Tone Glow 216: Wendy Eisenberg
The fourth in a series of five interviews with the Bill Orcutt Guitar Quartet. Wendy Eisenberg talks about 'Buffy the Vampire Slayer', free improvisation versus songs, and their new self-titled LP.
All week, Tone Glow is hosting five different interviews in celebration of Bill Orcutt’s residency at Roulette and new album Music in Continuous Motion. The series will feature individual interviews with all four members of the Bill Orcutt Guitar Quartet and conclude with a group interview. The other interviews can be found here: Bill Orcutt, Shane Parish, Ava Mendoza, and the Bill Orcutt Guitar Quartet.
Wendy Eisenberg
Wendy Eisenberg (b. 1991) is a singer-songwriter, composer, and guitarist based in New York. Throughout the past several years, Eisenberg has performed in numerous bands, from Editrix to Squanderers to whait. They’ve also released several solo albums, including Auto (2020), Bent Ring (2021), and Viewfinder (2024). Their newest album is self-titled, and is out April 3rd via Joyful Noise Recordings. Eisenberg is also part of the Bill Orcutt Guitar Quartet, who will perform this Friday at Roulette. Joshua Minsoo Kim spoke with Eisenberg on February 27th, 2026 via Zoom to discuss love, improvisation, and how those two things aren’t so different. Kim previously interviewed Eisenberg in 2020—find that interview here.
Joshua Minsoo Kim: Since our last interview, you’ve had your solo albums, the three Editrix albums, the two Squanderers albums with David Grubbs and Kramer, the Strictly Missionary album, and the whait EP with Mari [aka more eaze]. There’s been a lot, and I got really emotional reading that again.
Wendy Eisenberg: It was heavy.
Something I was surprised by was that you said you were “afraid of romantic relationships.” And now you’ve been with Mari for a while, and I’m wondering if those fears have been assuaged. So much of this new album is about change, too, and I’m wondering how much you feel like you’ve changed since then.
A shitload. I feel like an entirely different person. But of course I’m still afraid of it—that’s why I’m doing it, you know? That’s why I’m able to commit. At the time of that interview, five or six years ago, we had a lot of time to think about ourselves. You could pretend that you didn’t, but if you were lucky enough to not be an essential worker, you could just… think. It seems as though my thoughtful self is a more fearful one. I was starting a relationship with someone who I’m clearly no longer with, and I was wondering what I was doing.
That specific moment of my life is very foreign to me, and I was thinking about it today. The person who made that Strictly Missionary record [Heisse Scheisse (2021)] is way less legible to me than the person who made the Squanderers records, for example. Some things are still continuing into my day-to-day life, but that being said, I’m trying to access the part of me who said that, and I think they said they’re afraid of romantic relationships because of spaces that are encroached upon, or the values that are subsumed into the couple form.
The way that I’m afraid of it now is that it can truly erode the boundaries of yourself if you’re not careful. I love Mari so deeply and I’m so inspired by her that I sometimes get this paranoid feeling of, like, “Should I be learning all the crazy shit that she’s doing on her side of the studio?” In being so inspired and in love with somebody, you wonder about the boundaries you’ve thoughtlessly put up and if this way of living is amenable to you, or if you want to, as Chris Weisman would say, traverse the chasm of your differences. That’s way scarier to me. But back then, I was shut down, everything felt new because I had just moved to the city, and here’s this person who is lovely I dated, but was it correct? I don’t think I believed in it yet like I do now.
Believed in love?
Believed that love could do what it’s doing now. All the ways that people talked about it, it’d be like, “Okay grandpa, go to bed.” (laughter). It didn’t knock me on my ass yet. Love had knocked me on my ass when I’d been broken up with or been hurt, but now it’s so destabilizing—and stable, paradoxically. I didn’t know what I was saying when I said I was afraid of relationships—what I was afraid of was far more shallow.
So what has love done to you? What has it taught you about yourself?
I didn’t know I could be accepted for exactly who I am, even if it’s truly disgusting. I had microdosed that, and I had good relationships before, but I hadn’t been in a situation where, like, Mari will be stoked that I’m bringing up a really obscure David Grubbs song because she actually knows it, and then in the same breath will be ribbing me for whatever disgusting household habit I might have. And I could do the same thing to her. I don’t have to act perfect, you know?
It’s a balm against shame because I know that if I’m not acting my best, there’s somebody who’s genuinely on my side and who doesn’t want to leave. I don’t even necessarily have that relationship with myself. Having somebody practice that, where they’re like, “No, I’m good with you, you can just be there,” is an antidote to so many feelings I’ve learned through rejection. Knowing that there’s somebody who’s like, “I think it’s cool you have an opinion on this one singer on a Funkadelic track, and I think it’s cool that you never turn off the espresso machine.” (laughter). And that’s like the most benign version of the shit I’m talking about.
What’s it like playing with Mari live? Obviously you two perform together, you have the whait project, and she played a role on this new self-titled album. How are your professional and romantic relationships related, how are they separate, and how are they informing one another?
I cannot write with her in the same room as me—the songs can’t have her in their origin. That’s one of the fears of romantic relationships, where I’m very protective of my work as some concrete, undistorted signal. I’m just like, leave me the fuck alone (laughter). When I’m working, it’s like the same space I get into when I’m dancing, where you’re not existing and instead in this weird flow that’s beyond and through you. It’s really hard for me to let somebody into that level of the creative process, so that’s remained untouched.
As far as letting her into the process in the studio, we work really similarly. First, second, or third idea is the best—any more than that, no. We’re also fast and efficient. If she’s coming up with a string arrangement, it’s the same as when I’m coming up with an arrangement on my own, where I know the second line has to be in a certain place. For my features on her record [sentence structure in the country (2026)], I was doing vocal overdubs and piano and I was like, “I know it has to be this way,” and she was accepting of that.
Even though there are ways our tastes diverge, we both know what we’re looking for because we have such a shared bank of knowledge musically. We have really close tastes. When she was producing my record, Nick [Zanca] really understood what my songs needed, but having somebody who lives with you say, “Oh, I’ve noticed you’ve been listening to Aldous Harding a lot, what do you think of that mix?” “I love the amount of air on it.” And then it’s immediately actionable. It’s pretty clutch—it’s gorgeous. Maybe it is true that I’m afraid of romantic relationships because I’ll be like, “Why do you know me so well? How do you know that I want that?” I’ll get a little fucked up about it, but mostly I’m like, “Holy shit, I can’t believe this is a way I can relate to another person.” Sometimes we can be stubborn, and I was afraid of that entering into how we relate to each other outside of music, but when we’re out of the studio, we’re still always gonna make dinner and watch TV.
What’s on the TV nowadays? What are you watching?
I’m in girlmode, hardcore. My entire life I’ve just been rewatching Buffy. Mari’s tried to show me The Expanse, but she always shows me that when I’m pretty high, and It’s really hard for me to follow. I’m trying to get into it. And I’m showing her Sex and the City and she really likes that. She’s a Charlotte (laughter).
What draws you to Buffy?
I too am a put-upon person who likes wearing leather accessories (laughter). I think the show’s weird ethos of “you owe the people in your crew—and pretty much every human being—everything” hit differently this time. It feels different than watching art—it feels like I’m watching therapy. There’s this episode where Buffy is catatonic because she lost a family member and is being beaten handily by the season’s big enemy. She’s really feeling her powerlessness. Willow does this spell where she’s entering Buffy’s catatonia and talking to her, seeing how she’s on this crazy-ass timeloop and seeing these different images from stations of her mind. It’s amazing to see what it feels like to be in a PTSD timeloop like that.
Do you think there’s something you took away from the show this time around compared to previous watches?
I was rewatching Buffy when I was making Auto (2020) and the thing that was really inspiring was this episode where Buffy essentially trips balls and sees her sister both existing and not existing in the present. There’s something of these ulterior states where people can exist or not exist; your memory is a weird space for a second. The supernatural is obviously metaphorical, but I find it really nice to see these processes that feel like therapy but then represented in a world that’s separate from my actual life—a world of different outfits. Also, their commitment to fight scenes in every episode is awesome, and the pop-metal theme song is iconic. They don’t do that anymore, so there’s nostalgia, too.
Now, I’m really struck by how deep the community is around her. Some of them happen to be supernatural and they can kick ass, while others are just dudes who hang out. It honestly feels like my friend group. And the genesis of this new record, really, was playing with Ryan [Sawyer] a ton, and playing in Darlin’ [Eisenberg’s trio with Sawyer and Lester St. Louis]. There’s this feeling I got with him that’s like, oh that’s my sibling. And then meeting Mari and instantly feeling like, that’s my wife. And then Steve [Cameron] from Editrix moving to New York and feeling like, that’s family. And all these newer people, too. So that coterie that Buffy has is something that I see more of in my life, especially when they solve problems without her.
Tell me about playing with Ryan. What has he brought to you, in the broadest sense?
I have this memory from 2021 or 2022 of hanging out with gabby fluke-mogul and telling them that I really wanted to make improvised music that feels like a song. I think Ryan has that same priority. There’s this siloed thing with free-improvised music where people want to preserve the practice of it—which they should, it’s a gorgeous thing we do as human beings—but I didn’t feel like I’d met anyone in New York who was concerned with this same thing. When I heard his solo album for the first time, Your Heart Will Be Your Skin (2020), I was like, oh, he’s doing that. It’s not just that he’s doing free jazz versions of songs; there’s a real aesthetic intent to communicate this loneliness at the core of the desire to do both.
For whatever reason, we’ve become very versatile in differing styles of what we do. We play these vernacular modern instruments, but in his case kind of ancient—the drums and the voice—and we can do them in whatever style we want to do, and the things we choose to do together always makes sense. Even if he’s doing something that’s busier than what I was imagining in my head, or weirder or on a different level of pulse… sometimes I’ll bring in something that I’m thinking about in 9, but he’s thinking about it in a different subdivision, it’ll always sound right because our hearts are in the same place.
What makes something sound like a song? Is it because of the form? Is it because it’s more reined in and because there’s revisited themes? Or is that something you don’t want to explain and it’s more of a feeling?
It’s mostly a feeling. From where I’m coming from, there’s a sense of melody. And on just a brute level, we both sing. When a free improvisation feels like a free improvisation, there’s no other feeling in the world. It’s like dance in that way—you’re just beholding the fact that somebody is contending with what they’re contending with. You’re not exactly external to it, and that’s when it’s really good. With a song, you know that there’s a level of externality to it; I know somebody else is telling me something. But whatever point of view is external to me is not genuinely external to me; it’s a feeling I had that I didn’t know. I want songs and good improv to do this, to reach out from something that’s alien to me and make me remember that I’m not alone. And while improv and songs can both do that, songs are more direct, at least formally—mostly because someone’s singing to you.
I love that one of the ways that improv and songs differ is the way that a listener will respond to it. It’s not necessarily about the thing itself, but what it’s doing to the person.
I think that’s what I think. But I’m probably gonna read this in print and be like… what, bitch? (laughter). It’s giving square-rectangle vibes. When I listen to Derek Bailey improvise solo, it feels like a song, y’know? Does that make a song? Probably categorically no, but does it affect me the same way that a pretty Willie Nelson song will? So it’s actually a structure of relation and feeling rather than any musical technique.
This is making me think about Bill Evans and how so many people have talked and written about his music in this way where it feels like he’s your friend somehow, that it feels like you’ve known him forever. Like, how does he do that?
Because he’s playing a song! It’s interesting hearing you think about this with respect to him because when I hear really good free improvisation, it’s more the quality of how it hits you. But when I hear someone like Bill Evans, I hear somebody who’s bleeding out to be understood. , I feel the same way when I listen to a SOPHIE song that doesn’t have lyrics—it’s just that it’s modulated differently. When I’m listening to Martín Escalante, who I’m a big fan of, it feels totally different—the emotional level. Or when Rafael Toral is playing jazz standards, it feels like songs to their ultimate limit, but it also doesn’t feel like songs in the way that I’m looking towards songs. I still find that very valuable, though. Like damn, songs can do that too?
Are there things you try to avoid when you’re writing songs versus when you’re in an improv mode? Have you noticed any specific tendencies when you’re in one mindset versus the other?
Oh man, that’s such a cool question. Usually I’m kind of blacked out when I’m writing a good song. I’m solving problems on a very individual level, like, “Do I play this chord one more time or twenty more times?” (laughter). I’m in brain-idiot mode (laughter), which I feel is me being honest to whatever the feeling is. When I was starting to write songs, which is also when I was starting to really study free improvisation [at Eastman], I was trying to get into that no-man’s-land psychic space—the space that Radigue was getting to all the time—but articulating it with a different relationship to form. So maybe it is based around the original iteration of this question, where songs are just about singing and forms you can discern. But when I play with Ryan, it feels like all bets are off and it just takes the form it takes.
So then what’s the headspace you’re leaning into when playing in something like Squanderers?
I don’t know if it’s actually different. I don’t think I’m trying to write a song in Squanderers, and that might be because David is coming in with something that has an implied form, or because it’ll be completely improvised. I’m not protecting my song either, or exploding a Lana Del Rey song with Ryan, so what’s happening is that I’m trying to see what’s happening. When you’re playing a piece by David for this band, you’re a session musician in this weird way; you don’t know how the song’s going to sound, but you know you have to be really honest about what it is. It’s the same as when I’m writing a song or playing free improvisation by myself—I’m listening to the characteristics of the world around me and hearing it for what it really is. I might be writing a song and I know that the feeling I have is anger. Who knows what it’s gonna sound like by the end of the written tune, but either way, I have to be present to this feeling as I would a bandmate. It feels like we’re really theorizing here and it’s exhilarating, it’s the first thinking I’ve done all day (laughter).
What has changed about the way you approach music now versus in the past? I want to know about this with regards to the people you’re playing with now.
Thinking about Caroline Davis, she is so rigorous and so committed to the work—she’s the hardest working person in show business. It’s been really inspiring because, with her, I’ve learned that I can’t do everything—there are certain things I’m gonna be bad at. I already knew this, but it’s been driven home by how great of a writer she is. Another thing I’ve taken away is that there are certain things I really like and want to stay loyal to. We as a duo can kind of do anything, but it’s so cool that we’re always coming back to unison singing, and we’re coming back to some relationship of songwriting as melody. The improvisations we have are pretty melodic; they’re not textural free-jazz improvisations, and are an outgrowth of song in that way. That might be what she might hear in my approach—I know it’s what I hear in hers. When we play together, I know my strength is not crazy, virtuosic guitar shit, but it is a quality of listening that’s deeper than what’s just happening around me—it’s towards a gestalt of what people are doing.
Playing with her directly influenced the way I engage with Squanderers, for example. I would really suck if I didn’t have to contend with how someone is playing in the moment, which is the most important thing. There are certain things that Caroline will do when we’re singing a duet. If she’s doing a melody by herself, she’ll be really expressive, almost like R&B. It’s so charming, and something I would never do, but it’s exactly what she would do and I never expect it to come out exactly as it does. The acceptance of that—and how I react—is part of what’s coming across. I hear her history in it, and I also hear how she’s really loving music in the moment. It makes me so joyful.
With Kramer and Grubbs, they have a really different relationship. They’re not playing jazz gigs in Amsterdam every day, and they’re not all over the place like she is. Kramer has this history as a curator and producer, and Grubbs is a true poet and theorist of a certain dissemination of musical materiality, and while he’s been around for so many different types of music, he’s not a journeyman in that way. Maybe he has been in the past, but he’s a committed parent and educator, so there’s a core of calmness with how he lives. If I know these things, the person inside me who should’ve been a novelist is just like, well, I know they have these characteristics. I’ve learned through certain duets that beyond any musical tendencies, it’s people’s psychoanalytical tendencies that determine the choices they make. So I learn all that shit in the day to day, but when I’m actually playing with these people, I ignore that—and in ignoring that, it becomes an articulated thing in the music.
When I’m practicing with Ryan, we’ll just be talking shit, or he’ll be talking about his dating life, and that is so the music that, when we play, we’re not worried about getting the shit right, we’re worried about encountering each other where we are. You have to encounter the person you think you are and the person you think you’re playing with, and then ignore both of those things—then you’ll figure out who you are after that. That psychological approach seems like a paradox, but it does put you closer to the sonic present than if you ignored the reality of someone’s life.
I love this idea of finding who you are after playing, and that it’s maybe different from who you initially think you are. Is there an example of a recent gig where something like that played out?
I had a Buffy-esque timeloop thing at this solo gig a few weeks ago. I’ve been really identifying myself as a guy with a band now—I play with Mari and Ryan, and when he’s in town I play with Trevor [Dunn], and then sometimes Lynn [Avery] will play keyboards with me. That’s a band that I now have, and when I’m solo I’m seeing what songs will work. I played at this tiny, perfect place called Brothers Wash & Dry. I thought I was gonna do improvisations, but I really needed to play my songs. I had driven my dad to the airport at 8 in the morning, and this was after having so much family time after not having any for a while. It was such a trip. I saw my grandma, and she has pretty advanced mental stuff and is in a facility—it was intense. It was like a hero’s dose of family access.
When I got to Brothers and played my set, I felt myself reverting to a certain age, or whatever you’re doing when you’re triggered by your family. It wasn’t like, “I’m a guy with a band doing a solo thing,” it was like, “No, this is exactly who I was when I was doing my first solo-songs show at the Midway in Boston.” I’m learning how to command a room every time I do it, and I’m seeing which of these songs work. The stakes are low enough—I’m not playing a crazy-ass gig with a giant guarantee, as if I do that every day—but I was playing this smaller thing with musicians in the room I really respected. I realized that truly nothing had changed: I’m always gonna be this person playing a smaller gig, who wants to know if the songs can make someone feel something. I could feel my mood lift because at the heart of all this was somebody just trying to communicate. All of these caked-on versions of myself disappeared and I was left with the reason I do all this.
That’s what I’m talking about when I’m playing with other people. My best job in a collaboration is to facilitate them being in touch with their core reasons for why they do this too. It’s a really generous thing to improvise with that in mind rather than, “Let’s make the sickest shit we’ve ever heard!” That’s also important, but getting to why you do it keeps you actually doing it.
On “The Ultraworld” you say, “Only a month ago all of the habits of my old life died.” What died, exactly? Did you want them to die? And was it easy for this to happen, or did it take some effort?
Around December 28th, 2023, I played a Darlin’ gig and had gone to this miniature train museum—I was really depressed romantically and had no idea what the fuck was going on. I was trying to date after my relationship had ended in August, and I felt so much romantic despair. I had the blues. Something was supposed to happen around then—I was going to see Theo Parrish for the first time—but I ended up staying home and vomited for hours. My friend Shane Kerr, who is the Lord of the Dance in my heart, had come back from the show. He was gonna bring me but I was freaking the fuck out; I made it to the venue but forgot my wallet at home. The gods did not want me there. I let him into the house around 7am and we started walking. I was walking for hours every day, for days, and then New Year’s happened and I felt really in touch with some spirits or something. I felt like a thorn was coming out of my side. And it was like… so now I just walk? And I have visions?
What’s happening in these visions?
I was going to [artist, performer, and dancer] Gillian Walsh for body work and I saw this iris just wiping shit away around my back. Just weird stuff. And it was amazing because I felt like I was fully accessing the part of me that’s in that other space when I’m writing songs or improvising. It was just a trippy fucking time. It sounds so pat to be like, “Oh, now I know I need to date only women,” but I did feel that way. I’d been with women before, but I had never been like, “I’m gonna be a lesbian with this haircut.” I had never been that committed, but I realized, “Oh, I actually have to be that committed. It’s not possible to not be that committed.” And then I was like, you know what, I need to not drink caffeine. So yeah, these different habits that were getting me through the blues period of fall 2023 did not exist for me anymore. I was Herculean bummed then, and now I’m like a newborn with no skin (laughter).
Earlier you mentioned the fact that you maybe should’ve been a novelist. And the last time we talked, you said that you thought you’d be really good at writing fiction. Do you feel like in writing your songs or lyrics that you’re doing something akin to that?
I think what’s happening is something akin to what poetry can do at its best, although with different metrical constraints. The thing that I come to poetry for is not an empty theorizing of the human race—I want to feel someone’s autobiography told not as an autobiography. I wanna hear their theory of reality depicted in a glimpse, with a single word choice. Even if it’s in the structure of a joke or some chill, funny James Tate thing, I feel like there’s a glimpse of eternity behind it—not to sound like Jim Morrison or whatever (laughter). Really good fiction does that too, but it’s a much more longform thing.
I really don’t think what I’m doing is fictional at all. I was taken by the idea of autofiction because I thought it could afford me the same access to that eternal, inexpressible thing, and it’s because it had to come from something that has to be a misreading: your experiencing of yourself. It’s going to be a misreading because this reading of yourself—this autofictional self—is already a distortion, that then is distorted by novelistic or quasi-novelistic form, but also by the fact of an audience. Poetry doesn’t seem as concerned with that in the same way. It’s trying to bring you in, but it’s not trying to be like, “This is exactly me.” The lyric “I” is not really the same. Not to be bloviating and say that my lyrics are poetry (laughter), but the goal is something close to what I get when I read Hedgie Choi or Diane di Prima. There’s a worldview that’s articulated in it, but it’s articulated as a byproduct of this other god they’re serving.
I fetishize the idea of myself as a novelist because that would mean that I have enough focus and command of an imaginary world to make it feel as real as poetry. But genuinely, I don’t think I have that skill, like, I’ll just practice the guitar instead (laughter). The goal would be to think about things on a longer-form level, like a Roy Harper or Joanna Newsom song, but right now, it’s way more short-form and way less of a lie than a good novel would be.
Is there a reason you haven’t explored something longform?
I’ve written some longer songs, especially on Viewfinder (2024), but as Emily Dickinson taught me at a young age, I like the short-form, slap-in-the-face encounter. Still, my songs are always longer than I expect them to be—in my demos, they’re always two minutes. I like the glimpse of an eternity that’s in a moment: I like a short film, I like a bite of chocolate, I like a shot of espresso. I think partially it’s fear—to make a long thing really good, you have to have a better relationship with time, you know? Duration is as much about faith as rhythm is about faith. You have to engender the listener with a sense that they have to keep doing it. That’s a craft I’ve been building up to, but maybe not consciously.
So then what changed with “After Image” and “Set a Course” on Viewfinder?
When I write songs, I tend to write them as if I can always do them alone. I don’t know why I have that value but I do (laughter). And around the time when I was deep in the blues period, I would play these really long versions of songs from Viewfinder. Like, I’d play an entire set of the title track for 30 minutes, and it was awesome. But I feel like I’m interested in the lengthening of an already-condensed form more than I’m interested in stacked forms. And with Viewfinder, I had this weird dare where I needed a fourth side. I had myself breathing down my own stupid neck (laughter).
Why do you feel you’re more interested in the lengthening of an already-condensed form?
Because I wanna view it up close. And maybe this is a perversion of scale, but when something’s stretched out, I feel like I can hear artifacts in it differently, even just literally. I’m a massive fan of that version of “Wichita Lineman” by the Disk Slessig Combo. It’s 42 minutes and it’s so slow, so sexy, so sad, so imagistic. And that rocked my world because it felt like Radigue but with a pop song. I didn’t know about that piece when I did these longer versions of my own work, but now I just wanna do that all the time. What would “Meaning Business” sound like if it were 30 minutes? What does it mean to stay on those first two chords for so long? When I listen to really longform stuff, that’s usually when I’m the happiest. Early ’70s Miles. Jetsun Mila (1987) is the best thing in the world. I love Feldman’s For Bunita Marcus (1985). I also love those really longform Sarah Hennies pieces.
So why aren’t you doing more of that?
I think it’s because it’s some final frontier shit. Or maybe I’m trying to do “late work” correctly (laughter). I’m such a shortform guy and I think so fast that putting myself in that position would be fun for me. I am obviously allured by it, and I wanna do it, but I think it’s mostly that I just have a lot of work to do. I’m a full-time professor now. Though, it’s not like longform work is a young or rich man’s game, it’s just that it’s a newer interest. And this interest probably wouldn’t have arisen if it weren’t for the guitar quartet. Those are short songs that we can play forever. Experiencing that kind of prismatic relationship to these shorter forms made me think that I could do that one day.
It could also just be familiarity—I’ve had years of practice of writing very short songs. The deeper I get into writing these songs, it’s fun to have them be so dense because of some version that could be long. Songs are propositions in this way. I came to jazz because I liked the songs that jazz musicians played on, and I liked the way they played them like songs. So it’s not just “Wichita Lineman”—people do “My Favorite Things” forever, not to be thinking about The Doors so much.
I know you teach the Lyrics and Lyricism class at The New School. How do you teach someone that? Is it similar to teaching an English class? Are you also having people read novels?
It’s a motherfucker, I’ll be real. And I’ve been retooling this class for as long as I’ve been teaching it. It’s mostly been like, read this insane essay, see what they’re doing in terms of structure, talk about the essay with each other, and then write whatever it is you need to write. And then we talk about that seminar-style. You might not be the best lyricist in the world by the end of the semester, but what I will do is make you read Adrian Piper talking about her work. And then you’re gonna have some ideas about persona that you maybe didn’t have before. Then when you write a song from somebody else’s perspective, it’s also yours. Or hey, I’m gonna have you read an essay that’s entirely plagiarized and see if you can find the references. Could you write a song that would have a really obvious reference in it? Did you find a song in your listening that samples anything, and is it doing the same thing? So we’re not just looking at lyrics, but at the structure of a performer. What does it mean that people rap choruses that are so long and there’s only one verse for however many bars? What is that structure doing? So we’re doing things like this, but backing it with theories of language and performativity. I’m taking a really circuitous route.
When I edit students’ lyrics, it’s this thing of, is your grammar so horrible that I don’t understand what you’re saying? I’m cool with bad grammar if it’s expressive or vernacular, but when you don’t know what the fuck they’re saying, it’s a problem. Having them read about stuff they care about from good writers teaches them the importance of clarity—and in a way that’s creative. However, clarity is not always the clearest articulation of an ideal. Clarity is about getting to that same emotional thing we were talking about earlier with improvisation. If you’re saying something doesn’t make any sense but it feels right, that’s still clarity. Sure, I’m having my cake and eating it too by saying that, but it’s true. Also, do you care about someone’s voice? If I give you something from Adrian Piper and then Simone Weil, how are they different from each other? What do you notice relationally between these two voices? And then when you’re in your black-out period writing a song, you won’t be thinking about any of this, but your verbal diet has hopefully improved.
The thing that makes editing a student’s work difficult is that you can’t really know if it’s right until they perform it. Through showing them essays or lyrics or poetry, there will be elements that they can learn from, and I’m letting them see people meaning what they’re meaning. Or, I’ll have them listen to whatever lyricist they really like and ask, “Do you know that they couldn’t sing anything else?”
Wow. That’s an interesting thing to ask.
Yeah, the stakes are high.
How much of that would be indicated from the lyrics versus the performance, though? And of course the lyrics will inform how the person will want to perform it.
The best lyrics will always feel essential, no matter how you perform it. You could perform something shittily and the words would still feel urgent, or you could perform something amazingly but the words wouldn’t have real heft. And maybe it’s the production that’s the thing that’s essential—it depends on where your focus lies. And that’s what’s so great about teaching; you’re always engaging with the fallibility of the tools of communication. I’m glad you asked about this class because it’s actually one of my greatest insecurities as a teacher—there’s no way to prove if the students really get it until they start writing songs that mean a lot to them, and that’s kind of on them.
I think that’s one of the great things about teaching, though. I like that you never really know the impact that you have on your students.
Sometimes you feel it, but mostly you don’t. You’re kind of going on faith.
It’s an essential part of the job, to be honest. That unknowability is crucial, and motivating; I wouldn’t want to know the full extent of my impact. And the students might not know it either. It’s all in the ether.
If someone aces a test, you don’t know if they’re gonna forget it in two weeks. But what they will remember is your carriage and how you move through the world. When I’m teaching the lyrics class, I try to confront my insecurity by saying that at least I’m exposing them to authors that changed my life. And even if it’s not the same for them, at least I can show them the ways it did for me. Then they can relate to the work that does affect them with the same level of care. I’m glad that we both love teaching—we’re so lucky.
Is there anything we didn’t talk about today that you wanted to talk about? Is there a question you always wanted to be asked in an interview?
That last question is funny because it speaks so directly to the things we were saying about improvisation. I would never want somebody to ask me something because I wanted to be asked it; I want to be faithful to the moment. So, I’ve never thought about an interview like that in my life. I will say that I think it’s a joy that we got to speak again. Whenever we do, I think we learn so much, and I just want to share the love because since our first interview, you’ve taken on such a hilarious role as this person of the internet. You’re really public, and it’s cool that I don’t see the effect of that on you. It’s just amazing to be contended with by one of the great contenders-with that I know (laughter). You’re always thinking about shit and you’re always encountering art, and it’s a joy to have your brain caring about my work and talking to me on such a deep level about these arcane practices. I usually feel like it’s better left untheorized, but to talk about it with you feels like a joy, so I just want to thank you.
Thanks for saying that, I really appreciate it. And now, I have to ask the question that I always ask. Do you mind sharing one thing you love about yourself?
I’m a really good cook—you should ask Mari about it. You should just interview her about that (laughter). I have a real knack for crazy-ass flavors and I can whip something up in 20 minutes that’s real good. As far as things I can do when I come home from work, to feel creative without feeling the boot of capitalist production on my neck as a musician… well, I’ll cook something that’ll blow your mind. It feels amazing.
Wendy Eisenberg’s self-titled album is out April 3rd on Joyful Noise Recordings.
54321: Recommendations
I asked Wendy to send me a list to accompany this interview. The following is what they sent.
5 (Best) Songs from The Music Man
“Sincere”
“Til There Was You”
“Shipoopie”
“The Sadder-But-Wiser Girl”
“Goodnight My Someone” / “Lida Rose” (tie)
4 Books (with commentary, because “Writing”)
Septology by Jon Fosse
The last night of the Guitar Quartet tour in November 2023 I was in Stavanger Norway and mentioned to some dudes after the show that I was reading this book. They made fun of me for pronouncing his name like the choreographer but they hadn’t read it either. It’s long and there is a concept but it’s easier than you think and it feels like prayer. You find yourself crying, without knowing why, like in a Radigue. Something essential is touched. I love it when the flow of language itself functions like music. Sometimes I try to imagine the doppelgängers taking a selfie or drinking a Celsius. It’s impossible.
Flower by Ed Atkins
Reading this after a dry spell, where no book hit, felt like someone pouring a daiquiri straight into my mouth. Amazing sentences amazing form extreme reality so sweet.
The Romance of American Communism by Vivian Gornick
It’s been very easy for me to feel hopeless in the face of war and genocide, and this book documents what it felt like for America’s communists to care and to see that caring splinter. Incisive, wide-eyed, and romantic indeed.
In The Blink of an Eye by Walter Murch
A student of mine who studies film in addition to being a fabulous songwriter recommended this to me. It’s about the craft of film editing, and trying to translate what he’s talking about into musical situations has been a joy, especially when I disagree with him.
3 Records
OLD - Formula (1995)
Jeanne Lee and Ran Blake - The Newest Sound Around (1962)
Worldwide Seagull - Strays in the Craft Bin (2026)
2 Memes From This Carousel
#3
#9
1 Catatonic Youths Video I Think About A Lot (this was hard to narrow down)
Thank you for reading the 216th issue of Tone Glow. Free-improvised cooking.
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OMG #1 record is OLD's Formula! Could I love Wendy more than I already did? Apparently so! 💜
such a rich and inspiring conversation. thank you!