We caught up with the brilliant and insightful Bill Hauser a few weeks ago and have shared our conversation below.

Bill, thanks for taking the time to share your stories with us today Are you happy as a creative professional? Do you sometimes wonder what it would be like to work for someone else?

I don’t know if I’m happier as an artist or creative, because financially, it’s rough. That said, I tried running from being a musician, but ended right back at it after hitting emotional rock-bottom living in nyc–after taking 10 years off from doing music. When you’re at the bottom, all of a sudden the things you used to be concerned with–how others perceive you–no longer matter. For me, it became a matter of spiritual sustenance–finding acceptance and fellowship because I’d run out of fucks to give with most everything else in my life at the time, outside of my immediate family.

I was 35 when I came back to performing, and now I’m 49. I’ve been back at it ever since, taking risks, trying to keep growing my business, and accepting all that comes along with it.

That said, it was just today I was having a moment, because money. I long ago made up my mind that I don’t want a regular job, because even when I wasn’t doing music, I was still freelancing doing other things. Living the hustle lifestyle was just something I got used to, I guess. And when things aren’t going your way, it’s easy to have moments where maybe you get mad at yourself (like I did today) for putting yourself in this position. On the other hand, it’s not exactly news that being a musician is a full-on roller coaster of highs and lows.

I always remind myself that no one put a gun to my head and said: “Be a musician for a living.” I was just independently crazy enough to go there as I approached middle age.

As always, we appreciate you sharing your insights and we’ve got a few more questions for you, but before we get to all of that can you take a minute to introduce yourself and give our readers some of your background and context?

I was adopted at birth in San Diego, CA, and by the age of 3, my parents moved to Anchorage, Alaska, where I was raised.

Back then, the public schools had more money than they do now up there, and there were no smartphones or social media to distract. I just went in on the arts–jazz band started at 6:30am, 5 days a week, and although getting up for school (and coming home from school) in the dark of winter was a challenge, I didn’t know anything else. I was also social and outgoing, involved in all kinds of school activities as well.

After high school, I left for college outside of Alaska, which of course, was an eye-opener. I started off at the University of Oregon in Eugene, but transferred after my freshman year to Indiana University (Bloomington) to try something different. I really wanted to go to the east coast, but didn’t know exactly what I wanted to do, so I figured IU would be a good place to try different programs out. It was rocky at first, but eventually I made some lifelong friends and had some experiences I wouldn’t trade, looking back at it all now.

After graduation, I moved to Atlanta in September 2001, also not knowing anyone or anything there–never had been there before–but wanted to immerse myself in the music scene. That too was a crash course, but I welcomed it. I think being from Anchorage, Alaska, wanting to get the hell out of there most my life made it easier to throw myself into new situations, because I didn’t know any other way to learn, and was hungry to experience new things. I was sitting in at Cafe 290 jam sessions on occasion, which of course was intimidating, but also a rush—along with other spots, including at various black churches–just soaking it up.

Then one day while I was working my day job in customer service at MARS Music (basically a Guitar Center competitor before it went under), I met a really cool guy about my age named Darian Emory who came in looking to buy a certain brand of sax reeds. We didn’t sell them, but at the time I was playing on the same brand, and I told him I’d sell him some from my own personal stash from the back of my car. So we go out to the parking lot and start chopping it up, and hit it off. Fast forward a few months, and he asks me if I want to take a touring gig he’s not able to take right away, because he had a day job as a school teacher, but wanted me to play the first few months of the tour, and then hand it back to him come summer.

The nationwide tour was with Universoul Circus, which was literally a traveling circus whose target-audience was black families. I had 2 and half days to take it or leave it, and the tour was slated for one year. I could tell right off the bat this wasn’t going to be the most organized situation, but joining the Platinum Soul Band seemed like too crazy of a story too pass up. AND no one had ever asked me to go on tour before, so I was pretty psyched. My manager at MARS Music wasn’t happy with me leaving short-notice, but of course, I couldn’t help that. I think I was getting paid something like $8 an hour to answer the phones, process credit applications, help with band rentals, and of course, process returns after producers and artists were done cutting their tracks and albums on the MPC 2000–which I always thought was genius, because fuck corporate America. I was 24 years old, ready for the next adventure.

I’ll never forget showing up late night with my life and sax gear in tote, at a hotel late night next to Turner Field. The other musicians were all quite a bit older than me, and the first question I received upon arrival was “who are you?” I explained, and I could tell my answer wasn’t exactly going over well. So we all pile into the 15-passenger van, sitting cheek to cheek for the red-eye drive to Miami. During the drive, we had to make many stops for a few of the drunk passengers (who shall remain unidentified, but none were the musicians), and it became to clear to me during the 12-hour drive that nobody in the band really wanted me there. I was still excited for the adventure though, and kept telling the other musicians I was happy to be there and ready to learn from them.

Being as young as I was, I wanted to prove I belonged, and wanted some form of approval, so much so, I thought with how chaotic everything was each week, that leaving the tour was going to really piss them off even more. The haphazard nature of everything behind the scenes made it feel like leaving the tour was some form of betrayal, even though looking back now, it would’ve been acceptable. I never reached out to Darian to take over, and I also never heard from him either. To this day, I regret that I didn’t reach out to him. Because he gave me my first opportunity, and I never thanked him, nor did I ever speak with him again.

I wish I would’ve handled that whole thing better. But I guess it’s on-brand for me, because when I finally had enough of being picked on by the older musicians, I decided to make my departure more than a burned bridge—I ended up mostly quitting playing music for 10 years because I was afraid I’d turn out like them. That said, I did have a replacement ready to go for the tour, who was a much better match culturally (even though he was also about my age), and they absolutely loved him. He has since gone on to accomplish huge things as a saxophonist, band leader, and producer (which he was destined for anyway). So maybe being a brash young white boy from Alaska unto itself was just weird for them. I don’t know, and I still don’t. I don’t even know if we still have beef because 25 years have passed, and those musicians are now senior citizens. I suppose the way I tell the story it’s probably a combination of them having major insecurities and looking for an easy target, and me being inexperienced, not knowing how to cope.

I moved to NYC in 2002 and started all over. During my 13 years living in Queens, Harlem, Jersey City, and Brooklyn, I went through all kinds of ups and downs, but by year 10, I started sitting in with a band in the village called The Black Soul Experience, which was fronted by Antwon Robinson. He remembered me from years prior when I had come through and sat in once, but then dropped off the face of the earth, battling undiagnosed depression and feeling intimidated I would never be good enough. Years later, without missing a beat, he invited me to come sit in with his band to a packed house at Club Groove in the village after running into him uptown at Sugar Bar. He was incredibly gracious in giving me countless opportunities to play, learn, and most importantly, experience being appreciated and wanted by other musicians.

One evening on stage with his band, he wanted me to take a solo, so he yelled “Kill Bill,” before putting the mic into the bell of the sax. After that, people on the R&B scene started calling me Kill Bill, because he was basically the mayor of that world.

3 years later, I moved back to Anchorage, Alaska at the age of 38 to start over yet again, and be closer to my parents who are now in their 80’s.

I started off making calls to different musicians on the local scene in Anchorage, but basically was told over and over “you’re great, we like you, but there’s no money for a horn player on the gig.” So winter rolled around, and I started busking on the streets downtown with a battery powered amp, two 20-lbs. propane tanks with heater tops, a fire extinguisher, some milk crates, and ice cleats on my feet. I was playing covers of classic r&b, soul, funk, and pop music in a drunken town known more for heavy metal, classic rock, and bar fights, but I made enough money doing it (while also providing a source of heat for the homeless) that I was able to start buying gear to upgrade my set-up.

Eventually, I moved indoors, playing sax over tracks inside bars, VFWs, American Legions, and eventually, opening for big-name legacy acts on the big stage at the Performing Arts Center. It did not matter to me one bit the only reason I got to open for these acts was because there really wasn’t anyone else to do it in Anchorage. So I hired a videographer to shoot my gigs at the PAC, and I kept trying to grow this thing that all of a sudden, seemed somewhat viable.

Fast forward to today, and for the last 4 years, I’ve been flying back and forth between Anchorage and San Francisco to do mostly private events in both locations. A friend of mine has a place there he lets me crash at, so I decided to walk through yet another open door, and try to figure out how to make it all work.

I’ve had a ton of support along the way from family and friends, and to be honest, there’s no way I could’ve experienced any of these things without that support. To say I’m grateful would be a major understatement.

Is there something you think non-creatives will struggle to understand about your journey as a creative? Maybe you can provide some insight – you never know who might benefit from the enlightenment.

All I can tell you is, once I embraced the things that scared me most–that I also truly wanted–the reckless abandonment approach has been a double-edged sword. I don’t think there’s a world in which not being true to yourself is the best version of yourself, but sometimes when you embrace that version, it’s also not going to be for everyone. There’s no half-assing being an artist when it comes to trying forge any semblance of income or relevance. And I say that as someone who feels like I’m constantly half-assing my way through this whole thing because I’m spread pretty thin sometimes wearing all these different hats, trying to make the impossible work. But what I really mean is if you’re trying to support yourself doing something crazy like this, you have no choice but to constantly put yourself out there. I’ll never forget a cab ride back to Brooklyn I was splitting with another musician after a jam session; he played keys and was always working—I had no work. I asked him how the hell I was supposed to get work, and he simply said “you gotta make ’em want that shit.” His reply has stuck with me ever since.

What’s the most rewarding aspect of being a creative in your experience?

The most rewarding aspect of being an artist/creative—when you can actally start paying some bills with it. But also–knowing you can’t/won’t be liked by all, there are many people who may see you as a breath of fresh air. Maybe even inspiring. The courage I have to be myself is rooted in this: I have yet to have any haters or opps help me pay any bills, and the bills are forever. So let’s prioritize those who help us and support us over those who don’t.

At the end of the day, life is short, and I never want to feel like I didn’t take chances.

Contact Info:

• Website: https://killbillsax.com/
• Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/killbillsax
• Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/KillBillSax/
• Youtube: https://www.youtube.com/@000BillHauser000
• Other: https://www.tiktok.com/@killbillsax, https://www.bandsintown.com/a/13963645-killbill-sax?came_from=257

Image Credits
John Fernandez, Jared Carbajal