Flea

Michael Venn, contributor

 

I have long been a fan of the Red Hot Chili Peppers, and most of that has to do with Flea, the band's ever-charismatic, spasmatic, hyper energetic, extremely emotional, passionate bass player who’s always on the verge of tears because he’s so full of love. 

 

Flea for me is the heart and soul of the Chili Peppers. He started playing trumpet as a kid and used to jam with his stepdad, who was a jazz bass player. He started playing bass after Hillel Slovak asked him to join his band.  Hillel, Flea, Anthony Kiedis, and Jack Irons would later form what was to become the original lineup of the Red Hot Chili Peppers. 

 

So at 63 years young, Michael Balzary, aka Flea, who walks the artistic line between the bassist in the Red Hot Chili Peppers, and who, when he turned 60, decided he wanted to return to trumpet, the instrument that started it all, and make a jazz record.  To do that, he needed to go back and really learn the instrument.  He needed a teacher, a mentor, a band to perform with, and the time to really figure out who he was on the trumpet now and what he had to say with it. 
 

Flea’s Honora doesn’t feel like a side project. It feels like a release valve, something that’s been percolating in him for decades, finally finding a language outside of the Red Hot Chili Peppers’ gravitational pull. You can hear it immediately: this isn’t Flea the hyperkinetic funk bassist who lets his freak flag fly while dancing on stage with RHCP. This is the Flea who cried while talking about his daughter in the documentary “The Other F-word” about punk rock fatherhood, Flea as a listener, a student, and maybe most honestly, a seeker.

From a musician’s perspective, what stands out isn’t just the playing, it’s the restraint. Flea has always had the chops to dominate a track, but here he steps back into the ensemble. It feels closer to the later period of Miles Davis in spirit, or even something like the introspectiveness of Ornette Coleman, not in sound, but in intention. There’s a looseness that’s deliberate. He’s letting the music breathe. 
 

The opening track “Golden Wingship,” sets the tone with a kind of searching quality. It doesn’t resolve, it circles ideas rather than landing them. It feels like a memory. There’s a vulnerability to it, like he’s not trying to impress anyone, and that alone is a departure from the Flea we’ve known for years.
 

The second track, “A Plea”, is the first song I heard when I saw Flea had an album coming out. I was immediately drawn to it. The bass line leans more rhythmic, but not in a funk sense. The drums are tight and the melody is light, floating above the bass. It’s almost meditative, repetitive patterns that feel closer to something you’d hear in spiritual jazz of the 70’s. You can hear his influences bleeding through here: bits of Coltrane and Davis, but also something more grounded, almost like he’s pulling from world music traditions without making it too obvious.  Then there is Flea’s voice, spoken word, begging for us to embrace our humanity and the frailty of it.  The drums and horns follow the passion of his vocals, and at some point, you catch yourself nodding along to the repetitive peace and love, peace and love, chant. This song embraces Flea's punk spirit. 
 

The next track features Radiohead’s unmistakable Thom Yorke’s vocals; there’s a shift into something more melodic and open. This is where his tone really speaks. As a bassist, Flea's always had a distinct voice, but here it’s stripped of aggression. It’s rounder, more conversational. It feels like he’s talking to himself as much as to the rest of the band.
 

Midway through the album, there’s a track “Frailed,” that almost feels like a turning point, a darker, more introspective piece with a heartbeat. This is where the album starts to feel less like a collection of songs and more like a psychological road map into Flea’s psyche. You can hear tension in the spaces between notes. It breathes. It’s not about what’s played, it’s about the notes that are held back.
 

“Morning Cry” has a ton of syncopation between the trumpet and drums, and an effortlessly upright walking baseline that makes you want to escape to New Orleans and catch the wafting sounds of jazz bleeding from the clubs out into the humid night air.
 

Then there’s his take on “Maggot Brain,” and this is where things get really interesting. It opens with what feels like a poetry reading in a smoky beatnik bar. The original, coming out of George Clinton’s Funkadelic universe, is all about emotional letting go. Flea doesn’t try to replicate that. Instead, he internalizes it. His version feels quieter, more reflective, almost like the aftermath of crying your eyes out, without having to go through the initial bursting into tears and sobbing. Where the original is raw and pleading, Flea’s interpretation feels like acceptance. It’s less about pain in the moment and more about living with it over a lifetime. It’s a bold choice, and it works because it feels in line with the rest of the album’s tone.
 

The later tracks feel increasingly sparse, almost like he’s stripping things down to their core. “Wichita Lineman” features the unmistakable vocals of Nick Cave, with very simple percussion and sparse guitar accompanying the haunting vocals, before a longing trumpet solo that feels like a duet with Nick’s lyrical storytelling. 
 

Another cover, this time Frank Ocean's “Thinking Bout You”, nearly feels improvisational, with the most beautiful melodic bass line that then decays into a Miles inspired, breathy trumpet melody that hits you like a memory of a lost lover.  The interchanging of bass and trumpet melodies echo the beautiful string orchestration in the background like a late-night session where no one’s watching. That’s where the album feels the most honest. Musicians know that space, where you’re not performing, you’re just playing with your eyes closed because you need to be living in that moment.
 

“Willow Weep for Me” has a dark synth heavy vibe more than a song. It feels like an interlude to the end, almost an amuse bouche before the final track to just let you know that this whole album could be a film noir score. 
 

The closing track “Free As I Want to Be” doesn’t really “end” the album so much as it lets it drift away. There’s no big resolution, no final statement. It feels unfinished in an intentional way, like the story he’s telling isn’t meant to be wrapped up neatly.  This feels like an improvised jam, with a trance-like repetitive vocal hymn.  Halfway through, it takes a melodic turn with a beautiful piano melody, which then returns to a groove-laden version of the hypnotic chant with trumpet that started the song.  
 

What makes Honora compelling isn’t just the music, it’s what it reveals about Flea. This feels like a true artist addressing his own history. You can hear traces of his punk roots, his funk groove identity, his deep love of jazz, but none of it is presented in a way that’s dishonest or referential. It’s all filtered through who Flea is and where he is now, a young punk who grew up loving jazz music and the trumpet.

There’s a sense that he’s not trying to prove anything anymore. He’s chasing the truth, or at least his version of it. I think that’s what makes this record resonate. It’s not about virtuosity. It’s about melodic honesty. 
 

A longtime producer of the Red Hot Chili Peppers, Rick Rubin once said, “The goal of art isn’t to attain perfection. The goal is to share who we are and how we see the world. Artists allow us to see what we are unable to see but somehow already know.” 
 

Flea’s passion for music transcends the boundaries of what people generally think of when they hear the term musician. Flea gives us a glimpse into the psyche that made him, and we see that he is a true artist who dives headfirst, and with every ounce of passion in his being.  He’s a multi-instrumentalist and dedicated student of music who’s persistent in the pursuit of his craft, regardless of which instrument he chooses to express himself on. Sure, we all know him as a bass player, but he took the time to learn to play piano years ago and now, to embrace the trumpet as a true jazz musician, not just a guy masquerading as one.
 

In many ways, Honora feels like Flea sitting alone with his trumpet, working through a lifetime of influences, experiences, and contradictions. It’s a conversation, one that feels unfinished, ongoing, and deeply personal.