Towner relocated to New York in 1968, at a time when the Big Apple’s vibrant jazz scene was transitioning away from bebop, and towards new forms that incorporated elements from musical traditions around the globe, as well as modern classical harmonies. Brazilian music, in particular, provided Towner with an example of how jazz harmonies could be played on a nylon-string guitar, apart from bebop.

The following year, Towner joined the Paul Winter Consort, a prime example of the time’s emerging musical diversity. In addition to playing classical guitar with the group, Winter persuaded the young guitarist to take up the 12-string acoustic, an instrument that since that time has become inextricably associated with his name. While in the Consort, Towner also developed a unique musical chemistry with bassist Glen Moore, woodwind player Paul McCandless, and percussionist Colin Walcott, which would coalesce into the visionary acoustic world-fusion ensemble Oregon in 1970.

Throughout the following years, Towner has come to be recognized as one of the most significant musicians and composers of his generation, collaborating with luminaries such as Gary Peacock, John Abercrombie, Gary Burton, Egberto Gismonti, Jan Garbarek, and Keith Jarrett, as well as recording 25 albums with Oregon, and nearly as many under his own name.

Towner’s latest CD, Time Line [ECM], is a collection of 16 solo guitar pieces recorded within the serene confines of Propstei St. Gerold, a monastery located high in the Austrian mountains, and listening to it one might imagine that the place’s spiritual atmosphere entered the music along with its acoustics. As always, Towner’s playing is exquisite and extraordinarily nuanced. And whether executing intricate written compositions such as “The Hollows,” or improvising entirely freely, such as on the suite of “Five Glimpses,” his virtuosity never upstages the music.

You studied classical guitar formally, and mastered the standard techniques, yet your playing is highly personal and immediately recognizable. How would you account for that?

I studied piano before I took up guitar, and my preoccupation with the instrument was playing it in a manner that was more fundamental to the way a keyboard player plays. The mechanics of the right hand are very similar to a piano’s damping mechanism, because you use the fingers to stop the strings from sounding when you want to shorten a note. The idea is to use the articulation and different durations of notes, to avoid uniformity—very much as if you were speaking. It’s part of the normal classical guitar training, but I often hear very capable classical guitarists that play too uniformly, so that you don’t get the sense of breath in their phrasing.

Another very important classical guitar technique is being able to produce the exact same tone with every finger, and that’s not easy. But if you can master that, you can start dealing with real variations. Once you have that base of comparison, you have the groundwork laid. A lot of my techniques aren’t that jaw dropping, but they’re difficult in a way that contributes to sounding more like a singer.

How, if at all, did you adapt your classical technique to playing the 12-string?

The technique has to be slightly different from classical technique, because I’m fingering pairs of strings, but it is based on it. I play with a slight angle in my hand, and start a stroke by holding down both strings at once, so you hear the notes ringing in unison rather than hearing a repeat sound from first striking one string and then the other. Then, I let the strings escape from under my finger with an almost bow-and-arrow effect rather than rolling them. That roll is associated with the sound of the guitar, which is one reason that I sound quite different than most guitarists.

Do you ever play in altered tunings?

I used to more than I do now. I’d carry two 12-strings to concerts and tune all the strings on one of them to different notes. Any interval could be involved—not just unisons and octaves—and there were some very atonal things I would do. Sometimes at the end of a concert, when I was looking for something really off-the-wall, I would just start tuning out, playing as I’d go, until eventually I’d find something that had a nice resonance to it.

Are there any recorded examples of that?

Not of tuning as I’m playing, but there are a lot of pieces using altered tunings. On Solstice, which I did with Jan Garbarek, one of my favorite pieces is called “Nimbus,” and that’s a tuned-out minor chord, with every note in the scale included, though in a very asymmetrical way.

Do you still strike the strings as pairs, or just individually?

As pairs.

Despite your obvious virtuosity, you manage to keep the focus on the emotional quality of the music in your performances, rather than on technique. How is that accomplished?

It happens by listening to other great musicians, and having that happen to you. For example, you never think about Miles Davis as a great trumpet player, but he had a way of playing that was totally full of shapes and incredible emotions, and he was always very purposeful when he would play a phrase. It’s also about not making a circus out of it. You have to be able to play the guitar so well that it doesn’t seem like it’s difficult. The ultimate thing would be for people to not worry about whether you can play or not. But people like sporting events and the sport of playing an instrument in a way that draws attention to something that is perhaps less musical and not necessarily transcendent.

Speaking of Miles, you began as a trumpet player. In what ways does that experience affect your guitar playing?

Playing a wind instrument makes you aware that the actual phrase is dependent on the physical nature of the player. Fundamentally, you’re dealing with breath, and quite often, mechanical instruments like guitar and piano that you play without breathing can make some pieces of music sound pretty lifeless. Another important thing about playing a wind instrument is the tonguing. Some guitarists sound kind of lifeless because all their notes are the same length, as if they’re speaking in a monotone without pausing. Part of expression is using all the note lengths in between a short staccato and full decay. I’ve incorporated that more speech-like quality into my playing, and I feel that has a tremendous effect both on the music and the audience.

You are renowned as an improviser who creates pieces entirely spontaneously, as well as within the context of a musical framework such as jazz. What is involved with that process?

You’re really composing music on the spur of the moment, hopefully with the same content you would get if you were sitting and carefully writing a symphonic piece. And that is really what a good improviser is: a spontaneous composer. You have to know your harmony and scales and all the nuts and bolts, but use them in a way that doesn’t seem too difficult. In fact, if an improvisation is good, people won’t know if it’s written or not.

Is there anything you can do to help facilitate that?

You have to split yourself up a little by putting yourself both in the seat of the listener—so you’re hearing the music unfold—and in the seat of the person who is actually making the sound and the gestures. It’s also important not to try to prove anything, because that always backfires. Even if you can carry off some flurry, it doesn’t necessarily belong in the piece. You’re really committed to say something purposeful and intentional and leave it at that, and not get tangled up in unnecessary embellishment.