Shahzad Ismaily: Connect a Bridge Between You

Shahzad Ismaily is a Pakistani American multi-instrumentalist known for their collaborative approaches to music making. In the run-up to performing at the Walker, Ismaily sat down with musician and writer Franz Nicolay to discuss how music and working together might be able to heal divisions in our increasingly polarized societies.

Franz Nicolay

What does the title of the concert, “bitterness is not a bridge,” mean to you?

Shahzad Ismaily

I was, like all of us, quite affected by what’s happening on the world stage and in our country politically and socio-politically. And the thing that I was feeling most strongly—like so many people have spoken about, more eloquently than me—is there’s intense polarization. And a big part of it is caused by social media, which brings us to a deep bitterness [toward] the folks on the other side—whatever the other side is for you. And my desire overall is to remind myself, with that title, that as you hold bitterness toward another person whose opinions are far away from yours, there’s no way to connect a bridge between the two of you. And I feel like that what’s desperately needed is any possibility of the tiniest bridge between people who are on opposing sides.

For example, there’s a pop-up at my recording studio of a fellow’s collection of Palestinian textiles, which he gathered by going family to family and receiving their personal hand-woven keffiyehs or scarves or glass-blown chalices, et cetera. And these two Jewish fellows came by, and they started a serious discussion with him about what Gaza is, who owned it first, what the land is. The first thing I did was I said, “Shalom,” and walked up to one and gave him a huge hug. I was wearing a shirt that said “Palestine.” And I feel like even those tiny gestures of connection across disparate peoples is what’s needed. So that’s the title, “bitterness is not a bridge.”

The concert itself is ultimately my playing accompaniment choices that uplift the central player sitting next to me. And the central player is typically from very varied genres. So it could be [anyone from] Beth Orton, who’s a great songwriter from England, to Audrey Chen, who is a harsh noise vocal improviser, and then many people in between.

FN

In the blurb for the concert it says, “highly sought after as a musical partner, [Ismaily] now takes center stage.” But it sounds like this is a continuation of your longstanding role as a collaborator. When we last spoke, I was struck by your ambivalence about your role as this collaborator, but also your ability to articulate that ambivalence. And this seems like a really interesting extension of that.

SI

Exactly. I think what they mean by “center stage” is by shining a light on what is typically an accompaniment object.

For a long time, I had this funny dream gig where I would learn the tambourine parts of famous songs, like a Motown song or “Sympathy for the Devil.” I would only play tambourine.

I’d walk on stage—I’d have headphones on—listen to a click track, let the nine, ten bars of the verse go by, and be totally silent. Then I would rage in with the tambourine part from just the chorus, then stop again. And so all the audience would be hearing is this highly spotlighted peripheral object.

And I think that by “center staging” me, they’re center staging the person that is collaborating, the person that’s accompanying, as opposed to center staging the main singer, the main writer.

FN

How did you go about curating this list of collaborators? What made these particular individuals feel like they’d be relevant, important, productive in this context?

SI

I was excited to get a wide range of people who would collectively answer the question, as much as possible: What is music? Meaning a really intense, very dark noise artist, a British folk singer, an improvising guitarist, a really moody, slow emo kind of vibe.

Also, some of it has to do with my history and what I’ve fallen in love with musically. So, for example, Ida is there—Ida was such an important band to me historically.

FN

What about Ida has appealed to you so much?

SI

The things that touch us when we’re younger, they stay with us so intensely. Ida was there when I was first deeply listening to music. And that set the stage for how I’d play guitar, because I was in my early 20s in Arizona learning to play. I listened to their 1996 record I Know About You millions of times, especially the interlocking guitar parts. The song “Telling” I listened to so many times. And the fact that they came back together again and did this recent tour was so heavy for me. I’m going to be helping do some remixing [for] the 30th anniversary of that record. I think [the influence of] Ida and Mazzy Star and the Red House Painters, in particular, [as] a kind of beginning of my writing guitar parts that had a lot to do with major seven chords, had a lot to do with carpet-like weaving of guitar parts in and around one another, repeated arpeggios where the bass shifts underneath it, all aiming toward some kind of tenderness or melancholy or the bittersweet feeling in life.

FN

How are you thinking about recontextualizing your guests’ songs from what might be, to some of the audience, familiar recorded versions?

SI

It’s more like giving people the chance to look back on what they did and do the thing that they didn’t have the prescience to do 30 years ago—like turn up the second guitar a little bit, or make the voice a bit bassier. So it’s going to be very subtle, I think.

FN

The common denominator here is that they’ve all worked with you. The program includes this quote from The New York Times: “Summarizing exactly what Ismaily does—let alone, how he’s so good at it—can feel a little like bottling wind.” How do you think about what you do as a musician? How do you describe what you do as a musician?

SI

I do feel like wind, the way it affects us—it just moves through the space in such a way that you’re not strongly intending to lay your stamp on who someone is. But instead, you’re pushing them forward in the path they were already sailing on.

FN

You’re a multi-instrumentalist. I’m curious how you think about choosing a tool—whether that’s in the studio in terms of what to pick up, or in performance, where you have your instruments arranged before you. What goes into that choice?

SI

Across all the instruments I play, I have the same level of medium to intermediate skill. I never spent the time, yet, to go into an instrument and develop some sort of high technical proficiency. Since they’re all sitting in front of me, I have a synesthetic understanding of what each instrument can bring to a moment, whether it’s a register, or a quality, or whether the instrument leads more toward rhythm, more toward melody, more toward texture.

The things that come to mind are, number one, what instrument choice would elevate the textural experience of the music that’s happening right now? That’s one thing. Another thing is, how can I cut a seed really hard? How can I bring in a color that’s hitherto not been present, and therefore challenge the seed that’s happening?

In terms of things like non-sequiturs or a radical shift in direction, I’m very tuned into that desire in myself. If things have been placid, what could suddenly be hard? If things have had some stasis or sustain, what could suddenly be percussive? I’m often looking for challenging or pushing or rending the envelope of what’s in front of me.

FN

You have talked about the pressure you felt to have any activity you did under your own name live up to the high standards and expectations that have been set by your other collaborations. And it seems—tell me if this feels right—that what you’re doing here is having this moment in which the name on the marquee is Shahzad Ismaily. And what you’re highlighting is that thing—collaboration—that so many people agree you’re better at than almost everyone else.

SI

Yes, that’s right.

FN

I wonder if there’s something about conversation and communication with other musicians, other artists, that you require in order to feel fully engaged in music-making?

SI

Definitely, yes. That requirement is so intense in the sense that there have been times when I’ve been asked to do some tracks long distance, and it’s impossibly hard. Because they’ve sent me their music, they’re not physically in the room. I’m meant to play a bass part, and I feel totally untethered and unsure of what way of playing captures the person who made the rest of these tracks, in the absence of their emotional connection with their presence in the room.

But if I get them on Audiomovers—a software that allows them to listen to the tracking in real time—and then we get on FaceTime video and we talk about it, suddenly I feel hyped to finish the track, and I feel connected to the work. So the presence of the other is really vital for the way that I’m still wired to make music.

FN

When you were a young musician, were there musicians who you watched and from whom you took away lessons about how they communicated musically, and who were influential to you in terms of that particular aspect of music-making?

SI

Weirdly, the first person that’s coming to mind is a drummer. Their name was Jim, and they were playing in the Bay Area, with a band. And I still remember to this day how incredible it was that his groove was so intense at an extremely quiet volume. And I chalked it up to him very likely studying percussion in the conservatory scene. Because typically they train those drummers to be able to play in time at ultra-quiet dynamics. So they work on buzz rolls, they work on their chops on the snare drum so that they can play these tiny, difficult, fast 16th-note drum parts at very quiet volumes and still have a strong sense of groove and feel and presence. And I remember how powerful it was, his drum set playing in the context of this band.

What I took from that moment was the ability to have the people you’re playing on stage with lean in toward you because you make the choice to be quieter rather than louder. And yet, in your choice to be quiet, you still play with a lot of strength and intentional focus and direction.

FN

You are setting aside some moments where you’re going to be alone on the stage. So the question is, you’ve set this up as, to a large extent, a night that is centering your collaborative ability. And we were just talking about the importance of communication with other artists to feel engaged in your music-making. So then how are you conceptualizing the times when you won’t have that?

SI

I have now played quite a few solo shows. And here’s what has worked in all those, at least as well as I can articulate it. One is that I am engaging with the audience in a very formalized and direct way. For example, I set up a bunch of instruments in front of me in a semicircular array—maybe a guitar, harmoniums, flutes, some drums, a synth. And then I sit in the chair, silent, still. And then I pick up the mic and I say out to the audience, “Any of you can shout “theme, song, story, improvisation, sketch.” Once I hear that, then I will drop into that space. I’ll sit down in the chair and wait patiently and meditatively, and someone will yell out, “Story.” And then I will start telling a story based on the first subject matter that is at the top of my mind. And I’ll let it unfurl without any plan whatsoever.

So let’s say you said that to me right now, and I was sitting on stage. Then I would say, “Four spiders walk toward the center of a room, each from its own corner. One is crying and two are appealing to the fourth for guidance.” Those are the words that are literally on top of my head. Then I’ll keep connecting with that thread as it unfolds.

FN

The audience becomes your collaborator, whether they think of themselves as that or not.

SI

Yes. I did some solo shows where I scrapped the idea of the audience interaction. But I tried to stay in that same zone of, as soon as I sit down the chair, what is the first sound I’m hearing? What’s the first set of words I’m hearing? And then stay in that flow, surfing that wave from first note to last note of the whole concert.

Finally, I’ve also enjoyed, in solo concerts, telling an audience member—sometimes a friend, sometimes a stranger—to stand up and yell “Stop” at a certain point in the concert. I tell them to stand up and yell “Stop,” no matter what I’m doing. I might be right in the middle of singing something tender, or right in the middle of playing a loud white noise solo. The person yells “Stop,” and I stop immediately.

What that feels like it speaks to, gently, is death. And the way in which we’re on our path, we’re walking our path, and death is sudden and unplanned: a complete ending.▪︎

Experience Shahzad Ismaily live at the Walker on Friday, Oct 10, 2025. Learn more and get tickets here.