Fresh Air - Flea’s wild path from childhood to Chili Peppers

Episode Date: April 28, 2026

The Red Hot Chili Peppers have sold tens of millions of albums and taken home multiple Grammy Awards. Now in his 60s, more than four decades after that band formed, Flea is releasing his first solo album. ‘Honora’ is a jazz album that connects back to his childhood. The legendary bassist spoke with NPR’s Terry Gross about some of his wild antics, his “blood bond” with his band, and finding beauty in the world.See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for sponsorship and to manage your podcast sponsorship preferences.NPR Privacy Policy

This is fresh air. I'm Terry Gross. My guest, Flea, co-founded the multiple Grammy-winning band, The Red Hot Chili Peppers, in 1982. He's a songwriter and the band's bass player, known for his fast, percussive grooves. They started as an L.A. punk rock band when L.A. and New York were the punk capitals. Their lead singer initially rap more than he sang. Flea has just released his first solo album called Honora, and it's a big departure, various styles of jazz figure into it. Flea's stepfather was a jazz musician, and listening to his music, starting when Flea was seven, changed Flea's life in ways he's still grateful for. But Flea's stepfather was also addicted to heroin and alcohol, and that made home life unpredictable and sometimes dangerous, leaving Flea afraid

to go home. He spent as much time as he could on the streets and with friends, often doing things that could have had serious consequences. On the new album, in addition to bass, Flea plays trumpet, the first instrument he learned to play. The album also reflects how Flea started studying music theory about 10 years ago. Honora includes original compositions by Flea, as well as covers of songs by George Clinton and Frank Ocean. Tom York of Radiohead sings on one track. Nick Cave sings Wichita Alignment. The arrangements feature strings, brass, and woodwinds.

When I recorded this interview with Flea last week, we talked about his childhood, his relationship, with his stepfather, the chili peppers being wild, and how Flea and his music have changed. He wrote a memoir in 2019 titled, Acid for the Children. Flea, welcome to Fresh Air. Congratulations on the new album. So let's get to your music. I want to compare where you started from in terms of your recordings and where you are now. So let's start by listening to a brief part of the Red Hot Chili Peppers' first demo record. Well, cool.

And this is Nevermind. You're, of course, featured on bass. Wow, Terry, good call on that one. Okay, well, let's compare that to Frail from your new album, Honor. Okay. With you featured on trumpet and bass. Okay. So what do you think the 20-year-old you would have thought of the music from

your new album? I would have been really happy with myself making music that I cared about, being a student of music, continuing to just love music. And when I listen back to, you know, Net the song, Nevermind that you played for my first demo tape and the feeling that I had making it and the feeling that I had when it, you know, we went around with that tape playing it for people with our cassette tape, trying to get booked into clubs to get gigs. It's a similar feeling that I have now with the record that I just made honor. It's a feeling that I haven't really had since back then. And it's a feeling of I've made this music that is really,

obviously it's a collective, you know, the chili peppers made the music. But we made music. And I had a feeling that we are filling this place, an empty place in the world, that hasn't been filled before. We've created this thing that is ourselves, purely so it can't be anybody else. And we're filling this new place. And it's a really beautiful feeling.

And that's how I feel about the music that I've made with Honor. It's the same thing. Like I feel like I'm making music that occupies its own place in the world. And that feels good to me. Does the change in music represent a change in you? You're older. You're not in your 20s. You're in your 60s.

Yep. Constantly, yeah. I mean, of course, even though back then, you know, when I made that music when I was 20, I think, I was 20 years old when we recorded that, 19 or 20, I was listening to, you know, ethereal jazz music all the time. I grew up with jazz music, and I was listening to jazz music back then. But of course I've changed, and thank God I've changed. I was a lunatic. You know what I mean? Yeah, I know what you mean.

Yeah. I mean, I was a street kid. and I was, you know, emotionally and in so many ways, you know, 19 going on 10, you know, and I continue to try to grow as a human being in all the ways, you know, emotionally, spiritually, to me more considerate of my fellow human beings. I mean, in every way. So it all feeds into the music and it all feeds into the way that I interact with other people. And, yeah, I mean, I'm a different person.

You know, I think this is something I think about a lot in a way that just like as a parent, you know, I have three kids. One is 37. The other one is 20 and the other one is three. And I've been a different person for each one of them. You know, I've been a different kind of parent. Oh, right, and a different stage of your life because their years are far apart. Yeah, it's true. They're all 17 years apart. And 17 years, if one is willing to, you know, feel the pain and suffering of being a human being, you're going to grow. So I'm grateful for growth and I'm grateful for humility and I'm grateful to be a student. So I want to play some more music from your new album, Honor. And this is called Morning Cry.

And it's the track that's like most obviously jazz. You know, it's not like influenced by jazz. It's not jazz and funk or jazz and something. It's just jazz. And it sounds to me, tell me if I'm wrong, very influenced by Ornette Coleman. Very much so. Yeah, and I've had the great fortune to play with Ornette Coleman on a number of occasions, and he was very kind to me, and I've admired him since I was a very young man. You know, you think like, you know, when we started up at chili peppers, we were listening to Ornette constantly.

And I still, you know, play whenever I get the chance with his son, Donardo, who's, you know, very welcoming and, you know, to me. Do you want to say anything by way of introduction of the song and how you wrote it? Sure, yeah, because it's actually something I remember quite clearly is waking up one morning and feeling an abundance of sadness and being moved to tears by circumstances in my life. And at the same time, I were lying in, I was just like crying. And at the same time I was lying, you know, in that kind of, ethereal state when you wake up kind of in between being asleep and being awake.

And I was to myself, you know, be did it did it. But da-da-da-da-da-da-da-da-da-da-da-a-da-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-dha. And I was just singing that to myself and also feeling, and it's funny because it's not really a sad-sounding melody. Not at all. So energetic. But it's what, you know, there's the strange workings of my mind.

I don't know. But it was, yeah, right in the morning. just woke up and was doing it. And that felt really, it felt nice. And, you know, I went into my music got up, went to my music room and scratched it down on a piece of paper. And there it was. Okay, so let's hear Morning Cry from Flea's new album, Honor. That was Morning Cry from Flea's new album, Honor. We need to take a short break here. So my guest is Flea of the Red Hot Chili Peppers, but after recording, I don't know, around 14 albums with the Chili Peppers, this is his first solo album. We'll be right back. This is Fresh Air. You started playing trumpet as a child, and then you

kind of gave up trumpet more or less for the bass after the red hot chili peppers formed. Your stepfather was a jazz musician, and he played bass. Tell us about the music that he played. I know it was jazz, but what kind of jazz? What's some of the music that your father and his friends introduced you to? Straight ahead jazz. Bees. The music exemplified by Charlie Parker and Fats Navarro and Philonious Monk. They play jazz like that. And my stepfather came into my life when I was about seven years old, six or seven. And the first time that I ever saw him play with his friends in New York, his buddies came

over to the house, set up in a living room, and they started throwing down. They played fast. They played furiously. They played with a great tenderness. They played with great violence and physicality. And it was wild. You describe it like it was punk rock. Well, for me, all music is music.

But it's, you know, there's a, so if I think of punk rock, right, like you take a song like Nervous Breakdown by Black Flag and it goes, I'm about to have a nervous breakdown. My head really hurts. You know, and it's a beautiful song. I love it. And then you take a song like Cherokee, best played by Clifford Brown and Max Roach,

and like the bass is going, but the bass is going, Dummed Dummed Dummed Dum. The drums are going, and they're both very fast, very aggressive, they both have a beginning, a middle, and an end, and they are both played by people yearning with every fiber of their being to make sense of the world that they live in.

But, you know, I love both, and I'm studying. But anyway, so, yes, when I was a kid and I heard them playing that jazz, it just blew my mind and changed my life forever. So you were born in Australia and lived there for the first. four or five years of your life. When you were around four, your family moved to New York where your father got a job.

And he sounds like he was a very briefcase, follow the rules, working men, dinner the same time, every night kind of guy, except for when he drank. And he loved you, but he also gave you the belt when you stepped out of line.

They divorced when you were seven, and your mother wanted to live a more bohemian life. So she married your stepfather, the jazz bass player, Walter Urban Jr., And what was he like as a man? You described him as sad.

And he was also addicted to heroin. And he was very moody. Can you describe what it was like for you as a child to grow up with somebody whose music you loved who introduced you to great people and great sounds, but who also could be like a scary person? He could be an irresponsible person. and an inattentive parent?

It was difficult. You know, when my mother and Walter, his name, you know, Walter, when they got together, it was really exciting at first because, you know, my dad was very much by the rules and every day was kind of the same. And there were these strict, you know, codes of conduct that you did not break or you got the belt. You know what I mean? You didn't mess up. You never embarrassed yourself.

embarrassed the family. You did, you played by the rules. And my dad was like a very like kind of prototypical 50s responsible man. You know, you work hard, you wear your suit and you get drunk at night. And my father was an alcoholic all of his life. Um, but Walter, um, it was really fun. He was playing jazz music, you know, he, he dressed like a hippie. He wore dashikis. And he was like, cool, man, far out. Yeah. Dig this cannibal-ladrally record. You know, and it was really exciting for me as a kid. And also, like, the rules went away. Like, all of a sudden, I would get up in the morning and go out in the street.

No one asked where I was going. I went and did whatever I wanted all day long. So, you know, there's freedom in that, but also, you know, a lot of troubles in that because you're getting in trouble because there's no, you know, there's no rules. And, you know, he kind of left to figure things out on your own. But it turned ugly with my stepfather. and he was a drug abuser, he was an addict, he was an alcoholic,

and he was prone to these wild fits of violence where something would set him off and he would just like start destroying the house, smashing all the windows, breaking everything, everyone like begging him to stop, you know, kids being, we'd be terrified, we run out in the street, you know, and it grew violent and his violence extended to, you know, to us,

even though he never hit me or beat me. but it got bad with my mother and, you know, and with my sister. He beat both of them? He did. He did. Did you feel like you were supposed to be responsible and stop him? I'm not saying you should have been responsible. No, that's a good question, but I don't remember really feeling that way.

I mean, I think I would have done anything to stop him, but I remember just being, you know, scared. And I remember thinking that I wanted to try to do my best, but my best was always like when he would stop to try to create this feeling of levity and love and trying to bring joy to the house. You know what I mean? By like being cute and funny or whatever I could do to try and make it better.

Kind of like a performance. Yeah, mm-hmm. And I've often wondered, you know, choosing a life as an entertainer that I, you know, there's sort of this dichotomy between the two things. Like in a really healthy way, I love the art form,

I pursue the art form, I want to be great at it, lose myself in the beauty of this thing, and use it as a bridge to touch people's hearts to make the world a better place. And that's like the healthy part, but then there's this other part that is unhealthy,

that is that same thing I did when I was a little kid. It was like, love me, please. You know what I mean? And I think that that, and this is actually kind of, you know, tying that together right now, thinking about it, that all goes together, you know. And so that was difficult with my stepfather. And I, you know, he was a very complicated man.

He introduced me to music. But, you know, there were many times when it was scary to be in the house. I would sleep in the backyard. I would, you know, I remember coming home and it would be like there'd be cops in the yard with their guns drawn. Were the neighbors complaining? Did your mother call them? Yeah, I mean, yeah, it was a big neighborhood embarrassment. You know, it was like the crazy guy, you know, the crazy guy that lives on the street.

I remember being out Halloween, trick-or-treating and seeing, you know, being a few blocks away and going, you know, my costume, like going to knock on someone's door to ask for candy and seeing all the kids like running home. And they're like, there's a crazy guy shooting guns out of the window, you know, everyone's going home. like kids I knew from my school and like, oh, I'm going to go home too. If there's a crazy guy shooting guns and running home and it was my stepdad was the crazy guy shooting the guns, you know. That's kind of horrifying. Yeah, absolutely horrifying.

Were you afraid to be at home with him with a gun if that's what he was doing? Of course. It was, you know, a lot to deal with as a kid. But it's, you know, it all shaped me. And it's all a part of who I am. And at the same time, and this could not be understated, is that when I saw my stepfather played music,

and I didn't really understand it at the time, even though I understood it in a way that's been a part of me my whole life, is that when I saw him play the bass, he played with such aggressiveness and with such intensity that it was, I would see him get into the sort of animal state beyond thought like this primal just attacking this instrument one with it sweating breathing grunting you know playing this instrument um like completely gone in the music and i knew that he was using all that pain and anger and fear and anxiety um that had made him act like he

did um using it in a really healthy way and turning it into something beautiful transmuting all this pain and anger into something beautiful, this like metamorphosis, this alchemy, which is, you know, music's greatest gift for him and for all of us who have enjoyed so much music that is made by people expressing their pain and fear and hope, you know, in sound. Is there like a particular track that stands out to you from your own work, other from the new album or from the Red Hot Chili Peppers, where you feel like you did the same thing, where you took pain that you were feeling and turned it into beauty, whether it's like beauty expressing anger, frustration, sadness.

Is there anything that really expresses that the most in your mind from your own music? When we recorded the track, when I played the trumpet for the track, Willow Weep for me, I remember feeling a great deal of sadness. And when I played that song, I remember feeling that like, let me please, you know, let me let go of this and express it into something beautiful. But I don't, you know, it's always a thing with me. Like, I mean, for the Chili Pepper shows for the last 45 years, it's like, I can't tell you how many zillions of time I get in

and I'm like attacking my instrument and, you know, letting the rhythm throw me around like a rag doll on the stage that I'm, you know, hoping for healing and hoping for letting go of pain and anger and fear. So I want to play another track from your new album. And this is a song, I was very surprised that you recorded it. It's Wichita Lyman, which Glenn Campbell had the hit of, written by, God, I'm blanking on his name.

Jimmy Webb. Jimmy Webb, yeah. And I'll be honest about two things. I've never particularly liked this song, even though like every songwriter loves this. song. And I always want to say, like, tell me why. And also, the first time I heard it, I thought, wow, this is just lugubrious. This is weird. Who's singing? And I thought, who's singing? And I haven't heard fleas sing, but he sounds so much, it sounds like not his voice and so much older

than he would be. And then when I found out that it was Nick Cave singing, I listened again and thought, oh, I actually really like it. And then I made me question myself like, oh, are you liking it because you like Nick Cave? And it's like a brand name to you too. Do you know what I mean? And I realized, no, I'm lacking it because I know how to listen to Nick Cave. I know what's behind that voice.

I know why it sounds how it does. Because Nick is so good at a narrative. Do you think it's because of that? It's the storyteller. And it's the mood. And just the, when you know it's him, you know more about the life he's led, about the aesthetic that he's developed. And also, what sounded lugubrious to me initially just started to sound moody in a really interesting way. And I think the drummer on this album is great.

That's Deontini Parks. and he's a brilliant one-of-a-kind drummer. So why did you decide to record this song, which I've never liked, but I kind of like it now? And why Nick Cave? Well, my reason for recording Wichita Lineman is because I've always loved that song since the first moment I heard it.

The version that I know, strangely enough, is not the Glenn Campbell version, but the Meeters version. And I'm a big fan of the Meeters. And I remember the first ever Chili Pepper Tour, which was in 1980, like first real tour in 1984. And, you know, we're sleeping in a van, driving in a van, playing, you know, clubs, every place that'll have us all over the country. And, you know, you bring your cassettes. I had, you know, you make all your cassettes at home. And I had

one, my meters cassette, and it had their version of Wichita lineman on it. And I remember just, you know, I listened to it over and over again. And, and, I didn't, I just love the song. I love everything about it. And, you know, it's something that's always in my head. And then I recalled in my, you know, I'm a big Nick Cave fan. And I've only had a few times that we've spent time together. And the last time that I had, you know, hung out with him and spoken with him,

he was speaking about his admiration for Jimmy Webb as just, you know, one of the greatest songwriters to ever live. And I agree with him, and I was listening back to it, and that that conversation started playing itself in my mind. And I was like, oh, my God, maybe Nick would want to sing on this. And I sent it to him, and he responded, he's in the UK, I'm in L.A. He responded within a half hour, said, it's really scary for me to take that on, that that song is so powerful and demands so much, you know, to do it, right? but I'll give it a stab. I'm leaving on tour in two days.

I'm going to go right into the studio and try to get it done. I think either the next day or the day after he sent me the tape of it done. And I was just devastated and floored by what he did and we'll never ever forget it. Okay, so let's hear

at Wichita Lyman, Nick Cave singing, and this is from Flee's new album, Honorah. I am a lineman for the county and I drive the main searching in the sun for another I hear you singing

the wire I can hear you through wine and the Wichita is still all alive Vacation That was

Witcher Tile Lyman You heard Nick Cave singing It's from Flea's new album Honor on which he plays trumpet and bass Getting back to your stepfather Who was the jazz musician Who was addicted to heroin

And alcohol He gave you a lot of freedom And your mother was a little inattentive You think that She wasn't really interested In children I think that it was, you know, she was just wrapped up in her own stuff.

I mean, there were times when she showed care and interest in ways that were really significant for me, too. Like, she knew that I loved to read, and it was always like, are you out of books? Do you need books? And we didn't have much money, but there was always money to go to the bookstore and buy new books. And, you know, and that was, you know, a huge thing for me. But, you know, most ways, from when I was 11 years old, I was a street kid, I was running wild. So what were some of the advantages and disadvantages of having no boundaries, of having, like, complete freedom because your parents weren't setting any rules or boundaries for you? And you did things that could have really gotten you into a lot of trouble that would have reshaped your life.

Yeah. I mean, look, from a young age, I was, you know, stealing things from other people, from companies, from stores. I was... From your mother? Yeah, from my mother. Yep. I would sneak into them, you know, her bag, steal at five to 20, you know, whatever she had. I was on drugs.

I started getting high when I was 11. I didn't stop doing drugs until I was 30. and so, you know, I was high. And I, you know, it's a lot of, there's a lot of pitfalls out there. There's many times when I was unkind and thoughtless, and there were times when people were very unkind, very thoughtless with me, from, you know, other people who I was running around in the street with, who also were not getting good moral guidelines or, you know, and I feel lucky in a lot of ways

that I did always feel a desire to be good. I wanted to be good. I wanted to be kind. And I messed up without doubt, but I was always trying. But there's advantages in that, one, I had to learn how to survive. I'm a survivor. I know how to survive in the street. Two, though I didn't have a strong sense of family at home, and, you know, occasionally we had love and togetherness, but it was pretty, it was fleeting, very fleeting. I looked for family with my friends that I found. Like, for instance, the red hot chili peppers, particularly me and Anthony and Halel, We found, and we all had families, and I guess I can only speak for myself. It would be bad for me to speak for someone else. That I really looked for family and the feeling of family with my friends.

And in that kind of searching and trying to create a family, we had bonds, and I felt bonds that were very significant, like a blood bond. And so, like when we started a band, there's this thing. there that it's not just musicians playing notes that work together to play songs with rhythms and harmonies that we like. It's this other thing. It's this like, you can't with us. So you actually have like three or at least three separate music spaces in your life when you're coming of age. You've got your father's jazz, which you love. You have the red hot chili peppers, which starts off as a punk band. Kind of. Yeah. And then you have. And then you have

have school orchestra and marching band. And that was like a different kind of discipline probably. Yeah. And I mean, you must have been good. You won a national orchestra competition for playing Haydn's trumpet concerto? I did. I mean, that takes some discipline. Yeah, and I didn't, you know, I really, you know, if I really would have had discipline, I think I could have gotten a lot better. But it came pretty naturally to me. But did you love it? Did you love it? Did you? Did you love me in that kind of setting? Yeah, that was the thing I loved it. I loved playing in an orchestra.

I loved playing. I played in the L.A. junior, Philharmonic for a little while, until one day I got real stoned and went there and made a mistake. And the guy put me out of the first chair into the junior chair, and I was embarrassed and never went back. In marching band, did you wear a uniform? No. Our school didn't have it.

Like all the other schools had the big epaulets and the big fur hats and all that stuff. And we didn't. We just had T-shirts that said Fairfax Band on them. Yeah, and we were terrible marchers. We just kind of walked out into a clump in the middle of the field. But we were good, though. We were good. We used to play Sir Duke by Stevie Wonder,

which was Stevie Wonder's tribute to Duke Gellington. And, yeah, we were pretty funky. I remember us feeling excited about the music. If you're just joining us, my guest is Flea, co-founder of the Red Hot Chili Peppers, after many albums with the Chili. Peppers, he's recorded his first solo album, and it's called Honor. We'll be right back. This is Fresh Air. Describe what you were like on stage in those early years of the Chili Peppers and how

your background in gymnastics, surfing, and other sports may have figured into what you were able to do on stage. Well, I think, you know, from the jump, all of us... Literally jump. Yeah, we wanted to be from that point, from the first time we stepped on stage, we were intent on being the wildest band that ever existed on this planet. And we wanted to express that in the way we dressed, the way we moved, the way we spoke. We wanted to be shocking. We wanted to cut a hole in the smoggy skies of Hollywood.

We wanted to be a beam of cosmic light that came out of Ornette Coleman's saxophone. We wanted to, you know, we just wanted to be wild. And so whatever, you know, I was always a very physical person. I always played sports. I love to dance. I love to move. I found extreme freedom in movement. And like that thing I talked about earlier, about that state of enlightenment of getting beyond thought, I often had that from physical movement. And so that was just a big part of the whole operation, you know, and for all of us, you know, for all of us. And, and, and, and, And we love movement. We love dance. We invented our own funny dances. Just to feel free, to feel alive, to be excited. And to, you know, we're entertainers.

I wanted to do the thing. So one of the things you did, and this is kind of famous, the band was dressed. I think it was all the band that what you were dressed in was just a sock over genitals. Yeah. Sox on c-ch is what we called it. That was something like, you know, Halel and. And Anthony and I, we would do that at home, like, to be funny. You know, someone would come, well, I think it may have been Anthony, like, walking out of his room with, you know, with just a sock.

And, you know, we're all laughing and hanging out, and we all did it. And, yeah, and I think I remember the first time we did it, we used to play the strip club. It's a perfect place. Yeah, yeah, we played this strip club on Santa Monica Boulevard called, damn it, I wish I could remember the name of it. But anyways, we played there, and I remember one time we were playing, and we went off stage and we were getting ready to do the encore, everyone was screaming and yelling. And Anthony, I probably said, sock man, sock man. And we're like, oh, great, great idea.

And so we put on socks, stripped down, put on socks, and came out and played. and it was met warmly. And I think on that particular show, we were opening up for another band called Royd Rogers and the Whirling Butcheries. It was just, it was Hollywood in the early 80s. Let me tell you, stuff, people were just doing weird stuff to be weird, like it was really embraced.

There was this underground scene. And I'm saying these things that some people might find repugnant, and that's cool. You know, I get it. But we grew up in Hollywood. We ran around on the streets in Hollywood. we're so used to, like, I lived in West Hollywood where it was nothing.

Like, I would, when I was a kid, I would go walk down the street and I would see, you know, guys come, I'd be on my way to school and I'd see guys, gay leather guys, walking out of a gay club, you know, making out in the street dressed in nothing but leather chaps and chains. Like, that's where I grew up.

That's where I'm from. And I embraced it all. You know what I mean? I never, um, You know, I've always embraced it all. Did you do the socks thing at punk clubs too? Yeah, yeah. Then it became like a thing.

Like it was so fun and then we did it all the time. Did you ever get busted for it? Like in decency? Yeah, once in Green Bay, Wisconsin, we played a show. And I can't remember if we did socks or we went completely naked. But I'm pretty sure it was socks. Maybe a sock fell off. I don't know.

but we played a show in this club. It was midwinter in Wisconsin, so snow everywhere, freezing, and we play the show, and then, like, we walk offstage and there's the cops, and they're like, out to the car, you guys are arrested for indecent exposure,

and it's like, okay, and we walk out, and, you know, they're kind of like put us in single file, and we're walking to the cop car, but me and Anthony, look at each other, and one of us is like,

let's make a break for it. And we see this, Like the club was kind of removed, like, you know, on the outskirts of town, and we see these woods. And we just bolt. And it's midwinter and snow, and we are wearing nothing but socks. You know, they make us walk out there in our socks and the freezing cold. And we just bolt out the middle of the night. It's like midnight into these woods naked.

And we just run. And we get away. And we run and we're like running for a while. We're like freezing, but we're like laughing and hysterically. you know, we just played a gig, we ran away from the cops. It's like these times when you're like, oh my God, I'm so happy in this moment. Like a few times I remember that like consciously in my life, another time was like hitchhiking in the pouring rain in the UK once at like three in the morning all alone. I will never be this happy again in my life.

Like look at me. I am living right now. But anyways, it felt like that. And then we run into the street, we see this car going by with these kids like our age who had been to the show and they'd give us a ride. They take us to our their house, and we hang out and have a party with these people. And, you know, those were the days. Well, we need to take another break here. So let me reintroduce you.

If you're just joining us, my guest is Flea, co-founder of the Red Hot Chili Peppers. He played bass with the chili peppers and plays bass and trumpet on his new solo album, Honor. We'll be right back. This is Fresh Air. Two of your bandmates, you know, Anthony Kedis and. Hillel, the guitarist, they both had really serious drug problems that caused long

absences from the band, that caused a lot of distress within the band. And Halel died of an overdose in 1988 at the age of 26. It was a real tragedy in terms of your friendship and

the music. Knowing his family because they were, they helped you when you felt very uncomfortable at your own home. What position were you in with two essential bandmates having such serious addiction problems? Who you were so close to as friends, like you were each other's family for so long. Did you feel helpless? Did you feel like there was anything you could do to save their lives and to also hold the band together?

It's difficult, you know. My age and my level of experience, and the fact that I did drugs too, it wasn't like I could, you know, occasionally I would maybe try to like take this sort of authoritative, self-righteous role, like, what are you guys doing drugs for? You know, when I'd go do it too, I was just never strung out. I never became an addict, but I did plenty of drugs myself. But I, mostly sadness, it was just like, like the thing is like with the drug addiction, it was more like I might have been selfish. Look, look, I'm just not getting what I want. I'm not getting these guys to come to rehearsal. I want the band to be really good.

I want to make a great album and they're crapping out on me right now. And I'd be pissed. But I wish I would have had the knowledge and the self-awareness to have acted in a more constructive. way, you know, obviously particularly with Halel who died and so young and he was a beautiful creative human being. So, but I didn't know how. I didn't know how. I remember the last time I ever laid eyes on him. We had had a rehearsal that day and he called in sick, couldn't come. And then I went out to eat that night and saw him at the restaurant high as a kite, completely, you know, not physically ill. Maybe he was sick because he hadn't gotten dope. I don't

But I was angry at him. You know, I saw him and I was like, hey, you know, but I was mad. I was like, dude, we had rehearsal. You didn't show up. And so here I am. The last time I got to see someone I loved, someone who asked me to start playing bass, someone who I expressed my love for deeply, and vice versa, someone who gave me gifts of paintings that he made and love and poetry.

He was an artist and always was there for me in that way. And the last time I see him, I was mad at him, you know, instead of like being, I love you so much, like, please don't leave me, you know. And I wish that I would have known more to be there to help. How did you survive heroin? And was seeing what happened to your father and then seeing what happened to Hillel, part of how you survived? Like, why not let that happen to you?

For sure. you know, like, I said father, and I meant stepfather. My stepdad, that's okay. Yeah, but my father was an alcoholic as well, so it was that same, you know, addiction, like you're going to drink to be okay, you know, different but the same. I think for me, what stopped me from being a heroin addict, and I don't know, maybe it's just like my makeup, up, I don't know, but I always felt guided by things that were so beautiful to me. The sound of John Coltrane playing his saxophone.

The way that Somerset mom's words flow off the page. These things, you know, the way that Kareem Abdul-Jabbar shot a skyhook, these things are so beautiful. And I, when I would do heroin, and I did it a lot, and I loved it. it. Don't get me wrong. And I could have easily been an addict. But when I would wake up the day after doing hard drugs and I would feel my energy diminished, I would feel low, I would feel like I'm not as available for myself, I couldn't do the things that I loved. I couldn't, like it would, they would be diminished. And it just became clear to me that, like, look, I love these things. I don't want stuff to stop me from these things. And really, that was like, and since I was a little

boy, I always felt that in different ways. Like there's this light and it's there and it's for me and I can follow it. You know, and granted, you know, many times I got away from that and I, you know, suffered for it. But I think that's how, if that makes sense. Flea, it's been great talking with you. Thank you so much for coming on the show. I really appreciate it. Yeah, Terry, thank you.

I hope, yeah, I hope it's good for you, good for the show. Thank you for having me. That's been my pleasure. Flea's new solo album is called Honora. Tomorrow on Fresh Air, we'll talk about how the Trump administration's head of the Environmental Protection Agency, Lee Zeldon, has transformed it. The agency is now packed with industry lobbyists, entire databases have been scrubbed from the agency's website, and whole departments dissolved. That's what Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist Elizabeth Colbert writes in her profile of Zeldon, published in the New Yorker where she's a staff writer. I hope you'll join us.

To keep up with what's on the show and get highlights of our interviews, follow us on Instagram at NPR Fresh Air. Fresh Air's executive producer is Sam Brigger. Our technical director and engineer is Audrey Bentham. Our interviews and reviews are produced and edited by Phyllis Myers, Anne Rie Boldinato, Lauren Crenzel, Teresa Madden, Monique Nazareth, Thea Challoner, Susan Yucundi, Anna Bauman, and Nico Gonzalez Whistler. Our digital media producer is Molly C.V. Nesper.

Roberta Shorak directs the show. Our co-host is Tanya Mosley. I'm Terry Gross.