By:  Kreig Marks, March 2026

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Kreig:  Les,  welcome to Tru Rock Revival. You walk onstage, hit that first note, and the whole room tilts sideways. When did you realize your bass playing was going to be… whatever this beautiful mutant thing is instead of “normal” rock bass?

 

Les: Probably about the time I realized I was never going to be Eddie Van Halen or Jaco Pastorius, so I might as well be the weird kid in the back of the class flicking rubber bands at the chalkboard. I grew up on a funky diet of Rush, Parliament, and too much time in my bedroom, so the bass became my slingshot. Somewhere between tapping, flamenco flailing, and thumpin and pluckin, it just morphed into this odd beast, and I decided to ride it instead of tame it. 

 

Kreig: You have this mythic origin story as the guy who auditioned for Metallica and then went off and built Primus World instead. In your head, are you still that kid walking into a room full of metal gods with a wild bass and a big grin?

 

Les: In my head, I am still the dork who showed up like, “Hey, you guys want to play some Isley Brothers and Rush tunes” while everyone else is chugging power chords. That near miss was like being handed a map that said “Here is everything you are not supposed to do” and I just used it as a paper airplane. Primus became the outlet for all the stuff that would have gotten me fired from any normal band. 

 

Kreig: Primus has always felt like its own twisted Saturday morning cartoon: sailors, beavers, clowns, winos, the whole cast. When people say “Primus is undefinable,” what does that sound like inside your brain when you are writing?

 

Les: It sounds like channel surfing after three cups of coffee and no parental supervision. There is a little funk, a little metal, a little Zappa, a little hillbilly, and a lot of “what happens if I do this and the label hates it.” I tend to chase characters and grooves rather than genres, so the songs are like short films for weirdos who never left art class. 

 

Kreig: Offstage, you are not just the ringmaster of the circus, you are a husband, a dad, a guy with a fishing rod and a wine glass. How does family life yank you back down to earth when the road gets bizarre?

 

Les: My daughter has absolutely no problem reminding me that I am strange, which is the healthiest ego check a human can have. One minute you are playing for thousands of people, the next minute you are taking out the trash and getting told your shoes do not match. My wife and I have this life in Northern California with wine, critters, and a boat, and that keeps me more grounded than any tour laminate ever could. 

 

Kreig: Your daughter once said you are weird all the time. Do you ever consciously try to dial that down around the house, or is “full Les” just the default setting at the Claypool dinner table?

 

Les: “Full Les” is unfortunately not equipped with a dimmer switch. At the dinner table I am the guy making bad puns about the vegetables and tapping bass patterns on the silverware until someone tells me to knock it off. But I think if your kids see you being authentically odd and still functioning as an adult, it gives them permission to be their own version of odd without apologizing for it. 

 

Kreig: When you are not on stage melting minds, you are out on the water chasing fish or in the vines messing with wine. Which obsession has cost you more money, and which one has saved your sanity more times than music has?

 

Les: Fishing probably saves my sanity, wine probably empties my wallet, and music sits in the back seat flicking both their ears. There is something meditative about staring at water after weeks of staring at crowds, it reboots the circuits. And with wine, you are basically doing songwriting with grapes, just with fewer wrong notes and more hangovers. 

 

Kreig: Let us talk about this new album. If I am trying to explain it to someone who thinks Primus is just “that South Park guy,” what three words should I use to prepare their poor unsuspecting brain?

 

Les: I would go with “twisted,” “cinematic,” and “groovy.” It is like a drive in double feature scored by a bass player who was left alone with too many pedals and not enough adult supervision. There are big story arcs, oddball characters, and plenty of low end to rattle the fillings out of your skull. 

 

Kreig: Lyrically, you have always had this twisted storyteller thing, somewhere between a campfire ghost story and a drunk news anchor. What kind of creatures and catastrophes crawl through the songs on this record?

 

Les: There are malfunctioning heroes, questionable prophets, some morally flexible critters, and a few poor saps who probably should have stayed home and watched reruns. I tend to write about society the way a funhouse mirror shows your reflection, you recognize it, but it makes you laugh and squirm at the same time. If you get to the end of the record and feel a little uneasy but still bobbing your head, then mission accomplished. 

 

Kreig: You are also cranking up Claypool Gold and juggling Primus, Frog Brigade, Claypool Lennon Delirium, the whole carnival. How do you decide which musical personality gets the next song baby?

 

Les: It is like casting a movie, you do not put the clown in the courtroom drama unless you really want to confuse people. Some ideas scream “Primus” because they are crooked and loud, others feel more psychedelic and end up with the Delirium, and some are so frog scented they have to go to the Brigade. Claypool Gold is like opening all the cages at once and seeing which animals form a marching band. 

 

Kreig: You have been talking publicly about mental health and how strange it is just to be a carbon based human on this spinning rock. When does the mental load hit you hardest, and how does music help you push back?

 

Les: It usually hits when you turn on the news and realize the planet is trying to flick us off like a flea. Being a human means juggling family, art, politics, and the general horror show of the internet, so your brain ends up like a cluttered garage. Music lets me turn all that anxiety into something loud and hopefully cathartic, like cleaning the garage with explosives. 

 

Kreig: Last one. We are putting a giant neon sign over this interview. What does it say to the kid sitting in their bedroom right now, clutching a bass and wondering if they are too strange for this world?

 

Les: The sign says, “Congratulations, you are already halfway there.” The things that make you feel too strange for the world are usually the things the world ends up needing the most, once it catches up. So lean into your weird, practice your tail off, and remember that somewhere out there is an audience full of beautiful misfits waiting for someone who sounds exactly like you.