Visit From the Piano Man
TEXAS, Houston Chronicle Magazine
June 6, 2004

On the second and last night of the Trinity Jazz Festival early last February, the impromptu green room at the church (Trinity Episcopal) filled with a heady buzz. The evening was billed as a tribute to HSPVA jazz, and the program featured the famed performing arts school's current student all-stars, followed by a quartet featuring current faculty and distinguished alums. The headliner was the 28-year-old pianist who is the most distinguished jazz alum of all—Jason Moran. He's the young lion that Andrew Hill, himself an acclaimed pianist, described as "a voice from God" in a Downbeat interview.

In the moments before the kids went on stage—or, strictly speaking, on altar at the beautiful, Ralph Cram-designed church—they sneaked admiring peeks at the man whose career they'd love to emulate. Moran sat in the corner of the room, receiving admirers and well-wishers of long standing, including Bob Morgan, retired now, and founder of the HSPVA jazz program.

Moran's presence is unusually soothing and peaceful, a bit Zen even. He smiles continually, but doesn't cross into back-slapping camaraderie. Dressed as always to the nines, in white suit and hat, Moran accepts praise and expresses pleasure at seeing old friends and mentors, without ever losing his pronounced sense of serenity, even when a bystander warns him that he'd better be sharp tonight, because the two youngest Marsalis brother, Jason and Delfeayo, had set the church on fire with their powerful, New Orleans-tinged set just the night before. Moran reacted to the playful warning with a relaxed chuckle. "Yeah, I know those guys," he said.

Then it was time for the current students to open the concert. And they put on quite a show in the slowly filling church. They played a number of their own compositions, which were extraordinarily complex and sustained. Moran will later express his approval of their challenging work. "They're more fearless than I was at their age."

After the students take their bows, the faculty and alumnus quartet set up in front of the altar. Led by saxophonist Warren Sneed, an HSPVA alum and current head of the program, and featuring grads Sebastian Whittaker on drums, David Craig on upright bass, and teacher Bob Henschen on piano, the quartet tore through a number of standards and original compositions.

Then Moran made his way to the piano, which had been wheeled out to the center of the altar. Tonight he was performing solo. The crowd didn't know what to expect, both because on his occasional returns to Houston he had brought his highly adventurous trio, the Bandwagon, with him. More to the point, not many members of the audience were familiar with his music in the first place. In fact, Moran's father, Andy, and his mother, Mary, who were sitting in the now nearly full church, had been surprised that Trinity had invited their avant-garde son to perform. "Folks at Trinity are stepping out," Andy remembered saying to himself at the news.

There's no surprise in the audience's unfamiliarity with Moran, despite his deep Houston roots. Serious jazz musicians, with the possible exception of Wynton Marsalis, no longer occupy the musical mainstream. And Moran is known for his genre-busting, envelope-pushing experiments, in which Bartok and Basie get processed through his own highly personal, highly developed sensibility, and come out sounding brand new. It's the kind of music that gets a musician labeled a genius, but keeps him from being widely heard. In this country at least. (Moran is treated like, well, a rock star, in France, where photographers chronicle his every move. But of course.)

There was a gathering of KTSU-listening sophisticates in the church, capable of naming every member of the Bandwagon, but in general the audience didn't know what to expect when Moran sat before the piano and punched the play button on his tape player, which began growling and crackling with a strange recorded sound. It wasn't music in any conventional sense; instead it was a hip-hop-style remix a la Moran, which combined passages from Turandot and a Beethoven string quartet, words from Richard Nixon, the King of England and Jelly Roll Morton, the latter talking about how jazz has to be played "sweet." Underneath the cacophony thumped the beat to "Planet Rock," Moran's remake of an early hip-hop classic. It was a beat that Moran returned to often when he actually began to play. By the time the words "hit me, hit me, hit me!" came shouting out of Moran's tape player, the crowd was palpably alert, ready for Moran to finally do something, so that when he finally put his fingers to the keys, the sound came as tremendous relief.

If you were close enough to see him work, the sheer physicality, and even athleticism, of his playing was riveting. At times he made a gentle, almost tinkling sound with his left hand, and bashed the keyboard with the raised fore-knuckle of his right hand. At other points he extended his arms from one end of the keyboard to the other, keeping rhythm with his left hand while his right played so fast that it dissolved into a blur.

But there was much more to his playing than pure kinetic energy, otherwise those sitting farther back in the church, where they couldn't see his dashing fingers, would not have responded with almost startled appreciation after every song. No, for all Moran's hard banging, the effect of his playing was finally intellectual. Onlookers agreed afterward that they had the sense of watching as a powerful thinker worked out an idea he happened to be literally playing with. There was also a sense of humor and play in the work. One particularly hip listener laughed out loud at the conclusion of several pieces, as if the responses that Moran found to his musical questions were particularly witty.

Moran's play list went something like this: after the recorded intro, he played Beethoven Op. 131, followed by a pair of songs written by old jazz piano heroes Jaki Bayard (who was Moran's mentor at the Manhattan School of Music, after Moran graduated from HSPVA), and James P. Johnson, author of the 1920's song "You've Got to be Modernistic." Moran also played and replayed his take on Afrika Bambaata's early hip hop classic "Planet Rock" (also on the recorded intro), and managed to find a haunting quality in the popular hit, somewhat as John Coltrane did to much wider acclaim with his version "My Favorite Things."

Moran also played several of his own compositions, such as "I Cover the Waterfront," along with Brahms Intermezzo No. 2.

The highlight of the night, however, came when Moran turned to his experiments with the musicality of the human voice. For some time now he's been carrying a tape recorder on his world travels, recording conversations in various languages. On "Ringing My Phone," he began by playing a recording of a woman speaking in a language that was unintelligible to perhaps every person in the crowd. After letting the woman have her say, Moran began to "accompany" her. As it turned out, she was speaking Turkish. She had been serving as his guide around Istanbul when Moran recorded a conversation she was having on her cell phone.

Moran began filling in the lulls in the conversation, when the woman was listening, rather than speaking. The interplay of indecipherable voice and piano was truly exciting, as listeners simply had no idea where the "song" was going next.

Moran closed the performance with another recorded voice song, but this time the effect was more touching than stimulating. He played a recording of his grandparents reading a list of the names of their ancestors, which he accompanied by his own haunting "Gentle Shifts South."

Moran made up the play list as he went along. At points, in fact, he scrambled his songs, returning again and again to riffs from "Planet Rock" and "Out Front" (from Black Stars). At times he would play a song, then later return to the theme from the same song, this time played with a hip-hop flavor. Somehow or other, he contrived to make each song seem like a comment on the one that had preceded it.

Moran knew that he was having a good night. To hear him tell it, he's inordinately sensitive to his surroundings, and that his play list on a given night might "might depend on what I had for breakfast that morning, or what color the walls [of the concert hall] are." This night at Trinity, as he listened to his recorded introduction, he studied the perfection of Trinity's vaulted ceiling, and the dimly lit stained glass windows, and finally, the excited, expectant vibe emanating from the listeners themselves, before he settled down to play.

Even he was moved by the result. "This is the best solo concert I've ever given," he thought as he played.

Moran seemed a bit humbled when he finally stood to acknowledge the applause and the shouts. "Thank you," he said. Then, as if by way of explanation, he added, "I'm a Houstonian."

In fact, Jason Moran is a Houstonian, even if he's lived in New York since he graduated from HSPVA in 1993. Even if it took the offerings of New York to make him the musical force that he is today. Like nearly all geniuses born in the provinces (where most geniuses are in fact born), Moran needed to absorb the teachings of the jazz capital of the world in order to reached his full flowering (to date, at least). But the seeds were planted here. And he had some very impressive local gardeners. Maybe it's no surprise after that he talks longingly about moving back home one day.

In a 2002 profile of Moran that appeared in the New York Times, jazz critic Ben Ratliff quoted saxophonist Greg Osby (leader of the first jazz combo Moran joined in New York) as saying, "A lot of it [Jason's distinctive character] has to do with a deliberate effort by his parents to not let him suffer the perils of ghetto life. He's a product of careful and instructive breeding."

Even a brief conversation with Andy Moran, Jason's father, reveals the truth of this statement—though in fact it's hard to have a brief conversation with this music fanatic who is absolutely thrilled to see his own son (whom he sometimes refers to as "J-Mo") knocking at the door of the jazz pantheon.

Andy Moran grew up in Pleasantville, in east Houston, and says that his family didn't have enough money for him to pursue his own dreams of becoming a musician. Instead, he became a successful investment banker, and then lavished money and attention on his three sons, Jason, Tai, and Yuri. He and his wife Mary bought all three boys their own pianos when they were very young. Andy Moran loves all kinds of music so deeply that old people often to will him their record collections when they die.

"I have about 10,000 records," he says, seated in the living room of the art-lined ranch-style MacGregor home he shares with Mary. (It's smaller than the compound-style dwelling the boys grew up in near Griggs Road.) He allows that just the night before, he had sat up until two a.m. playing one vinyl disc after another. "The Beatles, and then Coltrane, and then Miles." (In fact, in the same Times article, Jason said that his father's highly eclectic music collection (he also has a good deal of classical music) made the foundation for his own wide-ranging tastes.)

But jazz is Andy Moran's greatest musical love. During the too-brief heyday of La Bastille, Houston's legendary downtown jazz club of the 1970s, Andy was the club's unofficial photographer, and his portraits of jazz giants such as Dexter Gordon hang beside the paintings by John Biggers, Kermit Alexander and Joe Moran (Andy's brother) on the Morans' walls.

Whether or not it was to avoid "the ghetto life," the Andy and Mary made sure that their boys were exposed to every cultural advantage Houston has to offer. They attended the symphony regularly, and frequented the art museums. But perhaps the most important step they took was to enroll Jason and his brothers at the Suzuki Music School of Houston, where they studied under the watchful eye of Yelena Kurinets. Kurinets, along with her husband and her sister, had emigrated from the Soviet Union in 1980. Back in the U.S.S.R., they had all three undergone rigorous musical training, Russian-style.

Yelena Kurinets, also a pianist, was a graduate of the Moscow Academy of Music, "the second school of music after the Moscow Conservatory." She later taught in Moscow College of Music, a two-year all-musical program.

The Morans were among their early students. "I remember Jason was around five or six," Ms. Kurinets remembers now. "It was obvious he was talented. He was a pretty serious young man."

(Kurinets counts Moran as only one of her most successful students. She also taught the "Browns," the five Houston siblings who all studied piano at Juilliard, and who recently won national attention.)

The Kurinets program was only for the serious student. "When I see talent, I push them hard," she says. "When they're small, you have to push them. You have to show them the right way." (Her prodding had a lasting effect on young Jason. Kurinets remembers seeing him after a Da Camera concert, where he asked her "Did I keep my fingers curved, Mrs. Kurinets?")

She also gave the family a list of pianists to study, names such as Bela Davidovitch. Her suggestion that they listen to Glen Gould made the most lasting impression—on the whole family. Now when you walk through the door of their house, Gould is likely to be the soundtrack to your visit. According to Andy, Mary Moran listens to nothing else as she drives around town.

Mary remembers being impressed with the way Jason responded to the challenges Kurinets set. "He did the research," she says. "In an age-appropriate way, he really investigated."

But around the middle of his teen years, Monk began winning out over Mozart with young Moran.

"I was very shocked, and a little disappointed, when he told me he wanted to change to jazz," Kurinets recalls. "He was such a promising student." She told him that she wouldn't be able to help him.

Moran began studying jazz piano in a summer workshop, but he found himself baffled by the chord changes. He then took private lessons with Sidney Davis, who taught him the chord changes. Davis tutored Moran through his first years at HSPVA.

Bob Morgan remembers Moran well from his PVA days, but says that the impression he left was not so much for his playing, excellent as it was. "I'd hear him practicing as I was walking down the hall, and I'd stop and say, ‘he's really good,'" Morgan recalls. "But I said that about a lot of our students."

The biggest impression Moran made was for his maturity and poise. His senior year he was head of the student combo, which means he had responsibility for setting up concerts and gigs in various venues around town, and for getting his fellow students to and from their performances. "I can assure you that Jason was the most mature and responsible student combo leader I ever had."

Two days after the Trinity concert, Moran went back to his old high school to hold a master class. After walking down a hallway lined with room after room of practicing musicians—a string ensemble here, a symphonic orchestra next door—he entered his old inner sanctum—the jazz ensemble room.

Moran began by giving the 20 or students (including several who played in the Trinity concert) a pep talk, encouraging them to think big. "I'm here for you always," he said. "I'm here for you to take advantage [of me]. There are a lot of people from Houston in New York now, not like in '93 when I got there." (He didn't mention the scholarships that he and his parents give to promising seniors looking to begin their careers, and to juniors who want to attend summer camps.)

Moran then sketched out his post-HSPVA career. Taking his childhood piano with him (which he still plays), he set out for the Manhattan School of Music after graduating. He says that he was surprised to learn how advanced he was, compared to his Manhattan classmates, and he attributed his prowess to his years at HSPVA. He told war stories about his early gigs with Greg Osby, while he was still a student. "After I played that first night, I waited for him to say something, to tell me what he thought. But—nothing. But he gave me a check for four hundred dollars the next day, so I figured I was still in the band."

He also imparted some musical wisdom that seemed to come straight from his Zen nature. He wants to them to be aware of the music of everyday life "that is always going on." He explains, "The hum of the a/c, the clang of the bell, the sound of the symphony warming up next door. Let it all affect you." In case the young students aren't sure how just how to accomplish that, he gives some more practical advice as well. "Confidence is the key," he said. "When you're playing something new, find the part you know very well and play it really strong. That'll make you believe that you really do know it."

He spoke for a moment on the virtues of free-style collaboration. "When you play with me, you can do anything you want," he says.

Moran's wife, Alicia Hall Moran, herself a classically trained singer whom he met at the Manhattan School of Music, finds a key to his collaboration style in his personality. Speaking to a visitor in their Harlem apartment shortly after Moran's return to New York, she said, "Jason's capacity for not knowing is huge." Meaning, perhaps, that he is able to live each moment intensely without having to plan for it, a handy attribute for an adventurous jazzman. She expands on this idea by adding, "His capacity for love is just so huge. He really wants the musicians on stage to be better than him."

Perhaps this is the place to point out that the Jason Moran love-fest is not quite unanimous. Stanley Crouch, a learned if rather crotchety commentator on all manner of topics, including jazz, finds Moran overrated. "They're talking about him being at this level," Crouch says in his trademark breathlessness, "but I just don't hear it. I'm not hot on guys who get tied up in the avant-garde and come on stage with their tapes. I'd feel different if he could swing. The confrontation with actually learning to swing ain't no joke. Jason Moran is from Texas. If he gets to that heritage of the Southwest, which is enormous, then we'll have something. That's what made Ornette Coleman a giant." But even Crouch sees Moran as potentially a great talent. "If he ever gets there [to "swing"], we might all have to hide under the bed."

In yet another testament to the depths of Moran's tranquility, it was he who gave this reporter Crouch's phone number, no strings attached, even though he knows that the passionate but conservative critic wasn't going to sing his praises.

"What did Stanley say?" Moran laughed later. "He's an important thinker. His ideas on socio-economics are really important." He's perhaps implying, slyly, that socio-economics is Crouch's true field of expertise.

Then Moran talked about the record he's going to cut in May, which will be more closely linked to the blues. He remembers Crouch's excitement at this announcement, with its promise of enhanced swing. "That's it! That's it!" Moran laughs again, mimicking Crouch's excitement.

Nevertheless, the quality, or at least, the content, of the "blues" recording may very depend on what Moran has for breakfast the day of the recording (yes, the day. He recorded Modernistic in ten hours, and still wonders why it took him so long.), or how much traffic he has to fight en route to the studio. His father is very aware of how sensitive his son is to the world around him, and how thoroughly he absorbs it. "He was so happy when he made Modernistic," Andy says. "You can really hear how much he loves Alicia."

When you ask Moran where he thinks his music will ultimately go, he responds with a shrug. "I don't know. I haven't been a father yet. How's that going to affect me, to hold my baby? To play with him? To whip him when I have to?"

There's not much ego in this response. There's a promise, or threat, often implicit to jazz played at the highest levels, that this is music that wrestles with Almighty God. But Moran is not a dark angel. Not like heroin-possessed Charlie Parker, who played saxophone because he couldn't use his mighty hands to choke white people. Moran grew up in another era, and he isn't processing the same demons. Or, at least, the demons aren't nearly as strong.

Despite the fact that he was the best-dressed, and most mature and polite young man possible, as a 19-year-old he was once arrested (along with a young drummer for McCoy Tyner) and cuffed in a Houston record store, then briefly and absurdly accused of stealing CDs. Moran tells this story in an objective fashion, almost as if it happened to somebody else. He adds, "I see how people look at me, all around the world. They see something ¸ because of the race I belong to. I have to understand that, and put it into my music."

Still, even if Moran is necessarily complex, he's working from the light, rather than the dark. He simply grew up with too much love for it to be otherwise.

Maybe joking, maybe not, Alicia says that the palpable power of Moran family love—directed not just at Jason, but at all three boys, and from them back to the parents--played a role in making her want to marry Jason. "Hmm, I said to myself. I want some of that."

Back in the HSPVA jazz room, Moran sat at the piano the piano and led the way as students joined him on bass, drums, guitar, and sax. "Make the chord changes in your head," Moran said above the music. After a few minutes of both leading the impromptu ensemble, and then following the leads of his young fellow improvisers, he got up from the piano. An intrepid young fellow sat in his place and put his hands to the keyboard, just as Moran had.

Well, almost.