A Conversation with Tom Moon – HuffPost 2.23.11

Mike Ragogna: What inspired the name of the band–Moon Hotel Lounge Project?

Tom Moon: I’m interested in the ways music works in particular environments – Eno’s Music for Airports is perhaps the most vivid example of a nice union of sound and architectural space, but there are many others. And as someone who played in lounges on land and cruise ships, I’ve always been fascinated with the notion of “background” music. I have enormous respect for the mostly anonymous folks who toil to provide a suitably “neutral” accompaniment to the business traveler’s 4:30 martini. There’s an art to this. When I was out promoting this book I did (1000 Recordings To Hear Before You Die), I encountered several solo pianists and small combos who’d mastered the art of playing the room, ie., meeting the expectations of the establishment–nothing too loud or unruly, etc., while also cultivating a creative, some would say “subversive,” music atmosphere. In a few of those spaces, I thought about tunes I’d written or was working on–could they thrive here? I began “hearing” in my head a sound that was entirely open and approachable – an ensemble that was happy at a whisper, having a subtle conversation rather than stomping around making demands. Sort of the opposite of the jazz musician who sends out a “pay attention!” vibe and is indignant when patrons don’t. Anymore, people are pelted with sounds all day long; expecting attention is perhaps unreasonable, and that doesn’t even take into account the fact that lots of people aren’t equipped to process music that lives in a subtle space anymore. This is a huge societal problem in my opinion, and perhaps beyond the scope of this interview. At the risk of sounding conceptually gawky, I like starting from the notion of “ignorability.” Lots of cool under-the-radar music can happen when you presume that nobody’s listening, and that rapt attention is too much to ask: What we do as a band is easy to dismiss as “background,” yet if you relax and follow it for a little bit, you might discover some unassuming sparks flying around, little melodic gems. To put it another way: The compositions of Antonio Carlos Jobim are considered by many to be background music, and that’s some of the heaviest, most beautiful music ever created.

MR: What made you decide to record your own project at this point? Is this the style of music you’ve always wanted to record?

TM: Second question first: I have done formal study in jazz–I was a “Studio Music and Jazz” major at the University of Miami School of Music–and informal study, via playing experiences, in rock, funk, all sorts of Latin and Brazilian music and electronic music. I believe that music is a lifelong pursuit, and if you’re open, you eventually encounter lots of different styles and areas to explore both playing live and recording. There are several broad styles represented on Into the Ojala, and sometimes, as on the opening track, they’re smushed together.

For a long time, I’ve wanted to play the dramatically uptempo groove of drum-and-bass in a live context, and on the record we managed to capture a little of that. The tune called “Seed the Future” really moves along and lasts nearly 7 minutes–that’s all live playing, and the take happened after two other even longer attempts. Which tells lots about the skill level of these musicians: They not only got the form and the sweep of the tune, but managed to generate serious energy, at the near-frantic pace of quarter note equals 176 beats per minute, for over 20 minutes. I shake my head every time I hear that one.

Now, to the decision to record at this point: I’m another statistic under the general heading “downsized into creativity.” When I finished the book stuff in 2009, I looked around for opportunities in music journalism, hoping to re-start a freelance career that had to be mostly suspended during the research and writing. I discovered a completely changed landscape: There were chances to write, as long as you didn’t care about earning a living. The most attractive platforms were the free ones. Because I’d been immersed in this large project, I guess I didn’t grasp the scope of the change until it was staring me in the face. I didn’t give up, though. I ginned up all kinds of projects that didn’t get off the runway–public radio programming, book proposals, magazine pieces–and got to the point where I’d write and pitch and battle the futility for a few hours in the morning and then what? Gradually I turned to music. I began practicing seriously for the first time in years. I wrote some tunes, and finished fragments of pieces that I’d neglected along the way. After a while I began to drop in on jam sessions – there are actually a bunch of nice ones happening in Philadelphia these days – and sought the help of some great musicians in workshopping my compositions. One of these was Kevin Hanson, the guitarist, who from the very start was incredibly encouraging. He gave me lots to think about, both in terms of the specifics of the songs and in terms of orchestrating and capturing them. During one of our sessions it sorta hit both of us that there was some energy flying around and it would be a smart idea to record. Even then the goal was to see what might happen, not make a record that would eventually be released. That came after the dust settled and the money ran out and we began to listen to what we’d done in the studio.

MR: What went into choosing your musicians? What was the studio routine like? How did Kevin Hanson help you bring out your best and oversee the recording process?

TM: As I said, this began with a round of “workshop” sessions where I’d bring a few tunes to someone I respected and we’d play through, make revisions, etc. The first time Kevin and I got together to do that, it was just super positive energy: He not only intellectually “got” the shape and temperament of the tunes, but was able to very quickly bring his own vibe and character to them. His first thought was to use the folks he plays with all the time – his crazy smart rock band is called The Fractals–and I was into that, because these guys are crazy smart and can play anything. The other night I heard The Fractals drummer, Erik Johnson, just powering this very inventive big band, and catching every last hit as though he’s just been playing large-ensemble stuff for twenty years. I kept hearing vibraphone doubling the horn and floating on the perimeter, and right at that moment in Philly this great player named Behn Gillece was super visible, playing with the singer Melody Gardot and other folks. Kevin and I both heard lots of percussion, and he knew a guy who was conversant in the Afro-Brazil thing and the Afro-Cuban thing, an amazing musician named Josh Robinson. When we first gathered to rehearse, it was like “woah, this is a big group!”

The first and probably most significant thing Kevin did was to bring the enthusiasm–he’s just an incredible positive-energy generator. Having been away from music-making on any kind of serious level for twenty years, I was, naturally, somewhat anxious, and also insecure about being able to reach anywhere near the level these guys play on. Kevin cut through all that and kept the focus on the tunes. We laughed a ton in the studio.

MR: What types of things inspire you to write? What’s the process for when you compose? Is it on an instrument or in your head? Do you notate?

TM: I usually write at a keyboard. I have one of those ones with cheesy rhythms in it, and sometimes I’ll just start with a “groove” and see what happens. Or I’ll just paw around at chords, often a tune or a vamp will start that way. When I sit down I try to have nothing in my head, no big idea, no melody. And I’m not accomplished enough as a player to just turn on autopilot; with me every voicing takes time. The blank slate is terrifying but also liberating – if you just go to see what might develop, with a certain detachment and no worry about the outcome, sometimes you stumble onto interesting things. The great Ron Miller, who taught me and many others jazz composition at the University of Miami, was always after us to follow a single thread, no matter how simple. Sometimes if you do that, you encounter a really cool melody along the way.

As for inspiration, man is that endless. Sounds cliché but it’s all around us–I sorta think it’s an endlessly replenishing well, like love. if you’re paying attention you get sparked by just about anything. there’s a quote on my wall with a list of reasons people compose music–after obvious ones like “to become immortal” and “to get rich,” there’s this: “because they have looked into a pair of beautiful eyes.” yes. precisely.

MR: As a reviewer, you sample and have a knowledge of a lot of music. Who are some of your favorite artists out there now?

TM: Oh, man, tough question. I’ve loved The Black Keys for a while and that record from last year was a gem. Probably listened to that more than anything all year. Love Arcade Fire. The new Amos Lee is so so great–to my ears it’s the best thing he’s done. I’m tremendously inspired by Neil Young and Bob Dylan, and also the producer Daniel Lanois who has worked with both of them. I just reviewed a woman named Tristen for NPR – her sense of the pop hook is right on; I’ve not been able to shake a few of her songs.

MR: Who were some of your musical influences? Journalistic influences?

TM: Musicians/composers: Miles Davis; Antonio Carlos Jobim; Elis Regina; Milton Nascimento; Lo Borges; Edu Lobo; Joao Gilberto; Wayne Shorter; John Coltrane; Bill Evans; Keith Jarrett. Journalists: Jon Pareles; Robert Palmer; Whitney Balliett; Gary Giddins; David Fricke.

MR: Are there any recordings on Into The Ojala that you think seem more “classic” than others? Do you have a particular favorite? What’s the story behind it?

TM: It’s really not for me to judge whether something I’ve done is “classic” or not, is it? I’ll say that the waltz called “Powerful Tonic” has a bit of the sensibility–and similar approach to harmony–of Wayne Shorter’s records for Blue Note in the mid ’60s. I’m not comparing it to anything by Wayne, simply noting a kinship. The one I’ve been using to play for people to give a “sense” of the project is “Thank The Eyes.” It’s based on a Brazilian rhythm and has a long and winding melody that reminds me a bit of the great tunes on the one and only Quarteto Novo record. It’s also the shortest piece on the record, so I play that one in case people get that terrified “this is just wretched…how much longer?” look.

MR: Where do you see yourself as a musician a year from now?

TM: With any luck, I’ll be working on a new tune or two, and studying and playing with some inspiring musicians. Music is like yoga–mastery is a lot less important than just doing, pushing beyond the comfort zone and all that. I am enormously grateful for every opportunity to do that.

MR: Do you have any advice for new artists?

TM: I’ve learned all kinds of specific things doing this–about how you have to be careful about this “industry” that’s grown up around indie artists, about how you have to be persistent, etc.–but really the biggest lesson has to do with overcoming fear. if you are lucky enough to stumble into a creative situation, and come out with something that’s exciting and seems worth sharing, then share it. there are always a zillion perfectly good reasons not to. there are plenty of people who will tell you it’s a bad idea–in my case, the message I got was “why put yourself out there like that?” and “why risk your journalism reputation?” at a certain point I was like “why not?” I’ve absorbed a ton of music in my life, one of the ways it manifests is in my own composition and performance. it seems sorta silly to close myself off to that avenue of expression, or to stop exploring in that direction for external reasons. life’s too short to worry about stuff like that.

MR: So, Tom Moon–journalist, reviewer, man of the world. How would you review your new album Into The Ojalá?

TM: Incredibly you are the first to ask me this–dunno whether to thank you politely, or go diva and say “I can’t possibly answer this trick question!” If I were in a snarky, fed-up-with-everything mood, which some will tell you is my default state, I’d start by complaining about the concept–“so we’re supposed to not pay attention, what’s up with that?”–and from there make cursory references to various artists in connection with various tracks. For example, the opening track, “What You Had When You Knew You Believed,” can be lambasted for smushing together an Afro-Cuban pulse and piano montuno figure with a more Brazilian rhythm (circa Return To Forever Light as A Feather) on the verses. Fweeet! Points off from the world-rhythms desk for that one! I’d probably note that “Scaffolding, How to Dismantle” goes on a little long and observe that the two waltz-meter pieces are very close in tempo, if not also close in mood. And I’d have harsh words for the timid saxophonist who only plays a few solos (and on one, in “Thank The Eyes,” repeats himself a bit too much!)
If you caught me on a different, more happy-face day, I’d probably rave about the soloists–Mike Frank’s Rhodes solo on “Seed The Future” is a model of concise and wonderfully disciplined development, and Kevin Hanson’s solo on “Rumi We’re Losing” is one of the most exciting fast-swerving lane-changing listening experiences I’ve had in a while. he’s practically levitating, and he takes the whole band with him. I might also mention what a positively brilliant structure and chord sequence “Rumi” is–for real, it’s a blast to play on. I’d also note that in terms of overall sound and sensibility, there isn’t much out there like “Thank The Eyes” or “Scaffolding” or “Powerful Tonic” right now. I’m not trying to make a grandiose statement there, but I follow a lot of what’s happening in jazz and instrumental music, and compositionally, what I’m doing is its own little thing. Don’t take my word – some critics have said this as well. That’s a part of why I ultimately decided to share this stuff – had we emerged with just another hard-bop blowing type record, or tortured super-dense compositional record, I’d keep it to myself. I have too much respect for music to do a rehash, or add to the clutter. It had to, at a minimum, be a bit different.