Al Di Meola released his latest album, “Twentyfour,” on July 19.
He began the project in 2020, thinking the compositions would result in an acoustic-driven project. While the pieces retain some sensibilities from their original form, the result is one of the New Jersey native’s finest releases, which is no mean feat given his already considerable discography.
Di Meola, who turns 70 on July 22, is in fine health after suffering a heart attack last September. He said he’s eager to continue his rigorous schedule of touring, which sees multiple dates in Europe and North America well into the late part of the year.
Speaking from his home in New Jersey -- where fans can visit for homecooked Italian dinners, masterclasses and even a private lesson, for a price of course -- the guitarist is eager to talk about “Twentyfour,” his thoughts on composition and his relationship to his full body of work.
KMUW’s “Global Village,” “Strange Currency” and “Night Train” will team up this evening, July 22, for an evening of Di Meola’s music in celebration of his birthday.
The following interview has been edited for clarity and length.
Let’s talk a little bit about “Twentyfour.” My understanding is that this is music that started coming together during the pandemic.
A good part of it was just to get my mind off of the news, which was unbelievably devastating and consuming. It consumed me. I couldn’t leave the house. A lot of things were invading my brain. That caused me to eat a lot. I just sat at the table and started eating. [Laughs.] So, I said, “The only way to get away from this is to go down in my studio and start writing.” It’s the only thing that blocks everything out completely. Any problems. Any kind of distress.
I started to write mainly for solo guitar. Then I said, “I should actually make a solo record.” That would be unique in itself. The time just went on and on and on. The record company was not in any kind of rush. They had no release date planned. They just said, “Take your time and whenever you’re happy with it, let us know.” There was no traditional deadline. On one hand that’s good because you can take it further. That’s what opened it up to more production. All of a sudden it became a different type of record than what I’d planned.
From a creative standpoint that must have been rewarding.
I think this is quite a leap. It’s a direction that I know won’t be for everyone because it takes an attention span that most people don’t have because of cell phones. I went the other direction. Against the grain. This [means listeners] have to really sit down and focus without distractions. To me, it was an art piece. It was not meant for wide commercial acceptance. It just turned out to be a real guitar record, a real composition record.
Was composition something you had in mind at the start of your career or was it something that became a necessity later?
We all start as players who want to learn licks and maybe simple things that you like. When I joined [Return to Forever with] Chick [Corea] at 19, writing wasn’t even in my foresight. I was just so happy to play the repertoire of Return to Forever and Chick, in particular. I was a real fan not only of his playing and improvisations but a big fan of his writing. Believe it or not, I didn’t press to write at all. He pressed us to write. I thought, “Why do you want us to write? You’re the writer.”
To his credit, and well deserved, he pushed us to write. He said, “If you can play like that, you can write.” He used to say that some of the great classical composers were great improvisationalists. That’s why they could write. You can look at it from that point of view that they had so much knowledge and ability to play that they turned to writing. In our world, it was both improvisation and then writing became a thing.
That doesn’t mean that if you attempt to write that something good will come out. It’s like learning another instrument. You’re either going to learn it well or half-assed. With writing, I also had to discover whether I could do it. I can name some of my favorite players that are not writers. They may have been playing for 50, 60 years, and I still only think of them as a player. It could be somebody like Keith Jarrett. He’s not a writer. He’s phenomenal. Jesus. One of the greatest of them all. Herbie [Hancock]. He writes but he’s not as famous a writer as Chick.
Allan Holdsworth is not really known as a writer. He’s known as a phenomenal player. So, I think as time went on, composition became more important to me. Now I’m happy to have had 200 hundred or whatever plus songs written that were, every one of them, very difficult to write. It’s a lot of work. It’s a legacy of composition.
I want to talk about that notion of difficulty in the compositional process. It’s inevitable that in writing you’ll hit some kind of wall. How do you deal with those moments when you’re working on something but can’t seem to get to the next place? It’s just not moving forward.
What you do is put the TV on. Get away from it. Because it doesn’t last. It’s almost like a cold! [Laughs.] It doesn’t last. It’s really a strange thing. You can’t say, “OK, I gotta wait for a moment when I’m really happy and then it’ll come back! Or a moment when I’m really miserable.” I’ve written most of my music when I’m miserable. So, when I married recently … recently, 10 years, I said, “Oh my God. I might not be able to write anymore because I’m happy.” But it was no different really.
I would say to people that if you’re watching TV, always watch it with a guitar in your hands because you might be focused on the story, but your hands are moving. And sometimes those hands play something you [might not ever] normally play. Then you go, “What was that? Oh, that was cool. Wait a minute.” You might have come up with something that maybe you wouldn’t have if you weren’t watching that movie. That happens quite often.
That’s different than a dry spell. Dry spells haven’t happened to me in a long time. I think it was really flowing [during the pandemic]. Quite a lot. But I am a little burned out. I must say I don’t feel like I want to sequester down in the studio for a while. I mean a long while! [Laughs.] I lived down there for four years and did tons of writing. For what? I’m about to go out on a bunch of tours, the record’s [just coming out]. I’ve got time.
When you revisit older pieces do you have the surprise of, “Man, at 26 or 27, I was actually a good composer and good player”?
That was your best point of the whole interview right there. That is what I discovered more so this time. Since the heart attack … it’s like you get a second chance at life. It’s like a rebirth almost. I wanted to revisit my early work. It’s not like I listen to [it] often, I don’t. [When] I’m working on new music, my head’s into that. But I did. I sat down and listened to “Land of the Midnight Sun” (1976), “Elegant Gypsy” (1977), “Casino” (1978). I really listened to them and thought, “Now I get it!” Only now I get what my audience liked about that music. It was good. It was, compositionally, better than I thought. These songs are not as immature, let’s say, as I had thought. They actually have a lot of aesthetic to them, if it’s being played like I’m hearing it. Going back has become enjoyable, even if it’s not totally fulfilling aesthetically. But I’m all about doing both [the old and the new] for as long as it can stay together.
