Les Claypool's a bit flaky. Our interview was supposed to take place at night. But he never called — despite the fact that his publicist twice confirmed he would call during an hourlong delay. The new appointment was set for 2 p.m. the next afternoon. At precisely 1:26, the phone rang. I picked up while in mid-sentence with an editor. When I finally put the handset to my ear, I heard: "Les Claypool here."

The 43-year-old bassist/singer is a beloved oddity in the increasingly bland world of popular music. His bass playing is lauded as some of the best in the business, yet it's deemed too challenging (or self-indulgent, depending on who's talking) for most mainstream tastes. Claypool's lyrics are bizarre anecdotes laced with black humor, the kind that would make Frank Zappa grin but rarely work on a conventional or emotional level. The bassist sings like Captain Beefheart's geeky offspring.

Granted, Claypool managed to score radio and MTV hits in the 1990s with his trio Primus. But he stayed deeply entrenched in the alternative culture of the period, never overtly courting pop stardom, even if "Jerry Was a Racecar Driver," "Wynona's Big Brown Beaver" and "My Name is Mud" were cherished by nearly an entire generation of grunge-loving suburban youths.

Claypool became known as a leading member of the jam-band scene by the time the new millennium came around. This was mostly a result of Oysterhead, his supergroup with Phish's Trey Anastasio and The Police's Stewart Copeland. In recent years, Claypool has continued to enjoy hero status in the jam-band scene while taking his music down an ever more experimental path.

Last May, Claypool released the album Of Whales and Woe, which features Skerik on sax, Mike Dillon on marimba and vibes (both of the trippy jazz bands Garage a Trois and Critters' Buggin), Gabby La La on sitar and Paulo Baldi on drums. Known as Les Claypool's Fancy Band, the quintet can be seen in action on the newly released DVD Fancy Band. It's the same lineup that will take the stage at Jannus Landing on Friday.

"They're champs," Claypool said of his bandmates. "And they are enjoyable people to hang around with, which is what you do 90 percent of the time. You're only on stage with them for a couple of hours."

Watching the Fancy Band DVD, it's clear that Claypool isn't worried about alienating himself from fans who connect with the more melodic material he made with Primus. These days, Claypool is all about skittering like a madman up and down the frets, in between angular squeals from Skerik's sax and the sonic hallucinations of La La's sitar. It's music for listeners who demand a surprise around every corner. Claypool was quick to note that his latest outfit is "sans guitar."

"It opens up the audio spectrum," he said. "It gives me a little more room to fill space, which of course, I intend to do. The interesting thing is that I really like the contrast between the sitar and the marimbas. It's more dramatic."

So, what's Claypool's beef with axe men?

"Damn those guitar players," he joked. "It's just it didn't seem like a necessity. Not for this. This is about how people approach their instruments and sling the musical paint around."

One gets the impression that Claypool, who likes to wear pig masks and make wisecracks on stage, might be quite the character on the tour bus as well. Like his song lyrics, though, Claypool's answers are anything but candid. Each quote should be taken with multiple grains of salt. Maybe Gabby La La, who is 12-year-old-girl tiny, does win the grappling contest, and perhaps the band does pass the time on the road by aping the climactic scene in The Deer Hunter — but I doubt it.

"Lots of gambling," Claypool said when asked how he kills time in between gigs. "Russian roulette. Some handball. Arm-wrestling tournaments with the band and crew — Gabby usually wins that one."

I asked Claypool if his peculiar sense of humor dates back to childhood, if he wrote loopy poems in junior high school.

Of course, his response started with a joke.

"First of all, in junior high I was really cool — like The Fonz," Claypool said, and then turned semi-serious. "When you're younger, you write things that are more pretentious. Everything in my world has always been based in humor. It's a family defense mechanism, a strong element of my resistance.

"I tend to repel from folks who take themselves too seriously," he continued. "I like to laugh and I like to be around people who like to laugh at my jokes. My wife enjoys laughing. My kids enjoy laughing."

Despite his love of mirth and funny masks, Claypool is pretty damn serious when it comes to his music. It's doubtful he makes concessions to anyone when he's on stage or in the studio.

He breaks up bands and moves forward whenever the mood suits him.

"The notion of playing with different people and playing with someone new is that you always learn something," he said. "It doesn't matter what style of music they play or what level they play at technically. It's like having a conversation with someone — you always learn something."

What fans will learn if they attend Friday's show is that Claypool intends to deliver a set that is "pure pandemonium," something that Claypool doubts audience members have seen "before or will see again."

Just don't expect an encore of "Jerry Was a Race Car Driver." Claypool's response when I asked if any Primus songs would make the set list?

"Lot more Van Halen."

There are two basic kinds of artists making a living off music. Most feel obligated to entertain. After all, people are handing over hard-earned cash to witness the performance. But then there are those rare few who get by on challenging the crowd each night and defying expectations. Claypool definitely casts his lot with the latter. "I take the extremely selfish approach," he said. "I like to play what's going to make me feel good. I assume that's what the audience wants. I watch people play the same set and say the same things in between songs and I wonder how they do it."

This article appears in Jun 13-19, 2007.