Veteran singer-songwriter appreciates the moment he's in

Lovett leads a humble life with large rewards

By Brad Buchholz
AMERICAN-STATESMAN STAFF
Saturday, October 13, 2007

Lyle Lovett is pushing 50 — and his new music has the wise and wistful dignity of a man who sees clearly the ways we persevere, and sometimes even sing, in the face of life's inevitable goodbyes. Both the man and his music are self-aware, resolute, focused on the gift of each day in the context of these uncertain times.

"I do think the world is different since (the terrorist attacks of 2001)," says Lovett, a four-time Grammy winner. "And in terms of the circle of life — which my new record is about, a little bit — it takes me back to our childhood in the Cold War, when we did those (duck and cover) drills in grade school, where there's an underlying unsettled feeling. And I guess what I'm talking about in this record: No matter what's going on, no matter what the undercurrent of the times might be, we all live each day."

Lovett's new album — a "large band" studio project titled "It's Not Big It's Large" — is way more intimate than its title suggests. And for all of its references to mortality and farewell, it is not at all a melancholy record. The guiding mantra is closer to "I will stand tall until I meet my end." The album's gemstone is "South Texas Girl," in which Lovett uses the setting of a family drive through backroads Texas to consider innocence, loss and what remains timeless, even in the aftermath of death.

Lovett seems happy with his album, happy with his life. After the death of his father several years ago, Lovett seems to have gotten closer to his roots. He still resides on his family's land in Klein (north of Houston). He raises quarter horses and on occasion rides in horse shows. The ghost of ex-wife Julia Roberts is way behind him. Lovett is engaged to April Kimball, his companion for almost 10 years — who, like Lovett, is a graduate of Texas A&M.

In anticipation of tonight's slot at the Big State Festival in College Station and his Monday concert at Stubb's in Austin, Lovett talked (via telephone) about his craft and his life. The singer is strikingly soft-spoken, very much the Texas gentleman, unmistakably shy. His voice wavers in hesitation at the very suggestion that he is, like Guy Clark or Townes Van Zandt, a distinguished member of the Texas songwriters' pantheon.

American-Statesman: Your new album strikes me as a determined, appreciative, kind-hearted statement from an artist very much aware that he's at the midpoint of his life. There's an unmistakable accent on mortality and where we are in these times.

Lyle Lovett: It's true. I think my songs are more reaction to what I run into on a daily basis, a reaction to real things that happen in my life, what I see in my world. And as you age, the same things you run into as a 20-year-old, you see them with a different perspective when you're 49.

What have the years taught you about your craft? What do you know now that you didn't know as a younger man, when you first started to write songs?

I certainly don't know any more about writing songs. But truly, I've learned that the greatest thing you can do in your life is to be able to do something you like to do with people you enjoy doing it with.

You hear people talk about (how) their work really isn't their life, (how) they're able to leave their work behind at the office and have a life separate from their work. But if you have to segment your life in that way to deal with the different components ... (a long, measured pause) I can understand it; there's nothing wrong with it. But in my case, when you spend 8 to 12 hours day doing something you like, you don't punch out. And you never want to.

Sounds a little bit like the Joseph Campbell axiom of "follow your bliss." Rather than pursuing a career, or undertaking a profession, you say, "I want to invest my days in something that has meaning to me, and have work and life intersect as one."

The thing I've gotten from this is, "Everything you do is important." Every day you spend is kind of it. When you're younger, you look forward in a way that keeps you from being fully able to appreciate the moment in the time you're in. I got my record deal when I was 26. My first record came out when I was 28. (And I remember thinking), at the time, "Maybe this record will lead to ... " or "If we do well with this, then ... " But as you get older, you're more able to appreciate each thing you do as a unique experience — which enables you to more fully explore, and enjoy, what's happening right now.

I wonder if you've studied people you admire in the arts — whether it's Picasso or Lester Young or Guy Clark or Bruce Springsteen — about how one grows through art as one grows older.

I'm no intellectual; I don't pretend to take my inspiration from a great artist like Picasso. But aside from his work, the fact that he worked so late into his life is a great inspiration. Guy Clark: He can't help but write songs; he can't help but think up things. I hope I'm so lucky. I hope that even if I'm saying to myself, "I don't ever want to write another song" that I just can't help but do it.

You worked a lot with the late director Robert Altman. (Lovett acted in several of his films, including "The Player.") Could you talk about the influence of Altman on your life and your career?

The single most striking thing about Altman's process to me is his confidence, in the way he worked. He trusted his judgment. He was never locked in by a preconceived idea. Altman, I guess, is famous for being free-form and letting actors do what they wanted to do. But I tell you, all of that was within a very measured and thoughtful context. He cast people knowing how far someone would run with the ball. He didn't let people improvise willy-nilly. He was very much in control of the situation. And always knew when to pull somebody back, when to say, "Why don't you try this?"

His ability to size somebody up — his ability to judge someone's character — was uncanny. Altman's films are all about the same thing: They're about what's going on behind the scenes, behind a person's eyes, what motivates that person to do what he does. And that was Altman in person. He could meet someone and talk to them, and have this uncanny sense of being able to see through someone's presentation, straight through to someone's motivation. That's what he was all about. His movies are all about calling (b.s.) on behavior.

With no apologies ...

Because you never have to apologize for telling the truth! Another way Altman's confidence showed through: He didn't care who watched him do anything. He didn't care who stood in the middle of a conversation. Every day after a shoot, he would invite anybody in the cast and crew, anybody in the vicinity, to come by and watch dailies from the shoot the day before.

So many directors are so self-conscious, or so nervous about what they're doing, that they don't show the actors the dailies. Altman was like, "C'mon over. We'll have some beer." It was like a little party. They'd always have food and drinks. He would sit in the back. He'd watch his work, but he'd also watch everybody's reaction.

What was your experience of writing a film score with Altman? Didn't you say, once, that Altman wanted to "avoid the obvious" when it came to music in film?

We just made it up as we went along. He was at the studio with me every day, and it was an intensive experience. But he allowed me the flexibility, as he allows anyone he would put in that position, to trust their natural reaction. I've always sort of been predisposed to go the other way from the obvious. If there's a trend going on — almost to the point of me being offended by it — I want to go the other way.

(For that very reason), it took me years to actually start listening to Bob Dylan. When I worked at the Coffee House at Texas A&M — at first I was the booker — everybody played Dylan songs. This was in 1975, '76, '77. And I said, "I can't listen to Dylan," and it was just because he was too popular. Of course, what a great oversight on my part.

As a student journalist at Texas A&M, you wrote feature stories about songwriters like Steve Fromholz, Willis Alan Ramsey. I heard you knew everything about Ramsey in those days, down to the color of his shoes.

Well, yeah. He used to wear those Adidas SL 72s, my old track shoes. I loved watching the way he stood, and the way he tapped his foot on the base of the microphone stand to simulate a kick drum. Willis — more than any of those guys I admired — made me feel OK about trying this (life as a musician).

One of the biggest things I had to overcome was, "Do I have any business doing this?" Especially at first, I was terribly uncomfortable. Growing up, if I knew the answer to a question and the teacher would ask, I didn't like to speak up. So Willis was one of my favorite performers to watch and listen to — not just because of how brilliant his songs are, but because he was sort of the anti-performer. He always looked painfully uncomfortable in the best possible way to me. But he drew you in. He made you come to him. And he showed you just how much exists when you do step inside and look at what someone is doing for you.

How do you see your work and craft in the years that stretch ahead of you? You're about to see (a number of) years on a calendar that Townes Van Zandt never saw. Yet here you are. Here's your life.

I've always defined success as just 'being able to do what you enjoy doing.' And I hope to continue to be successful in that way. You know, I feel so fortunate that my audience has supported me all these years ... (but) I've always thought (as an artist) that I don't want everybody to like me. I think it's more important that you follow your own heart, your own inclination, and hope there's someone who wants to listen. And even if no one does listen, you can still feel good about yourself. If you pretend to be someone else, no telling what situation you'll end up in.

bbuchholz@statesman.com; 912-2967