Learning from Bill Ross (and the Red Pen)

Every once in a while, you get the opportunity to work with someone who fundamentally changes the way you think about your craft.

For me, one of those people has been William Ross.

Bill is, hands down, one of the greatest orchestrators, arrangers, and conductors in the business. His career spans an extraordinary list of films and artists, and his knowledge of the orchestra is quite frankly ridiculous. But what has meant the most to me isn't the résumé. It's the generosity with which he's shared that knowledge with me.

Over the last year, I've had the privilege of working with Bill both professionally and as a mentor. I've sat with him as he's gone through my orchestrations, measure by measure, sometimes note by note, marking up my scores with his red pen and asking deceptively simple questions: Why did you put that there? What do you want the audience to hear? Does that instrument actually need to be playing?

Those conversations have changed the way I write.

Bill has taught me that great orchestration isn't about filling up a score or proving how much you know about an orchestra. It's about the architecture of music. It's about knowing where you want the listener's ear to go and making sure everything on the page is helping it get there as efficiently as possible.

I've also been fortunate enough to work alongside Bill on major recording projects, watching firsthand how he communicates with musicians, producers, engineers, and everyone else involved in getting a score from the page to the speakers. There's a calmness and precision to the way he works that I've tried to absorb alongside everything he's taught me about the notes themselves.

This past year, all of those lessons became particularly meaningful when I had the opportunity to orchestrate and conduct my own music at Abbey Road Studios.

Standing on the podium in Studio Two, looking out at an orchestra about to play music I had written and orchestrated, I was very aware of how many of Bill's lessons were sitting on the music stands in front of me. Choices I might not have made a few years ago suddenly felt instinctive. And, perhaps most importantly, I understood much more clearly what I wanted to hear and how to communicate it to the musicians.

I still have an enormous amount to learn. That's part of what makes this work so exciting.

But I'm incredibly grateful to have someone like Bill in my corner, willing to challenge my choices, cover my scores in red ink, and push me to become a better champion of music.

And as painful as his red pen can me, I will always have endless thanks that it visits me.