Patrick Simmons, the co-founder of The Doobie Brothers and the lone member to perform with the group throughout their entire career. Last fall, the band released Southbound, which features collaborations with notable country artists, and in 2015, Rhino issued the 10-CD box set, The Doobie Brothers: The Warner Bros. Years. This past summer, Simmons and the group toured with Gregg Allman and also joined forces with The String Cheese Incident as The Doobie Incident during this September’s Lockn’ Music Festival.

Can you share your perspective on the Lockn’ set, where you collaborated with String Cheese on some of your iconic songs as well as some of their tunes?

There was just a wonderful camaraderie going on. They come from the same place that we do in a different way. We had hit records but, basically, we were the same kind of woodshed band that played clubs and played around for years and built our following. They’re such an eclectic band and they brought a whole different edge to our songs, and it was fun for us to suddenly be a jamband.

I really enjoyed playing their songs. When I was a kid, I took lessons from a guy who played bossa-nova guitar and his idols were Luiz Bonfa and Antonio Carlos Jobim and Charlie Byrd, so a song [like String Cheese’s] “Texas” is almost Zappa-esque but also so bossa nova and so right for me as a player. I had other songs of theirs I wanted to play with them, like “Desert Dawn.” I had learned that song and had a really cool part worked up. We didn’t get a chance, but I’m ready for the next time. [Laughs.]

I’ve heard that Skip Spence [Jefferson Airplane, Moby Grape] was the one who brought you and Tom Johnston together. Can you talk about Skip and how that happened?

Skip was from San Jose where I grew up. He used to play around the coffeehouses. I couldn’t understand what he was singing but there was a charm and obvious quality to his playing that sucked me in. Then, when he joined the Airplane as their drummer, we all went, “Huh?” As far as we knew, he didn’t know how to play the drums. I later read that he didn’t know how to play the drums—they just liked the way he looked. I thought his playing on their first album [Jefferson Airplane Takes Off] was really interesting and different from what a lot of people did in those days. Then when he joined Moby Grape, I thought, “Here’s the real Skip Spence—he really has some amazing stuff going on in his head and his chops.” This was totally smart music.

A few years later, a friend of mine opened a club called the Gaslighter Theatre in a suburb of San Jose. I was playing with Peter Grant, who later became Hoyt Axton’s steel player [and appeared on “Doin’ That Rag” on the Grateful Dead’s Aoxomoxoa]. We were going to open for Hot Tuna, but then we were told they couldn’t make it due to a conflict; so instead, Skip Spence was coming in with a band. After Peter and I played, I watched Skip’s band, which included Tom Johnston and John Hartman. I thought Tom was a great singer and player, and that John’s drumming was Keith Moon-ish and they sounded great. I spoke with them when they were done, and they asked if I would be interested in this other band they were thinking of putting together with two or three guitars and a lot of vocals. I said I was busy with these other projects but that we should stay in touch.

Then, John invited me to their place. I brought my acoustic guitar, Tom had his acoustic guitar, John had his congas and we sat there and jammed in the backyard for a couple of hours. That was our introduction to hanging with each other. We kept it informal and fun for a long time, until I felt that my other gigs were not as satisfying, so I came to them and said, “Are you still looking for a guitar player?” They said, “Absolutely, we’ve got this gig booked up at this club in Santa Cruz—let’s rehearse.” We did that for a few days and, at that point, we didn’t really have a name but we were sitting around the house smoking joints and one of the guys said, “You guys smoke so much weed you should call yourselves The Doobie Brothers.” So we said, “That’s really stupid. Let’s do it.”

You were a Bay Area music fan in the 1960s before you began your professional career. Can you share a memorable moment from that era?

Bill Graham kicked me out of the Fillmore the first time I went there. That was also the first time I ever took acid. I walked in and the Grateful Dead were playing and [then manager Rock] Scully had been busted in New Orleans and finally got out of jail— though I learned this later. The first thing I saw was this “Welcome Home Scully” sign and I thought, “Am I Scully? Are they welcoming me?” The Dead looked scary to me—this was before Jerry Garcia had his beard and Pigpen was wearing these pants that looked like they were made out of sleeping bags. There was a light show like I’d never seen before and I thought I was inside Buddha’s digestive tract. I thought that I was dead. After the band finished playing and the lights went up, I realized I wasn’t dead and I noticed these stairs that were going right up the stage. So I told myself, “There’s no one playing—I should get up there.” I walked over to Pigpen’s Farfisa organ, which was still plugged in, and I hit the keys. It was so loud and Bill Graham came up to me with his angry gangster face and said, “Get the hell off the stage!” although he didn’t throw me out or manhandle me.

The Jefferson Airplane were next and I thought, “OK, I really like these guys,” but then the strobe lights came on—“Oh, no!” so I wandered through the building and ended up in the lobby. Bill Graham was there and I said, “What’s happening, man? I can’t get it together,” and he told me, “You’re fucked up— that’s what’s happening. You better go, man.” I said, “Really?” And he said, “Yeah.”

I walked out the door and there was a cop car at the bottom of these steps. So I walked up to it and got in the back seat. These cops turned around and said, “Can we help you?” I told them, “Man, I don’t know what’s happening.” They must have thought, “OK, we got one!” and asked me, “Did you take a sugar cube or a capsule?” I told them: “I don’t know, man.” So they said, “Sit back there, we have a few calls to make—take it easy, you’re safe. Just let us know when you’re feeling better.” So they drove me all around San Francisco making all these stops with me in the back and, suddenly, I came down enough to where I thought, “Oh, shit!” So finally, one of them asked me how I was doing. I told them I was feeling better. They asked me if I had any money and I told them I did, even though I had nothing, and they dropped me off at the bus station. Then I panhandled a little money, got on a bus and went home.

That was my first acid trip and my first encounter with Bill Graham. I went back many times after that. I would come to know Bill through the years because we played so many times for that guy. I can’t say enough about Bill Graham. He was a brilliant, crazy hardass and, at the same time, a wonderful supporter of the arts.