He’s on my first two records, and I’m on his early solo albums. We shared a very particular viewpoint on harmony that wasn’t really a standard jazz perspective. That was part of the strength of our musical relationship. Dave and I grew up together; we’ve known each other since we were 15. We’re all from Golden Valley, Minnesota, as is Craig. 

The Bad Plus often emphasized triadic harmony rather than dense chord structures. How did that develop?

That was something Ethan and I shared naturally. We gravitated toward a triadic harmonic language rather than filling out every chord. When you do that, voice-leading becomes much more important. I’m always thinking about voice-leading and about the harmonic implications of where the bass function lies.

The band became known for its covers early on. Why move away from that?

That was really only a small aspect of what we did. It became an angle for the media to talk about, but we were always writing music and developing our own voice. Eventually, we just left it behind.

As the primary composer, how do you write with particular players in mind?

You try to write for everybody’s strengths. The whole point is to make everybody sound great. Everybody gets challenged in a certain way, but you’re always trying to bring out what they do best.

What allowed the band to develop such a strong identity?

When Dave and Ethan and I got together, there was a lot that didn’t need to be said. There was a strong place in the middle where conceptually we met, but we all brought different things to the table. We played together and thought there was something there. The three of us were willing to make sacrifices to make the band happen. In the beginning, we paid for everything ourselves — plane tickets, pianos, advertising. We were starving musicians, but we believed in it.

How did you decide to continue after Ethan left in 2017?

We had been together 18 years, and that relationship had run its course, but Dave and I felt a strong ownership of the band and the music, so we decided to give it a go. If there was no point in going on, we knew people would hear it. We felt like we could pull it off, though.

In a very real way, you and Dave are the Bad Plus.

Dave and I wrote more than two-thirds of the band’s music, so we feel a responsibility to carry the identity of the band forward. When someone joins the band, we find those points where our musical ideas connect and where we get the most out of the music.

It’s not an easy decision; in a way, it’s been most of my life. December is still a little way off. A lot will happen between now and then, but I know it’s going to hit hard at the end. That last show is going to be something.

I’m sure you have complicated feelings about closing this particular chapter at the end of the year. 

It’s not an easy decision; in a way, it’s been most of my life. December is still a little way off. A lot will happen between now and then, but I know it’s going to hit hard at the end. That last show is going to be something.

What’s next?

I’ve been working in a band called Slow Reactors [with guitarist Gregg Belisle-Chi and violinist Kristina Priceman]. We’ve done some performances over the last couple years, and that’ll probably be my first recorded output after the Bad Plus. There will probably be a solo version of it, as well. I’m going to go full steam ahead into electronic music and see what happens. 

Which electronic artists inspire you?

The GOAT, Aphex Twin. When I listen to what guys like him have done, it’s important and fascinating, but it also makes me ask what else can we do with electronic music. There’s so much room to do something interesting and new.

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