Ray LaMontagne
FOR A PROFESSIONAL SONGWRITER, RAY LAMONTAGNE IS A MAN OF FEW WORDS. “You should know something about me: it takes me a long time to answer questions,” he says halfway through our interview. “Often days.” Not that it matters. As one of the preeminent folk artists of the past 20 years to emerge on a major label, LaMontagne has gained countless fans worldwide thanks to his heartfelt and honest songs that transcend time and taste. (His music has been regularly covered by would-be hopefuls on The Voice.) LaMontagne, on the other hand, chooses to shy away from the spotlight, rarely conducting interviews and spending the majority of his time at his home in Ashfield, MA (pop. 1,737) with his wife and two sons. It’s there that he recorded and self-produced his most recent album, Part of the Light, a concoction of intimate folk, Nigel Godrich-in-the-’90s atmospherics and David Gilmour-esque rock. “All I can do is make the records that mean something to me, or at the time,” he says. “I do the best work I can and hope it finds its way out there and into people’s lives.”
What are your current fixations?
I’m fixated with working on old cars and old motorcycles. I’m really happy when I’m in the garage working on something. I’m building an old-school hot rod right now from a [Ford] Model A converted into an overhead valve conversion, an old four-banger hot rod. I’m just completely at peace in the garage.
Why do you live where you do?
Well, it’s beautiful. It’s very private. Quiet. Lots of lovely old farms, and just in the foothills of the Berkshires, so it’s heavenly — very peaceful.
What has been your most memorable or inspirational gig and why?
I’ll give you two things. One is one that I’ve played, and that’s Red Rocks [Amphitheatre] in Boulder, CO, which is just beautiful. It’s one of those places that when you play there, in front of 10,000 people, it makes you feel so fortunate to make music. But a gig that I saw recently that
really affected me was when I saw Wilco at the Bowery [Ballroom] in New York. It’s a smallish club, and it was a very intimate show. I shy away from intimate shows, really — I don’t like them for myself. When the room gets small I feel very exposed. I remember realizing, “Okay, this is why people love to see songwriters in small settings: because it’s great.” So after I saw that I did my first round of solo shows last October that I’ve done in years, and that was all because of Wilco.
What’s your idea of a perfect Sunday?
Well, fair weather for one would be lovely. But driving around in one of my old cars, or on a motorcycle — just scooting around the hills with nothing to do but drive. That’s perfect.
What do you think of when you think of Canada?
Canada seems like another planet to me. It seems removed from — and I could be wrong — but in my mind, in a way, it seems removed from the rest of the world’s chaos. All the time, Canada just feels like an observer of the world who stands in the back of the room and just watches and shakes its head saying, “Wow, these people are nuts.” I don’t know if that’s true. If so, then you’re lucky, because the world is crazy.
How do you spoil yourself?
I don’t know if I do, honestly.
If I wasn’t playing music I would be…
I’d be a timber framer. That’s what I was doing before music came along. The opportunity to play music — you know, I was approached by a [music] publisher first, but at that time, I was actively trying to get an apprenticeship with a timber framer.
What do you fear most?
That’s easy: I fear being broke. I was raised by my mom, alongside four sisters and a brother, and she raised us by ourselves, and we were always so broke. Just barely getting by on hand-me-downs from hand-medowns from hand-me-downs. Just really rough and scary. And, you know, my wife Sarah and I, we were both broke. We made it somehow, but I was broke until I was probably 35, really. And I think I fear being broke again. That everyday fear of not being able to have enough to pay for either fuel or food or rent. So many people live with that every day, and everything gets more expensive all the time.
What has been your strangest celebrity encounter?
I haven’t had many. I lay pretty low — I don’t go to parties, and I certainly don’t go to the right parties. I’ve encountered some of my heroes, though, like Stephen Stills and Bob Dylan, and both were pretty tame. Maybe it’s strange to meet Bob Dylan and have him be really polite to you?
Who would be your ideal dinner guest, living or dead, and what would you serve them?
Boy, these are not easy. You know, it may sound mundane, but my ideal dinner guest would probably be just my friends. And I don’t know what I’d serve them — just a good homecooked meal, I guess.
What song would you like to have played at your funeral?
[Sighs heavily.] I’d probably prefer that it was quiet. So yeah, none.
“Maybe it’s strange to meet Bob Dylan and have him be really polite.”