Conner Simmons: Einstein on the Bass

Growing up outside of San Antonio, in what they call a “small town in Texas,” Conner Simmon’s relationship with music started at seven, when a Tom Petty concert made them realize being a musician seemed cool. In fifth grade, they chose to play the bass in the youth orchestra for no other reason than the school offering two instruments to those who picked it—one for home practice and one for school, sparing them the hassle of carrying it around. Freshman year of college, Conner discovered Philip Glass’s Einstein on the Beach (which they still dream of seeing live). The play, the music, the approach to the materials that compose sound—this, they say, unlocked something in their brain. It made them realize that while there are fundamental materials in music, there are thousands of ways to use them.

Today, Conner is a NY based double bassist, composer, computer musician, and improviser, whose work spirals around different forms of experimental. For instance, their double EP Portraits/ Landscapes (2022) blends ambient-folk with audio-visual, Christian Service Songs (2021) and MT8X – Studies (2022) are born from family relics. Music for Sitting (2019-2021), is a series of songs that exists in the moment, music that studies itself. Electroacoustic in & (2020), intermedia collaboration projects like quaternary (with Norimichi Hirakawa, 2022) and Harbinger (with Diana Rojas, 2021)… The list goes on.

Like many drawn to New York, Conner tells me that their dream of moving to the city meant finding something to anchor them here. A master’s degree at The New School opened that path. New York, they say, feels like a place where any niche you can imagine has a scene. So, on a Wednesday late morning, we sit in a tiny rehearsal room, barely big enough for two people and a cabinet piano. With a bit of shyness but knowledge in their words, Conner and I begin a conversation about the universe surrounding their artistic practices punctuated by the ever-present sound of sirens – an unofficial trademark of New York – as if the city itself were listening in.

I think there was always a seed of it. In high school, I was playing in the youth orchestra, practicing my Bottesini. But I was also into what I’d call “diet experimental music”—Radiohead, Björk—artists who were on the fringes but not doing anything totally out there.

Then, during my undergrad, I pursued two degrees: one in classical performance and one in composition. My composition degree is really what pushed me toward thinking about more unconventional ideas.

Through meeting people who were also into experimental music, my tastes evolved into what I now call “freakazoid music”—really wacky, out-there stuff. But I’ve always existed in both worlds. The orchestra work is something I love as a complement or even a foil to my experimental music. It’s nice to get on stage, have a part that tells me every note to play, and just perform Beethoven’s Fifth exactly as written. It’s a different way of working that I wouldn’t want to do all the time, but it’s a valuable aspect of my practice.

And how did you decide to become a classical musician? Did you ever have doubts?

Yeah. I mean, I don’t think anyone becomes a musician for the financial opportunities. But it’s funny—when I was applying to undergrad programs, I applied to four: two for music and two for aerospace engineering.

Wait, what?

Yeah. (Laughter) I didn’t get into the top aerospace engineering schools I wanted, just my backup. But I got into both music schools I applied to, and I thought, Well, maybe that’s a sign.

So your two options were music and aerospace engineering?

Yeah. I was really into physics in high school, and it made sense. I still wonder sometimes what that path would have been like, because I think science is really beautiful.

Do you think physics influences your music?

Maybe on a foundational level. Right now, I’m really interested in just intonation, the physical perception of sound, and how it feels to be in a space with sound happening. The harmonic series is a big part of that, and it connects deeply to physics. So, I think because I was always interested in both, there’s probably some connection—even if it’s abstract.

And how did electroacoustic music come to you? Because to me, and I might be wrong, it feels like where your passions merge: the digital, the experimental, and the classical. How did that develop?

Yeah, I’ve always had an interest in electronic music, and honestly, I think a lot of that came from necessity. When I was growing up, I didn’t have many people to collaborate with. I couldn’t just say, “Hey, I have an idea for a piece—want to help me work it out?” A lot of the first music I worked on was created on a laptop, simply because that was the resource I had to make the sounds I wanted to hear.

So from a really early stage, I was thinking in terms of electronics and what I could do in that space. Later, when I started writing for human performers, that became this whole new skill to develop. Eventually, I reached the point of asking, “How do these two worlds combine in interesting ways?”. That took a lot of experimenting—sometimes successfully, sometimes not.

Now, I think a lot about the interaction between electronics and live performers. I’ve always been fascinated by how musicians interact with each other in improvisation and how that unfolds in the music. Now I’m thinking, How can electronics interact with people? What does that mean? What’s the significance of it?

MT8X. Am I pronouncing it right? (laughter)

Yeah, that’s right.

I loved that it came from your grandfather. I found it interesting just as a piece on its own, but I was especially drawn to the fact that it came from a personal place. There’s also that family connection in Christian Service Songs. What is it like for you, as a composer and a person, to work with something so personal?

When I’m working with personal materials—like that mixer, or the hymn book—I’m interested in feelings or reactions to things I don’t entirely understand. Which makes it hard to answer that question.

There’s something about finding multidimensional emotions in something—feelings I can’t quite put into words or fit into a box. That’s something that really interests me in my work, especially when dealing with personal things.

I think a lot of the poetry of music comes from trying to communicate something that can never be fully communicated. That’s what happened with the mixer piece—it was this feeling of There’s something poetic about this, but I can’t put my finger on what it is. And then asking myself, Do I even need to put my finger on it? Or can I just swim around in that feeling and see what comes out?

When you worked on Music for Sitting, did know you wanted to play with the notion of time from the get-go, or did that idea emerge along the way?

I think I had that thought in my head as I was working. At that time, I was part of a free improv collective that met every Friday to play.

We’d meet on the UNT campus, wait for the clock bell to strike five, and start playing. When the bell struck six, we’d stop. It was a way of being in a space together and letting the music exist in that space, without a particular goal.

I was doing that every week, so it was really on my mind while working on that piece.

You do a lot of collaborative work, including with visual artists. How do you approach collaboration?

Meeting the people I work with is always a kind of chance operation. I meet someone whose work I find interesting and ask, “Would you ever be interested in working with sound or doing something collaborative?”. That always happens in different ways, which is part of the fun. But when I’m actually working on a project and thinking about What can music and sound bring to this? I feel like sound has something very visceral and immediate. I usually think about it in a way that asks, “How can I support and enrich what’s going on without making it the central element of the work?”.

When I first started working with visual media, it was very much in the traditional film-scoring style. I’m not as interested in that kind of work these days, but I think that approach still influences me—I’m never trying to be the center of attention, just a complement to the whole.

Do you like collaborating more than working alone?

Yeah. It’s funny that you listened to a fully solo project of mine (Portraits/Landscapes, 2022) because that’s actually kind of rare in the way I work. It was a really fun thing to do, but music is almost always inherently collaborative—even when it’s not interdisciplinary.

I used to play in orchestras, where there are a hundred people on stage. Even in chamber music, you have five people, five different ideas, all interacting at the same time. I really enjoy that. More perspectives and ideas almost always enrich the work.

Okay, last question—this one has nothing to do with anything we’ve talked about so far, but I’m asking it to everyone I interview. If you were a city—not because you love that city or grew up there, but because you embody it—what city would you be?

The problem with answering that is that I’m not very well-traveled. (Laughter)

But you know of places!

That’s true. I feel like—and maybe this is boring—but I have a really personal connection with Denton, Texas, where I moved from before coming here. So much about that town just feels like me.

There’s no wrong answer.

Yeah. I know you were expecting me to say something like Lisbon, Portugal, but unfortunately, Denton, Texas. (Laughter)

Not unfortunately! There’s beauty everywhere—in Texas and in Portugal.

Yeah, yeah. Absolutely. 

Visit Connor’s Music at his website, instagram, youtube, bandcamp