Still in Progress: Bill Frisell on Orchestras, Old Tunes, and the Ongoing Work of Playing

The endlessly inventive guitarist on his orchestral dream project, the evolving nature of old tunes, and his lifelong dialogue with the instrument—plus two transcriptions of “Beautiful Dreamer"

Photo by Carole d’Inverno

When I was a graduate student at New England Conservatory in the 1990s, you couldn’t go far without hearing some guitarist chasing the sound of Bill Frisell. In practice rooms, ensemble rehearsals, and clubs around Boston and Cambridge, players leaned into volume pedals, stretched phrases with ghostly sustain, and aimed for that elusive blend of space, tone, and melodic clarity that Frisell seemed to summon without effort.

There was admiration, absolutely—but also a kind of mystery. How did he make something so diffuse feel so grounded? And why was the most influential guitarist in the room never the loudest or the flashiest, but the one who played with the most restraint?

It became clear the sound wasn’t in the gear. It was in the way he heard harmony, the way he let melodies breathe, the way he seemed to listen more than he played. He made the guitar feel like a vehicle for thought—an open, searching instrument.

Frisell’s influence has only deepened over time. He’s collaborated with Paul Motian, Elvis Costello, John Zorn, Lucinda Williams, Charles Lloyd—the list goes on. His discography moves between free improvisation, American roots music, chamber writing, and beyond. Yet no matter the setting, his voice stays constant: lyrical, inquisitive, and deeply attentive.

Now in his seventies, Frisell is still following the sound forward. His latest release is a double album with the Brussels Philharmonic and the Umbria Jazz Orchestra—a long-anticipated collaboration with arranger Michael Gibbs, whose writing helped shape his musical sensibility early on.

In the conversation that follows, we talk about how that project came together, what it’s like to return to songs he’s played for decades, how guitars can feel like they’re talking to each other—and why, after all these years, he still feels like he’s just beginning to learn.

How did the recent orchestral collaborations—with the Brussels Philharmonic and the Umbria Jazz Orchestra—come about?

It was really a kind of lifelong dream of mine to do something like this with Michael Gibbs, who did all the arrangements. That was the main idea behind it. These opportunities just happened to come up.

My relationship with Michael goes way back. I first heard his music at the very first jazz concert I ever attended. It was 1968, the summer after I’d discovered Wes Montgomery. I was in high school, and Wes was going to play at this traveling Newport Jazz Festival thing—like a package tour with all kinds of artists. My dad got us tickets. But Wes died just weeks before the concert. I was crushed, but we went anyway. Dionne Warwick was probably the headliner. It was at Red Rocks, which is such a spectacular place. Thelonious Monk was there, Cannonball Adderley, and Gary Burton’s band—Larry Coryell, Steve Swallow, Bob Moses. It blew my mind.

I got obsessed with Gary Burton’s records, and that’s how I started seeing Michael Gibbs’ name. He wasn’t in the band, but he wrote a lot of the music, and he had this huge influence on how it all sounded. Later on, there was a Stan Getz album called Sweet Rain—that’s one of Michael’s tunes, too.

Then I went to school in Boston, and Michael was there teaching. I didn’t even know that when I signed up. It was like winning the lottery. I took every class he offered, played in his student band. After I graduated, he started calling me for gigs and tours. He’s been a huge part of my life ever since. We’ve done a few projects together over the years—one with the BBC Symphony that never got released, and something with the NDR Big Band in Germany. But this was the first time it all came together in a big way. He’s had such a deep impact on my sense of harmony and melody.

The Brussels project started when they asked if I wanted to do something with an orchestra. That’s when I thought, Okay, now’s the time—I can bring Michael in. Same thing with the Umbria project. It was before the pandemic when both opportunities came up, but then things got delayed, rescheduled, and it all ended up happening around the same time. Luckily, we recorded everything, and Blue Note was really supportive. They’ve been amazing about backing whatever it is I’m dreaming up.

There’s a long history of jazz records with strings, but those often feel tacked on. This album sounds much more integrated and interactive. What was it like playing in that setting compared to your usual trio?

So much of my understanding of harmony and melody is tied up with Michael’s music. But it goes both ways—he’s been listening to me for so long, too. There’s a shared language there. He’d probably say the same thing, that we’ve inspired each other over the years.

It wasn’t just some arranger writing parts and handing them off. It was a much deeper thing. So for me, there actually weren’t a lot of challenges—it felt effortless. Rudy, Thomas, and I already have our trio language, and we were just doing our thing. There weren’t strict parts written for us. I remember at the first rehearsal, we started playing a tune, and someone said, “Wait—where are your parts?” But we didn’t need them. We already knew the material. There were maybe a few moments that had to line up with something in the orchestra, but mostly we were just free to use it as a kind of playground.

Especially with the big orchestra—the Brussels Philharmonic—the conductor, Alexander Hanson, made all the difference. He wasn’t just keeping time; he really became part of the band. He understood our phrasing and breathing and brought the whole orchestra along with us. That’s rare. A lot of the time those situations are full of compromise—you have to overthink everything. But this one felt really natural and free.

You revisited a lot of older pieces on this album, like your composition “Lookout for Hope” and the jazz standard “Moon River.” What has it been like to live with those songs for so long? Are you still discovering new things in them?

That’s one of the good things about getting older. Even with something like “Moon River,” a tune everybody knows, I could play it right now and find something I never noticed before. That still amazes me.

It’s what I’m always hoping for, that moment of surprise. We play a lot with that trio, and we’ll do songs we’ve known for years, but every time we play, I don’t know exactly what’s going to happen. That’s where I want to be—not knowing. That’s when the really good stuff happens.

And now, enough time has passed that I’m starting to feel the same way about my own songs. I’ll play one and think, “Where did this come from?” But I can also see how I’ve changed—like looking through a different lens. There’s always something more to find in them.

How do you stay open to that kind of discovery? Is it a philosophy, or just who you are?

I think that’s just the nature of music. You can’t finish it. When I was younger, I thought, I’ll practice and get it all together. But that’s not how it works. You step into music, and it keeps asking: What now? What next? It just pulls you along. Sometimes it’s overwhelming—you feel like you’ll never figure it out. But it’s also the best place to be. I feel happiest when I’m right there, in the middle of it, trying to figure it out.

Your music often evokes Americana—country, folk, all woven in with jazz. How much of that comes from your upbringing?

It’s just where I come from. That’s something I’ve become more comfortable with over time. I used to try to hide it, maybe try to be something I wasn’t. But now I just try to be true to what touches me.

I grew up in the U.S. in the 1950s. Television was a big part of that—everything from the music to the visuals fired up your imagination. And the Fender Telecaster came out right around the time I was born. So did rock and roll. It was all part of the same world I was living in. It’s like a giant tree with lots of branches—you go off in different directions, but it all comes from the same root.

I’ve learned not to worry about what’s supposed to be hip or cool. I just try not to be afraid to show where I’m from.