The Dave Matthews Guide to Living and Dying

The troubadour of mellow vibes has been one of the biggest acts in music for three decades. Now 56, Matthews has been singing about mortality for a long time, and he's confronting its specter in new and surprising ways, all while trying to figure out how to do some good in the world

- By Alex Pappademas. Photographs by Andreas Laszlo Konrath

You show up jet-lagged at his front door in Seattle, Dave Matthews will hand-press you a really good cup of coffee. The beans are local, from a shop he loves, where his favorite barista never serves him a to-go latte without first adding a little latte-art penis on top of the foam. Which makes me feel pretty special, Matthews says with a grin. ¶ Today Dave Matthews is wearing a dark Western-cut flannel, Sk8-Hi Vans with tube socks, and some tactical-looking cargo pants that could be from Target but might also be some high-end tactical-pant brand that only he and maybe Bono are up on. (Hard to say with tactical pants.) In person, Matthews-who turned 56 in January is like a supermodel, in that he looks severely, stoically beautiful from one or two angles and weird from at least two others. His hairline is hanging in there, its decadeslong retreat seemingly halted near the equator of his skull.

Nobody is ever like, Seattle musician Dave Matthews..., but he's lived here parttime for over 20 years. He moved to town in 2001 so his wife, Ashley, could study naturopathic medicine. Put three kids-two daughters and a son-through school here. Roots for the Seahawks. His house is nice but not, like, drug-lord nice. You wouldn't peg it as a deconsecrated church from outside, but that's what it is, hence the vaulted ceilings in the living room, which used to be the nave. My son and I throw footballs in there now, Matthews says.