Julian Lage: Chasing the Impossible, Part 1 of 2

The guitarist-composer shares the deep thinking behind his work and his collaborations with Collings Guitars. Plus, a full transcription of his steel-string masterpiece “Myself Around You.”

Photo by Joe Bastura/Collings Guitars

I first interviewed Julian Lage about 20 years ago, when he was just 16 and had already recorded his first official session for vibraphonist Gary Burton’s Generations album. Even then, he played with a depth and maturity far beyond his years and spoke more thoughtfully and eloquently about music and his relationship with the guitar than many seasoned players I had encountered. Yet, as remarkable as Lage seemed at the time, his work only hinted at the magic he would later conjure as one of the greatest jazz guitarists and composers—whether leading his own ensembles, collaborating with musical luminaries like John Zorn, or playing with singer-songwriters like his wife, Margaret Glaspy.

After not thinking of Lage for some years, I was struck by his evolution when I heard his albums Room (2014), a duo with guitarist Nels Cline, and World’s Fair (2015), a collection of solo acoustic compositions. While Room showcased the interplay of two adventurous guitarists, the introspection and precision of World’s Fair revealed another dimension of Lage’s artistry. Its warm, graceful original compositions and profound displays of imagination and technique captivated me. I was so intrigued that I reached out to Lage to collaborate on a songbook. Though the project remains unpublished, the process of transcribing his compositions and learning his notational preferences through extensive communication deepened my understanding of his approach and how he achieves the seemingly impossible.

Of the many times I’ve seen Lage live, two performances stand out: his memorable 2016 trio performance at the Blue Whale in Los Angeles and his 2018 duo with Bill Frisell at the Healdsburg Jazz Festival. More recently, I witnessed his appearances with John Zorn’s New Masada Quartet in San Francisco and his residency at SFJAZZ. Watching Lage continuously push the boundaries as a guitarist and composer has been nothing short of thrilling, as he elevates his music—and that of his collaborators—to ever greater heights. His ability to create musical spaces where others can shine is as remarkable as his own virtuosity.

Though often labeled a jazz guitarist, Lage is much more than that. His music is ultimately a celebration of the guitar and its diverse repertoire. By weaving elements as disparate as country blues, early Spanish literature, and modern classical studies, Lage creates a tapestry that reflects not only the guitar’s historical breadth but also its boundless possibilities. His improvisations might include a 12-bar blues solo enriched with a classical etude’s bass line or dense harmonies inspired by contemporary classical techniques, all while weaving a compelling narrative. His ability to make anything seem possible—even the improbable—sets him apart from most other guitarists.

Lage’s most recent album, the Grammy-nominated Speak to Me, produced by singer-songwriter Joe Henry, stands as his finest work to date. In a recent Zoom conversation, Lage offered insights into the making of the record, his boundless curiosity for the guitar, and how he continues to transcend and redefine its limits.

I’ve been thinking about something surprising you told me a few years ago when I interviewed you for Acoustic Guitar magazine. You mentioned that you think of yourself as a blues guitarist primarily, and I’m wondering if you still feel that way.

For me, blues guitar really resembles what I love about music in the spiritual nature of music: the offering, the storytelling, the kind of limitless space that I think of when I hear John Lee Hooker, T-Bone Walker, Muddy Waters, B.B. King, Freddie King—all the masters. That was the first guitar playing I ever heard, and I do feel that way still. That’s the peak, the embodiment of transcendence. It transcends the instrument. No matter what, stylistically, I think I tackle things from a jazz guitar or songwriter perspective a lot, but it’s through the resonance of what blues means to me. Can it feel like the blues all the time? I think it’s actually quite common. I’ve heard other people talk about that in the jazz world. You listen to Count Basie—so much of that is blues. So in that way, yes, I totally think of myself as a blues guitar player.

You actually strike me as a free jazz musician, not in the idiomatic sense but in how you draw so freely from different places and connect so many ideas effortlessly. In transcribing your music, I’ve come to think that your musical mind is wired differently, for instance in the way you create fresh and uncommon chordal passages that shift from strident to swing and beyond. How do you think harmonically in the moment? Do you hear the next chord, or do you land on a shape and let it guide where the individual voices might go?

I don’t know. I mean, it’s probably the most sincere answer I could give. I don’t know how I’d speak to it in a way that would explain much. But you’re the one person I trust to understand what I’m trying to do because I know you’re seeing it through this bigger prism. And part of that prism is the mechanics of the guitar. You can move and get surprised. Things happen that don’t have to be premeditated. You don’t have to set up a shot and then take it. You can just play. That’s one part of the prism.

The other part, I think, we see in folkloric traditions with the guitar. Why did Elizabeth Cotten play “Freight Train” that way? If you play the guitar, you can kind of picture how that melody comes out. You can picture how Big Bill Broonzy would play certain things. You can picture Leo Kottke. He’s as mysterious as it gets, but you see the physicality in the surprise. So I think a big quotient of that is—I don’t know—but if you move, something will happen, and like you say, you can respond to it.

The other part of the prism, which I know you’re aware of, is the contemporary classical side of things. You separate from the guitar for a second, and you’re looking at Boulez, Messiaen, Stravinsky, all the masters. They called into question a lot of preconceptions about functional harmony. “You can’t resolve that until there’s a cadence.” Well, sure you can. You can have these polytonal centers that exist independently, like in The Rite of Spring or Petrushka. These separate ecosystems exist simultaneously for long periods. So over time, another effect happens.

As a student of both worlds, I’m fascinated by those things—what’s surprising and physical, what’s aligned with a contemporary model of harmony. So with those curiosities at play, it’s understandable that I get into these zones where it’s not clear which is driving the car. Not to mention the classical composers for guitar—Takemitsu, Brouwer, Carter. There are these well-worn paths of surprise and unorthodox elements. Then you go to Villa-Lobos or Barrios, and it’s that deep, romantic, inevitable thing where it sounds like the guitar could only be a guitar. It sounds ancient. So, all to say, I’m a student of these things, and I imagine that has something to do with my gravitation toward that style.