Billy Sheehan on Vai, Gilbert, Lukather, Kotzen, and Bumblefoot

Long post—sorry! A friend sent this message today which was referencing an interview I did recently, commenting about some of (but not all) the truly great players I’ve had the joy of working with.

“Billy Sheehan has spent a career in rooms most musicians only imagine shoulder to shoulder with players whose names have become shorthand for entire styles of guitar playing. Not just great players but defining ones. The kind of musicians who don’t just play the instrument, they redraw its boundaries.

And yet, when Sheehan talks about them, there’s no trace of the usual ranking game. No “this guy’s the fastest” or “that guy’s the most technical.” Instead, there’s a kind of quiet disbelief like someone who’s still a little stunned he got a front-row seat to all of it.
Go back to the mid-’80s, when he joined David Lee Roth’s band and found himself locked in with Steve Vai. Night after night, Sheehan watched Vai turn the guitar into something almost unrecognizable elastic, theatrical, borderline alien. It wasn’t just the speed or the precision; it was the imagination. Vai didn’t seem to play on the instrument so much as through it, like the guitar was just a conduit for something bigger.

Then there was Paul Gilbert in Mr. Big a completely different kind of virtuoso. Where Vai stretched reality, Gilbert snapped it into razor-sharp focus. Every note landed exactly where it should, delivered with machine-like accuracy but a grin you could hear through the speakers. Gilbert could blaze through impossibly fast passages, then pivot into something playful, even goofy, without losing an ounce of musical authority.

And then you get to someone like Steve Lukather, a player whose genius is almost harder to pin down because it’s so embedded in feel. Lukather doesn’t announce himself with flash he settles into a track. His playing breathes. It grooves. It disappears into the song in a way that makes everything else sound more complete. The kind of musician other musicians call when they need something to feel right, not just sound impressive.

Richie Kotzen brings yet another dimension one that blurs the line between guitarist, singer, and songwriter. With Kotzen, the technique is undeniable, but it never feels like the point. It’s all in the phrasing, the way notes bend and linger, the way his voice and guitar seem to speak the same language. There’s a soulfulness there that resists categorization, pulling from rock, blues, and R&B without fully belonging to any of them.

And then there’s Ron “Bumblefoot” Thal, who seems almost determined to ignore whatever rules the others might follow. His playing veers into the unexpected unusual scales, strange textures, moments that feel like controlled chaos. Where some players refine tradition, Bumblefoot pokes at it, stretches it, and occasionally breaks it open just to see what falls out.

After decades of standing next to all of them, Sheehan doesn’t come away with a hierarchy. He comes away with a realization.
At a certain level, “better” stops meaning anything.

Because what do you even measure? Speed? They all have it. Accuracy? That’s a given. Innovation? Each in completely different directions. The differences aren’t about who can do more they’re about what they choose to do.

For Sheehan, the real distinction lives somewhere deeper: in identity. In the way a player phrases a line, shapes a tone, or reacts in the moment. It’s the difference between hearing notes and hearing a voice.

So when he says, “I don’t know if there’s a better player out there,” it’s not indecision its perspective. It’s the acknowledgment that once you’re operating at that altitude, the conversation changes.

It’s no longer about who’s on top.

It’s about how many different ways greatness can exist.

Ten years from now, I’d expect Billy Sheehan to be less a “touring-rock-star identity” and more a living reference point for what elite bass playing still looks and sounds like. Recent reporting and interviews suggest he’s still active, still open to new projects, and still thinking in terms of future configurations rather than retirement.

What that probably means in practice is this:
• He’ll keep showing up in selective, high-energy projects rather than chasing a full-time, grueling road schedule. He has already described himself in ways that suggest he values efficiency and minimalism on the road, which points toward more targeted appearances.

• He’ll likely become even more of a mentor-figure and scene elder, the kind of musician younger players seek out for perspective as much as chops. That fits the way he talks about his own place in music: still learning, still engaged, but not trying to prove anything.

• He may spend more time in studio work, guest spots, clinics, and special-event performances than in long album cycles. His comments around Mr. Big’s farewell also suggest he’s conscious of leaving things with some finality when it makes sense.

• If The Fell or other newer collaborations keep moving, he could have one more late-career run of fresh material that reframes him not just as a legacy player but as someone still contributing new music.

So the best prediction is: in 2036, Billy Sheehan probably won’t be “retired” in any ordinary sense. He’ll be a respected elder statesman of rock bass, still appearing in carefully chosen projects, still sounding unmistakably like himself, and still influencing players who weren’t even born when he was redefining the role.”