Blake Mills on the Song He Wishes He Wrote

Blake Mills is a collector of small details. The producer and songwriter’s fourth solo album, Mutable Set, is full of sounds that benefit from a dark room, a good pair of headphones, and undivided attention. His whispered vocals and subtly elaborate arrangements create the kind of atmosphere you can get lost in. Along with his solo work, he’s also produced hit albums for John Legend and Alabama Shakes—though, to hear him tell it, he’s hardly chasing the charts. “I don’t really listen to the radio, so I can’t bring that to the table and say, ‘Here’s how we’ll make a song that everybody around the world is gonna be listening to,’” he says over FaceTime from his home in Los Angeles. “In fact, I think my tastes are more aligned with the songs that people all over the world are not listening to.”

When asked to choose a song he wishes he wrote, his answer is appropriately offbeat, and a little complicated: An interpretation of Austrian classical composer Gustav Mahler’s 1902 work “Liebst du um Schönheit” by saxophonist Eric Lau and pianist Kristin Ditlow from the 2006 album Journey (Five Centuries of Song for the Saxophone). Mahler’s original composition included an operatic vocal part, but Lau and Ditlow’s take is purely instrumental. “I find that so much of the sentiment of the song is conveyed in the music,” Mills explains. “There are some sung versions of it that are really beautiful, but none of them get me in the way this one does.” Here, he further breaks down his obsession with the song.

Pitchfork: When did you first hear this particular composition?

Blake Mills: It was right around the time I started seeing my partner, Gabby. I was making her a playlist of music I thought she might not know, which is really hard because she’s got incredible taste. This was in the first couple months of us hanging out, so I put this one at the beginning of the playlist. It really stood out to her. Then we read into the song and its history together.

What is the song’s backstory?

It was the only one among a series of songs that Mahler chose not to orchestrate. He kept it as a piano-vocal piece and gave it to Alma, his wife, as kind of a love letter; the act of orchestrating is more of a public gesture, and not doing so was a way of keeping it private between them.

Then the series was performed at a concert [in 1910], months before Mahler’s death, and when they got to this song, all of a sudden the orchestra was playing, too. Alma was there—or she found out about it—and she was livid. It was like somebody reading your love letters to an audience. But the world couldn’t really resist. They forced their way into this piece of music.

How do you feel when you listen to the more orchestral version of this song?

There’s that reaction, like, “Can I allow myself to like this knowing that Mahler is rolling over in his grave and Alma is just livid?” You can, but it becomes part of the experience. Somebody told me this story about Irving Berlin, who wrote “White Christmas” about his 3-year-old son who died on Christmas Day. So anytime there was a cover version—by Bing Crosby or Elvis or whoever—he just couldn’t stand it. It’d be playing on the radio, and he would just be crushed. When you have a song and you know the backstory, does it add to it or take away from it? Most people, including myself, would say it adds to it. You have a hunger for that context. You can’t stop yourself.

The version you selected is a duet just between piano and saxophone, without any words. What stands out to you about the performance here?

I like that the saxophone is not really doing anything. There are no frills. It doesn’t sound embellished to me. With classical performance, there’s a lot of respect involved in the piece. So many decisions are made for you, usually in the notation—there are literally instructions there. But to interpret it so it doesn’t feel like it’s being read or forced is a real magic trick. It’s like an actor not overselling a line.

This song feels deeply collaborative: It’s Mahler’s composition for his wife, interpreted by another pair of musicians 100 years later. But the message of the song still comes through. As someone who frequently works with other artists—even on your solo albums—do you relate to this process?

Yeah, the statement is singular but there were a lot of people behind it. That’s ideal for me. I get really stressed out doing things on my own, but I’m also the kind of person who can be like, “Let me just do this part, and then you can come in and tell me what you think.” Working on a solo record is an opportunity to see something through to the end. You think, All right, this is gonna be my chance to do this thing that I don’t often get to do, but the reality is that once it starts, you’re like, Fuck, I don’t really know where to go from here! You want people to come in and respond to you: “Is this good? Can you hear the story in this song?” That perspective is invaluable.

Originally Appeared on Pitchfork