Not too many people have done more in music than guitarist/composer/
producer Will Ackerman. He was the founder and CEO of an incredibly
successful company (Windham Hill Records), he's produced over 70 records
(many of them platinum and gold records, and many of them nominated
for, or winning a Grammy), and he's a Grammy nominated artist with twelve
records to his own name. But this is only a fragment -- albeit a very
impressive fragment -- of the story. As Will says, "While music
is a deep love, it is only one of many." The "many" includes:
surfing, building,
travelling and writing. And as you'll learn below, working with chainsaws!
Will's latest album,
Returning: Pieces for Guitar 1970-2004, is also the
first release on his new Mary's Tree label, which is distributed by Universal
Classics. Produced by Will and engineer Corin Nelsen, the 2004 Grammy
nominated Returning puts the focus directly on Will's
guitar playing. And
other than an outstanding duet with guitarist David Cullen on "Hawk
Circle",
this a solo guitar recording.
This is also a album
that sounds great! For the audiophiles out there, how's
this for a great recording setup?: Will with his Froggy Bottom guitar,
Imaginary Road Studios (check out their gear)
with Corin Nelsen
engineering and mastering by Bob Ludwig!
If you'd like to learn
more about Will and his music, please visit his website.
Jamie:
A friend of mine once said that he'd come up against the question,
"Why does, or should, he write music?" Which is probably
one of the
toughest questions. He was a smart guy and could probably have done
whatever he wanted and yet he chose music. I think many artists
(and
business people) have to eventually confront the "why" question. What
value does music have? Is the challenge of putting out records worth
it?
You've done so much
over your career and you're still pushing forward --
still recording new records, still producing new artists. What keeps
you
enthusiastic about music?
Will: There's quite a lot to
answer in these two short paragraphs, some of it
so philosophical as to be almost unapproachable. Without meaning
to
deflect the individual elements of the question(s), I think I'll
just have a go
at the big picture from my subjective viewpoint.
Music is not an intellectual
matter to me. It's all about feeling. At some
point I had to confront the fact that every single song I've written in
35 years (with the exception of "Anne's Song" and "Hawk Circle" which
share the same tuning for logical reasons) has its own tuning. This is
odd to the point of compulsion. When I realized this I knew it couldn't
be some fluke... it was a deep design element in the process for me and
in writing a book
I'm engaged in I finally understood the reasons.
I generally write music
in a very Alpha state... eyes closed, almost
trance-like. It is all about improvisation and discovery. It is
about the
feelings that I have in this discovery. It is not a frontal lobe,
intellectualized
experience at all... dedicatedly the antithesis actually. By creating
a new
tuning I remove even the capacity for preconception or intellectualization.
I don't know where a G chord is, where the Am is... I'm in an utterly
unfamiliar landscape that I wander around in until I begin to recognize
things
in it. At the risk of going way too far with a metaphor, I honestly
feel the
following is apt. In this new landscape there are familiar things.
These are
the harmonic patterns and chord structures that exist in all music
and which
reveal themselves to me as I go... I begin to find my way in this
new space
with a knowledge of what all landscapes have in common. The process
is
still driven by the love of discovery, by being joyfully surprised
by what is
found even if enabled by a knowledge that has come from 40 years
of
playing. In this way I often balk at being called a composer as
I don't think
the process, I experience the process. I am more like some clown
in the
little boat trying to discover new lands in the fifteenth century.
The net result of all
this is enticing. It's a rewarding process to me. I can't
imagine being without it. I hope that answers the "why" of music, at least
for me.
Keeping it all new
is essential. I don't play too many concerts. I don't do too many
records. I actually spend more time with a chainsaw in my hand than
a guitar. I sometimes go to a sound check and realize I haven't
touched a
guitar for two and a half months. I surf, I build houses, I clear
land, I travel.
Musicians can be a very myopic breed and, frankly, I often find
them deeply boring. Those people who interest me the most and whose lives I
admire most are people who have a wide range of interests and involvements.
It is true that I don't need to work eight hours a day doing scales to
keep my chops up. I don't have any chops! At least not in the traditional
sense. My performance is increasingly subtle, but I'm working with a very
simple pallet.
Having signed and produced
guitarists like Alex deGrassi and Michael
Hedges I was face to face with talents so far beyond my own that
the
knowledge of that could have been paralyzing. I came to be at peace
with
the fact that what I do is about the communication of emotion and
that for
me to do that well I have to be open, honest and deeply connected
to what
I do. Part of the way to achieve that was to make music a sanctuary
for
myself...not a place of toil and ambition and ego, but a place of
simple
meditation and joy.
In a way I think I've
already answered the last question. What keeps me
enthusiastic about any of my endeavors is that they all things I
love doing
and I don't do too much of any of them. While music is a deep love,
it is only one of many. And now if you'll pardon me. It's 9:34 AM in Positano,
Italy and I plan to kayak down the Amalfi Coast and get to this little beach
with a green grotto to swim in... I've never encountered another person here
in all the years I've visited this place. It's good for the soul.
Jamie: Wow -- that sounds so
great! Wish I was there with you... of course,
I'd have to learn how to kayak first : )
One of the
things that interests me about your last comment is that you have a
defined point of view -- both artistically and personally. I have a
sense (and I could be wrong about this) that there is a real flow for
you between your music and the "rest" of your life. That in some ways
music, woodworking and kayaking are one and the same. Still, for many
musicians (including myself) a chainsaw is a long way from playing the
guitar! Have you always had such diverse (and some might even say
mutually exclusive) interests?
Will: It may be that
I just have the attention span of a three year old and I'm trying to
cloak that deficiency in noble terms. It may also be that I'm just too
damned lazy to do scales for half my life in order to improve my chops.
As I read these two sentences I tend to think both are true. I'm not
really a disciplined person; if discipline is making yourself do things
that are not immediately attractive. I think it's safe to say that
objectively I must appear to be disciplined. I work constantly and
hard. I'm constantly moving. But I'm doing things I love and find no
difficulty in pouring incredible energy into those things. Give me a
task I don't like and I balk like a mule. I think the point is this: I
jump from thing to thing before I get bored. Even in the things I like
most, I can only apply myself to it for a while before brain function
flatlines. I'm famous for having to leave the studio in the middle of
production to sand some wood or shovel some snow just to keep myself
alert and focused. The net result may be 9 or 10 hours of very
productive work, but if I can't change the scene a number of times
during the day I will be useless.
The juxtaposition between
the cerebral and physical is no coincidence. In
1984 at the height of the success of Windham Hill, I went into a deep
clinical depression. It was what was called a "disassociative"
depression, one in which even my speech seemed to me to be coming from
someone else. Very scary stuff. Here I was the head of a company doing
millions of dollars a year, playing at the Imperial Palace in Tokyo and
headlining Carnegie Hall and I fall into a depression. There are a
number of misconceptions about depression; among them that it arises
from daily events. The core of depression is far deeper than the fact
that you're upset about the breakup of a relationship or not being a
success in business. On the opposite side of that coin is the fact that
success and achieving the American dream is not enough to mask the core
origin of a depression. I was very reluctant to accept that what was
happening to me was, in fact, depression and traveled from hospital to
hospital looking for a physical reason for why I felt like I was
dying... only to be told time and time again "Mr. Ackerman, every test
indicates that you're in perfect health."
I finally came to the
conclusion that I had left too much of my history
behind. I was living what even then I called "the poodle existence.
" Previous to Windham Hill Records I had been a general contractor
(Windham Hill Builders) and actually found a lot of peace in slamming
50 pounds of 16 box galvanized nails into 2x4s every day and having
that cold Coors at the end of the day on the tailgate of an old
Ford truck.
Now I was driving some gleaming German machinery around, wearing
nice clothes, going to nice dinners and staying at hotels on Lake
Como.
I came to the partially accurate, but vastly insufficient understanding
that
the root of the depression lay in this leaving behind of the physical
world.
It was then that I quit as CEO of Windham Hill, left behind most
administrative aspects of the job and focused again on the music
more
than the business. I also headed to Vermont, bought some land and
began clearing land and building myself a house.
In the depression I
wanted to sleep all day every day. I had absolutely no
energy. There were other symptoms, but for the sake of simplicity
let's just
say that walking up a flight of stairs was work. In Vermont I began
by raking
leaves for five minutes a day, then ten, then fifteen. I began clearing
some
light brush and graduated to small trees. I starting digging foundations
by
hand and nailing concrete forms together. I felt stronger. My assumption
was right; I needed to get back into my body and balance, to some
degree,
the cerebral side of my work at Windham Hill.
I was in denial and
blissfully unaware at the time that the core of the
depression was the suicide of my mother when I was 12 and, subsequently,
years of sexual abuse. I'd buried most of this, but found a simple,
temporary solution to at least a part of the problem. Waiting for me were
years of therapy (I just call it learning) to get to the core issues which
I'm still gratefully engaged in. The point of all of this, though, is that
the doctors are right... physical exercise has a tremendously beneficial impact
on the human psyche, whether you're prone to depression or not. My core issues
are still there and so is the capacity for depression. Hard physical work
arguably saved my life in 1984 and I never lose sight of that in my life.
People often try to
construct metaphors about how my woodworking/building is somehow analogous to the "building" of music and that
there is some logical harmony in all of this. If that works for them, fine, but
to me it's just about needing the chemicals that the brain produces in being a physical
to be healthy.
The "balance" in my life, if these wild swings of endeavor can be called
balance at all, is no more cerebral than the methods I use in my
"composition." This is stuff that has evolved because
it feels good to me
and because it came to me naturally. There are days when I'm hooking
four
six ton logs to the Farmi winch and skidding them down a 40 degree
slope
to the lumber mill when I realize that I have a gig the next day
and wonder
what the hell I think I'm doing. Trying to stay alive is the answer.
Jamie: And that's a great answer.
Really the best answer. It sounds like
you know (and are still finding out) what works for you.
You've
commented on your lack of chops a couple times. And I think I know what
you mean -- that you don't feel you have a lot of technical (i.e.
ability to play scales/lines very quickly) dexterity. But I've never
heard your music in that light. Frankly, I've always admired your
playing and the way you approach the guitar in general. I sure wish I
had your touch and sense of time. And I think a lot of other musicians
feel the same way. Chops come in many different colours.
Will: I actually acknowledge
this and appreciate your saying so. I'm not a
flashy player and the world is populated with a lot of really spectacular
players. What I demand of myself in terms of an intricate precision
is
considerable though. I suspect it is less likely to draw attention
to itself.
The ebbs and flows of volume and tempo are also very much a part
of my
playing which is completely dependent upon mood. In recording Returning
my primary objective was to be sure that every note I played would
have a
real emotional connection to it. If I played well, but failed to
find the emotion
I would scrap it. The songs proved to be surprising to me.
"Processional" has two bridges which have always been larger and louder
than the A sections. In the new recording, I suddenly found myself
playing
this delicate bridge and being transported by the feeling of it.
That's what I
kept for the new CD. The whole business of tempo dynamics comes
easily
and naturally to me and so I always find it odd when, in producing
other
artists, I can't get them to explore the impact of that sort of
musical breathing. I don't know whether metronomic lockstep has been beaten into them
or if they are just not able to feel the possibility of that very floating
musical space.
I also know
that I drive Bob Ludwig nuts, Bob being certainly the preeminent CD
mastering engineer on earth at Gateway Mastering in Portland, ME. The
range of my dynamic level in a song will go from the nearly inaudible
to the considerably Wagnerian. Bob argues that someone listening in a
car will probably miss 27 seconds of a song entirely as it disappears
in the sound of the car and rushing wind and begs to be able to boost
that level a bit. I rarely agree. This is how I hear the songs and that
creation of a vacuum for the listener to be pulled in, to get really
intimate and almost require the listener to hold their breath is what
I'm trying to pull off in these cases. It's subtle, but actually quite
extreme, but that's what the songs require in my mind.
Jamie: You were incredibly candid
in your previous answer. I for one, had no idea of what you've been, and are going, through. I usually don't
ask personal questions in these conversations, so I hope you don't mind me asking:
Has being so open and honest helped you to become healthier and happier?
Will: Without question. I'm
55 now and this is the happiest time of my life.
Yesterday I was installing some cherry flooring in a bedroom addition
I've
been working on and working on my knees and bending over for two
days
while wedging, countersinking, screwing and dowel-capping. The hardwood
left my knees and back feeling at least 85. I recognize that I'm
not a kid
any more and am trying to heal my right shoulder which I slammed
into
the rocks on an eight foot shorebreak surfing last winter in Mexico.
But
even with these nagging reminders of age, life has never been better.
The years of therapy
(I am now going to switch to the word "learning" which
is my own choice of words and better conveys what the process is about
for me).... The years of learning have not removed the trauma from my
life, but we often create coping mechanisms which are hurtful to
us....the emotion is still there, but we hardly understand it, are
frightened of it and tend to live in a very reactionary, knee-jerk
world. By learning what hurt you, by learning how it affected you and
what (generally) counter productive measures you've programmed yourself
with to cope, one is able to suddenly see the world as a far less scary
place and consequently a background tension is removed. With this
constant battle removed from your emotional and perceptual world, there
is an increasing awareness, not only of yourself but other people as
well. Life becomes more remarkable. It's then that the "therapy" gives
way to "teaching" and you can't imagine wanting to stop the process
ever. It's no longer about being ill and needing help, but becomes
about being thirsty for more understanding and the peace that it brings.
In the years I've been
working with my teacher I can count on one hand the
number of sessions that haven't been deeply emotionally involving.
I always... always leave lighter and more confident/positive. As long as that
continues I see no reason to stop. Perhaps some day I will have exhausted
what this person (along with my creativity in this realm) can provide. I suspect
I will find another teacher, not as a junkie needing a fix, but as someone
who more deeply marvels at this blessed ball of iron swirling around
the universe.
That said, I
am no Bodhisattva. I don't pretend to be levitating, nor do I think I'm
particularly evolved. I don't consider myself deeply spiritual and have
enough neurosis to keep me busy for quite a while yet. But the peace in
understanding is great as is the sense that we are all in this together.
Jamie: I think your last sentence
is part of the reason why you've done so
well not only as an artist but also as a producer. Truthfully, I
think many
(most?) musicians are not cut out to produce. They do their own
"thing"
and really can't see, or aren't interested in, other perspectives.
Over the
years, you've worked with many terrific musicians -- each with a
distinctive
aesthetic. How does producing artists of the calibre of Michael
Hedges or
Jeff Oster change you as an artist?
Will: I don't think it has any
influence on me as an artist. I think that, for
better or worse, I have a musical voice which is definitely mine
(and I am
proud of this), but it also means that I am not full of surprises...
I do what
I do and you like it or you don't. A record like Hearing Voices may surprise
people a bit and I hope that my increasing use of rhythm and increasingly
electric guitars at least as texture/color will keep me and my listeners
awake, but essentially I am who I am and influences are less derived
from the outside than the inside.
That said, I
do learn how to be a better producer and I feel the learning curve has
been steepest of late. I think the years of therapy have made me more
aware of others and I think I observe and critique myself and my
performance on all levels more carefully than ever before. I think I'm
just as opinionated as ever, but I think I'm more flexible in general.
I'm also more able to hear arguments that might oppose my initial
opinion. I think not being the label owner also helps as my sole agenda
is to make the best record an artist can make and to have them be
satisfied/delighted with the outcome. I think what working with these
musicians does is to make me aware of the different methods of
thinking, the different patterns of discipline and inspiration that
guide the writing/recording process for them and this, in turn, offers
me more in the bag of tricks that I have at my disposal to assist them.
Jamie: One of my composition
teachers asked the rhetorical question: "Can you ever repeat something?" His view, which I didn't really
fully understand at the time, was that neither the performer nor the listener is able
to experience a piece of music exactly the same way twice.
Revisiting a body of
work as strong (and as well received) as you have on
Returning can bring its own challenges: Can you capture
the "magic" of
the original recordings? Do you have anything to add to the pieces?
I think
you've dealt with this head on with Returning -- finding
the balance between
the power of the original compositions/recordings and the depth
of experience that over 35 years of music making brings. As you write in the liner
notes for "The Bricklayer's Beautiful Daughter": "I managed
to play the notes in 1977, but the nuances and dynamics of the piece were unknown to me, in
fact beyond me."
I think what's interesting
about this statement is that some 25 plus years
later, you're still finding something new to say with this and the
other pieces
on Returning. I'm going to do a little returning myself
and refer back to my
first question: What is it about this collection of pieces that
interested and
enthused you enough to record them for a second time?
Will: Once again, a lot is involved
in all that you've said/asked. I'll try to get
to the essence of it.
The impetus to record
Returning
came, unwittingly without question, from my fans. I don't know how many
times I've had someone come up to me and say something like " The
Bricklayer's Beautiful Daughter" has always been one of my favorite
pieces of music and I couldn't imagine having a more emotional
connection with it, but tonight....." Obviously a hypothetical
statement, but a representative of what I hear nightly after concerts.
I truly don't listen
to my own work. I don't think anyone is ever completely
satisfied with it and I admit that it's not a simple matter to be
confronted by
what you do artistically... at least it's not for me. It really
was my fans who
drove me back to listen to the early versions of the songs and I
was actually stunned to hear how small they sounded, so locked in metronomic
lockstep (the antithesis of how I play now) and how lacking a whole set of
dynamics they were. As my liner notes state, it's also true that the technology
itself has evolved enormously since 1975 when I recorded Turtle's
Navel and certainly my access to state of the art technology financially (including
microphones, preamps and consoles etc.) has been positively effected
over the years. Add to this the incredible hand built guitars I have
today (mostly Froggy Bottom Guitars) as opposed to the decent, but decidedly off-the-rack
instruments I had access to in 1975 and there is a world of difference
in even the raw materials of the recordings themselves.
Now to the centerpiece
of the answer which is "ego and old age." I've been
at this for 30 years and while I don't suppose they will be writing
books
about me in the 22nd Century, I care about the legacy of this music.
Being
in my mid-fifties probably adds something to this. Simply put I
wanted to
get these songs recorded in a fashion that I could put them in a
box and
say to myself that they represented the best I could do to feel,
interpret,
perform and record them. There is a great deal more in the liner
notes to
Returning which applies to all of this too, but I
think this covers the high
points.
Jamie: "Ego and old age"...
that's great : ) And my guess is that they
probably will be writing books about you in the 22nd century. Whether
directly or indirectly, you've touched a tremendous number of artists
and
listeners.
I was just looking
through your tour
schedule and I see that you're in the
middle of a number of dates right now. Throughout this conversation,
we've talked primarily about your recorded work and how you feel
it's
improved artistically and technically. Do you feel the same way
about
your live performances?
Will: The first thing that comes
to mind is another product of years of
therapy. Previously I was unable to accept gratitude and personal
accolades from people in general... my level of self-worth just
couldn't
support it. Now I can (gracefully I hope) accept what these people
offer me,
often with deep emotion. No longer feeling that something must be
wrong
with them to perceive merit in my work, I find the whole experience
infinitely
more meaningful and rewarding. That said, I also find the grind
of touring
increasingly tiring and burdensome. People don't see the hours of
waiting
for planes, the excess baggage (four guitars in massive cases and
an
electronics rack that weights literally seventy pound), the sound
checks
which, if they work flawlessly are like another full concert before
the concert
starts... the lousy food, the hotel rooms, the cab rides and the
constant fear
that a flight might be canceled or delayed... it all adds up to
a pretty stressful
life.
But there are the nights
when everything is magic; the audience somehow
conveys to you that you are utterly safe with them, that they really
want to
be taken on a ride and hand you their passports and from that flows
an
evening of music, stories and, given the book I'm writing, readings
in which
you really feel you've communicated and that something has happened
between us that is actually quite remarkable and life-giving. This
happened
to me just a few nights ago in Olympia, WA. I then drove down to
Portland
and played probably the sloppiest show of the last fifteen years.
Go figure.
Jamie: Well, that's
the beauty and the risk of live music. I think artists really do have
to accept the occasional off night if they want the magic that you are
talking about. The challenge for performers is to not let either the
good or the bad shows define them. Easier said than done though...
Between
writing a book and touring, you're obviously very busy. So where are
you going from here? Any projects on the go that you'd like to talk
about?
Will: People's general assumption
is that life is about music for me. That's
not really true. Music is one great passion, but there are many.
My own music is going
to go into a much more rhythmic place and I'll be
employing a lot more electric guitar. I loved the experiment of
Hearing
Voices and there are ideas there I'd like to play with.
I love producing other
artists more than ever and look forward to hearing
great music from players who are seeking help in envisioning and
making
tangible their musical dreams. This shepherding role is something
which
gives a lot back to me and is far less taxing on me personally than
being
the musician.
The book is really
the big thing in my life. This is the dream I always had
and what I really need to focus on in the next two years. Long before
recording guitar music or producing others I had always envisioned
myself
as a writer and it's time to quit talking about it and get to work.
I have lots
of pages, but they're currently without order or dynamic. It's not
that I feel
I need to adhere to some rigid structure (I actually expect the
editing to be
equally reflective of my mind set that revels in the "joyful
anarchy" of open
tunings), but I need to start finding a way to make it cohesive.
I have two
thoughts to mention in this regard.
Musical
samplers had been used by many companies to promote new artists.They
had never been successful as commercial products. The Windham Hill
Samplers were the exception to this rule. Making a record of Mark
Isham, Shadowfax, Michael Hedges, Nightnoise, Liz Story, Alex deGrassi,
George Winston and myself would seem to imply a lack of cohesion, but
those collections worked. I may be naive, but I'm banking on the fact
that a wild swing of subject matter and tone in my writing will be
cohesive if I can figure out what my voice is and be true to that. I
think I need time to write and to learn more about that voice before I
begin the editing process.
The second thought
is really more of an inspiration. When I was running
Gang of Seven, my spoken word label (1992-95), I had the pleasure
of
meeting and working with some brilliant writers and monologists.
Out of
that work I made some real friendships, the closest being with Tom
Bodett
who has now moved to Vermont and lives just across the West River
from me.
He recorded a piece
for Gang of Seven called "Exploded" which was simply brilliant.
I convinced him to perform it on tour with me and Patty Larkin...
an
odd and different combination of performances, but a combination
I (and a
lot of other people who attended the shows) loved. There was a device
that
he used to open the show which was inventive and very risky. After
his intro he would throw a handful of 3x5 cards into the air, these being
the "chapters" of his story. He would then ask the audience to tell him which card
to pick up first, second and so forth. This was not just for show. He would
actually do as they indicated.
And it worked every
night. Yes, there was a different dynamic every night...
the juxtapositions of the stories would combine to, highlight different
elementsand accentuate different emotions. Yet it worked every night. In
the same way I hope that my book, while all over the place in subject matter
(hopefully humorous stories of looking for caves in Mexico, my mother's suicide,
my founding of Windham Hill, the sexual abuse I went though as a kid)
will hold together if I am writing honestly. This is what my life is.... all
these elements. I can't pry the sexual abuse out of my life without removing the
first time I heard Eric Satie or hiked into the Sierra.... What I am, for better
or worse, is of a piece. How does it all glue together? Not sure yet, but
I just have this deep feeling that it will hang together if I'm honest and remain
true to "the voice"... the same subjective criteria that enabled me to assemble
a disparate group of musicians on a record successfully.
Beyond that I will
continue to build, work in the woods, become a better
surfer and hopefully launch a thriving career in Italy where I want
to live some significant part of my life (looks good so far). I'll travel a lot
because I love it. I'll keep working with my teacher to make life a more peaceful place
for me (and those around me) to live in. I'll keep trying to learn about
love with Susan's help and I'll just try to get through this life as fully
as possible. No greater horror exists in my life than the thought of getting to
the end of it and thinking " I didn't do anything." I know I'm way past
that already, but at 55 I'd really like to have life continue to deliver new experiences for
another 30 years or so. It hasn't slowed down or become any less exciting and I'm
determined to keep it that way.
Jamie: Will, talking with you
has been a great experience. When I wrote
earlier about your influence on artists directly or indirectly,
I should have
added that I include myself in that group. In my late teens, early
twenties,
I spent night after night after night listening to the Windham Hill
Samplers.
Headphones on, lights out. Just getting deeper and deeper into the
music.
So I truly appreciate you taking the time to do this artist-to-artist
conversation -- especially considering your busy schedule and the
fact
that you're on tour right now. My deepest thanks and best of luck!
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