Interview: Adam Lion

The vibraphone, developed in 1916 by Herman E. Winterhoff as an evolution of the steel marimba, found its early champion in jazz legend Lionel Hampton, who helped bring the instrument into the spotlight in the 1930s. Its popularity surged again in the 1950s and ’60s with the rise of the Exotica genre, thanks in part to the influence of Arthur Lyman.

While much of the public’s perception of the vibraphone remains rooted in that past, contemporary musician Adam Lion is pushing the instrument into new territory. A minimalist composer who embraces repetition, Lion crafts hypnotic soundscapes from shimmering, reverberating patterns. His latest album, When a Line Bends, showcases a deeply intuitive approach — one that moves well beyond the established template set by his predecessors.

On May 31, Adam Lion will return to his former home of Asheville for a performance at the AyurPrana Listening Room. Asheville Stages spoke with the experimental composer about his musical evolution, his roots in the local avant-garde scene, and the guiding forces behind his creative journey.

Jonny Leather: From what I understand, you’re currently based out on the West Coast, but I know you spent a fair amount of time in Asheville. What years were you here?

Adam Lion: Yep, currently I'm in Los Angeles. I lived in Asheville from 2019-24, and before that I was in Knoxville for a few years. It was a really formative period — a time where I first began to develop a performance practice that I’m still cultivating. 

JL: Will this be your first time back since [Tropical Storm] Helene?

AL: No, I visited in early April. The town definitely feels different — I did some running on the greenway along the French Broad [River] and was shocked to see how destroyed it was. I lived on Riverview Drive for a while, so I was always down there. I actually got a little emotional when I tried to run under the Amboy Road bridge and the greenway was 100% erased. The entrance to French Broad River Park was impossible without wading through water. At that moment, everything began to click for me. 

JL: How did your relationship with the vibraphone begin? Was there a specific moment or sound that drew you in?

AL: Well, I studied percussion in college, and actually moved to California to re-enter academia with the same focus. A central interest of academic percussion is classical performance, so this is the world I was immersed in at a young age. This training required proficiency on many percussion instruments like the timpani, marimba, snare drum, etc. I was eventually introduced to good percussion repertoire by a teacher with interesting taste, and I was immediately infatuated. It is cool to be a percussionist sometimes because our earliest music includes some really unique composers like Iannis Xenakis, Alvin Lucier, and John Cage.

It is widely known that the classical tradition is one of the most conservative art institutions on the planet. Many in power do not take living composers seriously, or even fathom that the avant-garde is important. It’s a really problematic space. As I got older and more advanced, I began to meet a lot of composers who were writing new music that blew my mind. Eventually, I ran into the vibraphone music of Sarah Hennies and my life changed. Her music was just so provocative and mysterious to my young brain. I played her music a lot, and even did a concert of her music to fundraise for the Pride Center at my university. I asked if she wanted to collaborate with me and create a new piece, and to my absolute shock, she said “yes.” It was a big project that I toured and recorded, and featured the vibraphone extensively. 

After this project, I left school and I was in my house with a vibraphone and a drum-set and not a lot to do. I was in Knoxville at the time, and by far the most interesting music in that city is the free improvisation happening at the Pilot Light — one of my favorite venues of all time. I wanted to collaborate and needed a more practical way to share my music besides classical performance, which usually needs tons of funding and infrastructure. So, I made the best decision of my life and began to improvise. Not only does it sound incredible, the vibraphone is a relatively unique instrument in the experimental improvisation world, so I felt like I was filling a hole. 

JL: What was the biggest challenge for you when you started playing vibraphone? Has that challenge evolved over time?

AL: Well, my eternal struggle is to not sound like I'm playing jazz. The instrument is historically rooted in that tradition. When many hear vibraphone, they think about the jazz idiom. I have a lot of love for the great jazz vibraphonists, like Roy Ayers — who died a few months ago. But it is absolutely not what I’m trying to do. 

In that vein, I also think about the implications of a keyboard layout. The keyboard is the basis for understanding tonality, which is not my central focus. How can I use this layout to create something that is more interesting to me? Just because it is a keyboard, does that mean it is primarily a melodic instrument? It is easy to look at the keyboard and automatically play scales, or chord progressions. For my goals, that just felt sort of lazy. So I began to investigate the instrument deeply, searching for hidden sounds or peculiar methodologies that surprised me. I know if I'm surprised, I might be onto something interesting. I'm always pushing myself to discover new techniques and sounds that are hidden or unconsidered. 

And finally, in a purely practical sense, the transportation of the instrument is painfully laborious. It always challenges me physically. It's totally worth it. 

JL: What continues to inspire you to push the boundaries of the instrument?

AL: As an experimental musician, I am not interested in confirming what is already known to be true. I prefer unknown territory where the outcome is completely unpredictable. I get very excited when I feel a sense of confusion about what's happening. Where is that sound coming from? Am I making it? What the hell is happening right now with the music? 

That being said, I choose the vibraphone because it thrives in the setting I just described. The instrument is very unique because it has the ability to distort time, space, and perception very easily. Traditionally, the instrument has a dampening pedal that can be utilized to stop the bars from ringing. Usually, I am uninterested with this mechanism, so I remove it completely when I perform. The end product is freely ringing bars that flourish within space, activating rare acoustic phenomena that stew together, which create a bizarrely peculiar listening experience. The instrument truly has a mind of its own, and the more you strike the bars, the more sounds come alive. Repetition is a very useful tool. I think a common interest with artists working with intense repetition is a curiosity surrounding the question, “Why is it that when you complete the same process twice, the end results are different?” It's a fun experiment, and is constantly surprising me. 

On the contrary, I think I'm at a point right now where I want to explore more than just the ringing bars, and I’m using the dampening pedal more often. This happens for a lot of reasons, but mainly just to explore different pallets in group improvisation settings. Sometimes I want short sounds, or maybe I want to introduce a harsh texture by banging on the wooden frame of the instrument. It's a never-ending study, and most of the time new techniques and sound emerge spontaneously while improvising. 

At the core of this is a desire to open doors for a larger, more inclusive space in music. I used to teach, and it depressed me working with students who were petrified with fear when I asked them to play freely. I don’t think anybody has the right to tell us what “is” or “isn’t” music, and I believe if we fostered a more imaginative environment with less restrictions, the potential is endless. Without experimentation, this would not be possible. And every time I perform, I am trying to advocate for a new reality where people feel more supported, regardless of musical background or skill. 

Wind Cults (Photo courtesy of Adam Lion)

JL: Do you have an “a-ha” moment that led you towards minimalism?

AL: That's a great question. I think I just got sick of traditional virtuosity. I was watching a lot of music that was based on a sense of expression that was extremely predictable, and the only goal seemed to be expressing technical skill, musical proficiency, and emotions. None of it was very interesting to me anymore. 

So I began to find music that had a different approach. When I left school the first time, I immediately became exposed to a world where creativity, autonomy, agency, and originality are core values. Experimental improvisation is a really beautiful community, and has great politics — most of the time. In this space I was encouraged to develop a practice that was as idiosyncratic as possible. I was fresh out of the situation in the previous paragraph, and so I began to make music which incorporated silence, very long sustain, and intense textural explorations. I wanted to make music that felt radically new to me, personally. I met a lot of people who were doing the same thing — like Tim Feeney and Greg Stuart, who had a massive influence on me, and helped me gain confidence to pursue my really weird music. In Knoxville, I played a lot with bassist Matt Nelson, who really helped me develop a practice early on. 

When I got to Asheville, I branched out a lot with my aesthetic approach so I could work with some of the amazing artists here. The experimental scene is notably different here than in Knoxville. For the most part, it's louder, and noise seems to be prioritized. The synthesizer community is large; while in Knoxville, instrumentalists were much more common. I am grateful for the diversity of collaboration I do with my Asheville friends because they push me to reimagine what I am capable of. In Wind Cults — with Thom Nguyen and Brett Naucke — I am in an environment that is usually very loud and often develops into a wall of intense sound. In Aperture, with Chad Beattie, I am playing softly, incorporating some tonality. In The Shrining, with Devyn Marzuola, I am accompanying a dizzying array of looped sounds and vinyl samples. How do I work with these artists to create something cohesive, while also honoring my own aesthetics? It's all a fun challenge and I am grateful I get to work with all of them. 

In the end, I am always drawn towards very subtle music that challenges me intellectually and spiritually. I get most excited when I hear something that has obviously been cultivated with a degree of seriousness and palpable intent. It branches into many genres. I want to hear something I have truly never heard before. 

JL: You’ve got a new album out — When a Line Bends. Can you tell me a bit about the process behind it?

AL: Sure! This album is a representation of where I am right now with the vibraphone. I have been playing the instrument since I was a teenager, but eight years ago I began to develop my own music for it. 

It all started with improvising. I picked up my mallets, stared at the instrument, and asked, “What do I want to make?” And then I tried to do it. Fast forward to now, and I’m still wrestling with this question. I have been improvising long enough that I have a process that I can rely on. I have a great toolbox full of all kinds of sounds, actions, or methods that I can use at any moment. 

While performing, I eventually began to lean into predictable impulses that I think work well. During a tour a few years ago, I noticed that every time I began to play, I drifted towards a timeline that I had encountered before. I was playing a show every night and a piece emerged naturally that I was not anticipating. At this moment, I think many improvisers experience a very challenging question: do we embrace these impulses, or do we tear them down? Derek Bailey from England is an amazing improviser and chose the latter — he was vehemently opposed to repeating himself by any means. On the other hand, the percussionist Tatsuya Nakatani — he plays in Asheville a lot — is very conscious of his repeated motifs and improvises them every performance. 

In “When a Line Bends,” I am walking the line between composition and improvisation to create some sort of loose piece of new music. The sounds and methods were born in improvisation but I’ve used them for years, and now they are the building blocks of something different. There is always a degree of spontaneity, and of course I introduce new material from time to time. But ultimately, this album asks a lot of questions I could ramble on forever [answering]: What does it mean to have autonomy as a performer? How can sound be used to inspire growth? What does it mean to be an artist in this political moment? 

JL: When performing live, how much do you adapt to the acoustics of a space? Do you find the room shapes the performance itself?

AL: Acoustics are a really important part of my music. Ultimately, I am constantly in dialogue with the space around me and it is a never-ending conversation that is constantly evolving. Acoustic infrastructure, or lack thereof, sets the stage for how we all perceive sound together. In many ways, I am at mercy to the space — it is impossible to change the natural properties of the room while performing, but it is possible to change how I am playing. The very surface level points would revolve around adjusting volume levels — maybe not making a certain sound if it sounds bad in the room, etc. But topics surrounding perception are what I ponder the most. 

I think the perception of sound is one of the greatest joys of being alive, and acoustic properties might be the biggest factor in this, besides psychological considerations. In my performances, what audiences hear can change greatly depending on where they are positioned in the room. I had a friend tell me once that what he heard changed dramatically even by tilting his head slightly. One of the amazing strengths of music is its innate ability to alter, blur, or simply grasp the perception of time. When the acoustic space becomes highly blurred, our experience of time begins to dissolve and all of sudden we are suspended like a cloud in the sky. It is an altered state that causes us to question what is possible, and for many it can be a very disorienting experience. I think sometimes disorientation can have a negative connotation — but without it, we would never have the inspiration to move ourselves towards hidden truths that can be liberative. 

The room is the acoustic space for which this all happens, so I listen seriously while playing. If I feel a certain disorientation myself, or certain acoustic phenomena are occurring that confuse me, I know the show is going well. I dance with the room to make this happen. It is pure magic. 

Photo by Jonny Leather

JL: Is there a specific emotional mood that you set out to evoke with your playing?

AL: This touches on a different topic which I haven't elaborated on yet. Emotion in experimental music is a loaded topic, in my opinion. John Cage completely blew everything up when he began to make indeterminate pieces in the 1950s. Instead of making compositional decisions himself, he would perform chance procedures like casting the I-Ching, or rolling dice, etc. He was trying to completely remove himself from the music and delete any sense of personal expression. This is an extremely unconventional goal because a lot of people consider music an emotional practice, and many artists use the medium as a tool for personal expression. Cage did not want to make music about him — he wanted sounds to be respected as purely as possible, without any other association. 

This was a revolutionary moment which opened a brand new door encouraging a more absolute, material approach to making music. These efforts have inspired generations of experimentalists — how can I make music that doesn't represent me, and rather, the essence of its own existence? I am sort of sick of talking about Cage but he is, in my opinion, one of the most important composers from the recent past, and we are still trying to grapple with his ideas artistically and philosophically. 

It is this dialogue that inspires my relationship to emotion. I do not seek to express it in my music intentionally. Because we are human, it inevitably happens, and I work with this reality whenever I perform. It sneaks its way in all the time, but I have built awareness to handle it without reacting immediately. I think about what the music needs in the moment rather than what my impulsive emotions call for. I try not to make music about how I feel. 

JL: What do you look for in a collaborator?

AL: Well, it's pretty simple to me. All it's really about is finding somebody who has a truly unique practice that feels idiosyncratic and thoughtful. The magic happens when we get together and rehearse and something brand new emerges. It's a process of repetition that creates some sort of meaning and cohesion, and varying projects can sound very different because of this. Also, they have to be reliable and they can't be an asshole. 

JL: Having spent time in Asheville, what stands out to you most about its experimental music scene?

AL: Whenever I travel and visit towns the same size as Asheville, I remember how vibrant the scene is there. When I first arrived in California, I was so surprised by how many have an infatuation with the town. A lot of folks out west are familiar with the scene, and a lot talk about moving or visiting. The community in Asheville is a lot of fun and gave me a lot of comfort when I needed it. When you are making difficult music, it is a constant struggle to convince people in power to support you, and in Asheville I was able to make some great connections. 

When I was in my early 20s, the Black Mountain College Museum invited me to perform at the {RE}Happening Festival, and it really moved me. I am a huge fan of its legacy, as you can tell because I rambled about John Cage earlier. Just having the historical presence in the region is a very inspiring energy and extremely unique. Not many colleges were able to accomplish what they did, besides the Bauhaus. It is a really unique organization and I think everyone making art in Asheville should investigate how they relate, or don't relate, to its history. 

JL: Mount and Maidens of Delos will be joining you on the bill at AyurPrana Listening Room. Can you share some thoughts on both projects?

AL: Maidens of Delos is comprised of my two friends: Laura Steenberge, who plays viola da gamba, and Mustafa Walker [on] hurdy-gurdy. They are excellent musicians who I have always admired, even before they moved to Asheville. What they are doing is quite different from a lot of stuff I see in Asheville — it is experimental music that can be quiet, sparse, subtle, and mysterious. Oftentimes, they'll incorporate songs from the renaissance, and I always feel there is a mystical energy about what they are doing. The instruments are always super rare, also. 

Mount is Tashi Dorji’s drone project. Tashi is a longtime staple of the scene, so I’m sure many are familiar with his music. Oddly enough, he and I didn’t split many bills while I lived in Asheville, so I thought it would be fun to do something together. He is an extremely talented guitarist, and the Asheville scene would not be the same without him. 

IF YOU GO

Who: Adam Lion w/ Mount + Maidens of Delos
When: Saturday, May 31, 7 p.m.
Where: AyurPrana Listening Room, 312 Haywood Rd., ayurpranalisteningroom.com
Tickets: $18.19

(Photo by Jonny Leather)