While waking up for an early-morning shift at a shoe factory in Maine, Ray LaMontagne heard a song on the radio that inspired him to pick up a guitar. What followed was the 2004 release of his debut album, Trouble, which put the gritty singer-songwriter on the map. Two years later came his second album, Till The Sun Turns Black, followed by the critically acclaimed ç and the just-released God Willin’ & The Creek Don’t Rise. While all of LaMontagne’s albums have a distinct mood, one thing remains constant: The artist’s raspy voice and honest lyrics bring even the toughest music critics to their knees.

LaMontagne’s tour with David Gray makes LA stops at the Greek Theatre (2700 N. Vermont Ave., LA; greektheatrela.com) September 7 and 8. We asked the artist about making music, finding inspiration and chasing dreams.

LOS ANGELES CONFIDENTIAL: Why is the tour with David Gray a pairing you thought would work?
RAY LAMONTAGNE: At the risk of sounding overly confident, I think this tour is going to be very successful because I believe there is a connection here. We share a similar commitment and work ethic, and most evident, I think, is our dedication to a well-crafted song.

LAC: It’s well documented that you shy away from interviews and photo shoots. What goes through your head when you have to do one?
RL: Early on I did a lot of interviews and realized very quickly that seldom does the written piece even remotely resemble the conversation that took place. I also found that the rags were carefully selecting statements and photos that would most readily place me in the “tortured-songwriter” box. It’s so easy for critics to write off a sad song as “depressing,” but if you are really listening—with an artist’s ear—you will hear joy and beauty.

LAC: Why are you so averse to press and the limelight in general?
RL: Simply put, I have no interest in fame. My self worth is not tied to other people’s opinions of me—I have a strong sense of self. Music for me is not a vehicle for fame; I just love music.

LAC: You’re a former carpenter; do you build a song the same way you’d build a house—from the ground up?
RL: Songs reveal themselves, but only in the briefest of suggestion, like an old-time burlesque—a hint of a calf, a flash of thigh. The imagination has to do the rest. The real beauty in a song—or a recording of a song—is in the imperfection, the humanness.

LAC: You were working in a shoe factory when you heard a song that made you want to be a musician. What gave you the courage to chase that dream?
RL: I was acutely aware I was at a crossroads. If I stayed on the course that was set out for me—that poverty dictated, that my past dictated—there would be no turning back. It’s all I had ever known—the struggle to stay afloat in a sea full of drowning souls. I had to get out. I was waiting for a sign.

LAC: What motivates you today?
RL: I have seen a lot of hardship in my life. Music has given me a purpose. And there is not a day that passes I don’t thank God I have that purpose. So I have to honor that, right? I have to earn it. I will have to earn it till the day I die. Joy in joyous work.