Some songs leave little to the imagination, their intent as clear and simple as a stop sign. Others are
packed with so much lyrical detail that a listener has no choice to but to bow to the songwriter's
wishes. Then there are the songs that are like doorways. They beckon you into a room with just a
few pieces of well-placed furniture and plenty of atmosphere and vibration. They invite you to mix
your own imagination with the songwriter's to deepen the feeling of emotional resonance and
personal connection.
In short, they're interactive.
These are the kinds of songs you'll find in abundance on Denison Witmer's latest release The Ones
Who Wait.
"I think of songwriting as building a space where truth can move inside," says Witmer. "One of the
things I've tried to work towards is how to write something that's very personal to me, yet
acknowledge that what it means to me might not be what it means to someone else. If I can create
something that has multiple layers of meaning, and touch someone personally, that's what I deem a
success."
That sense of openness and nuance floats through all eleven tracks as they make their quiet
investigations into the heart's inner sanctum. Beginning with the Merseyside sway of "Hold On" and
the bossa-flavored "Brooklyn With Your Highest Wall," the disc continues through the sumptuous,
slow-motion gem "Your Friend" and sweet, banjo and bell-laden "Influence," then winds down with
the hymn-like "Cursing" and "I Live In Your Ghost," a riveting meditation on filial love. With Witmer's
fleet fingerstyle guitar work and confidential voice front and center, there's a melodic warmth
throughout that recalls 70s-era singer-songwriters like Paul Simon and Jackson Browne, while still
sounding contemporary and completely fresh.
Oddly, for such a cohesive collection, it came to life with piecemeal uncertainty.
"This is definitely kind of an accidental record," Witmer says. "It's a by-product of me wanting to
work with my friend Devin Greenwood. We've known each other for years, and were both living in
Philadelphia, but had never recorded together. At the start, I didn't have a record deal, but I'd gotten
a few placements for my songs on TV shows, so I had a bit of money for recording. I said, 'Let's just
do a song together and see what happens.' We had such a good time that we decided to turn it into
an EP."
But a few songs in, the sessions came to a halt when Witmer's father, who'd been fighting cancer,
passed away. While Witmer took time off to grieve with his family, Greenwood relocated to New York
to pursue production full time. After he found a promising space in Brooklyn, he invited his friend to
join him in a business venture. In a waterfront neighborhood, the two founded a recording studio
called The Honey Jar. With hammers, nails and guitars in hand, they christened it by resuming
Witmer's EP.
"We started designing the studio and building it and kind of working on my songs whenever we
weren't doing construction," Witmer says with a chuckle. "There was a lot of wiring mic cables and
moving Hammond organs in between the recording."
"It didn't feel like I was committing to a full-length at first," Witmer says. "But somewhere in the
middle, it snowballed and I realized I was caught up in this thing that had kind of gotten away from
me. But I was really excited to be part of it. It was freeing, the way it took me out of my comfort zone
– far from the usual way I've always done things."
Now eight records into his career, the Lancaster, PA native first picked up the guitar at age 16, and
was writing his own songs shortly after. Mentored by the Innocence Mission's Don Peris, and
influenced by Carole King, Nick Drake and Leonard Cohen, Witmer forged a compelling ambient folk
sound that CMJ calls "deceptively powerful" and Pitchfork says is "lavish but restrained."
And it was this sound that Witmer and Greenwood attempted to both subvert and embellish. "There
was a mad scientist approach," Witmer says, "where we'd work on a song, and layer on thirty or
forty tracks, with no idea of exactly what we were creating. But we were having the best time making
music and adding harmonies. Then we'd come back with fresh ears, and decide which parts worked
and which didn't. There was a lot of reduction going on. I'm really interested in that kind of creative
approach. I used to never put anything on a song unless I thought it needed to be there. With this
record, I threw everything I could at the songs, then decided later what needed to be there."
That distance and perspective also allowed Witmer to understand that the record was a way of
saying goodbye to his father. "I think that theme is pretty prevalent," he agrees, "though I didn't
really mean it to be. Some of the songs that I didn't even think were directly related to that, Devin
pointed out to me afterwards that he always thought those were specifically about my dad.
Sometimes we create things subconsciously. I think that's important. On this album, I tried to let
myself fall into the creative space and not edit myself too much until I really needed to.
As Witmer looks forward to the next phase of what he calls "the cyclical life" of writing-recordingtouring,
he is philosophical, as always, about releasing an album in an overcrowded marketplace.
"I don't really have an agenda when I release my records," he says. "I just feel like I want to share
something with people. I want to give back to the creative community that I've taken from as a
listener. My hope is that people can experience the music and it touches them in some way. I've
been in this business long enough to know that you can't pick your fans. Your fans pick you. And
you can make yourself crazy with expectations of what you want people to take from what you're
doing. But my biggest concern is I want people to feel like I'm being honest with them, and for me,
to know that I've created something that I really believe in."
