UK Jazz News

Liam Noble – ‘A Room Somewhere’

Reflections on the tenth anniversary of the release

Gilbert (L) and Liam Noble (R). Photo from 2015 by Helena Dornellas.

It is ten years this week since Liam Noble’s landmark solo album “A Room Somewhere” (Basho/Proper) was released.

Dave Gelly reviewed it for the Observer, calling Liam a “terrific pianist” who keeps you “absolutely enthralled”, and the album “delightful…surprising…mind-boggling”. John Fordham in the Guardian praised his “wide-ranging erudition and independence of character.” For UK Jazz News, Jon Carvell wrote that the album was “virtuosic and inventively programmed, yet also reflective and elegant.”

In this feature, Liam looks back on the recording – “most people don’t try and put Elgar and Gillian Welch tunes together”, he remembers the important, silent role played by Gilbert the rainbow-coloured parrot …and starts to reflect on…maybe…making another solo recording.

Being in a hotel for a solo assignment feels like being an assassin. I realised, afterwards, that I shouldn’t have left my real name at reception. People look like ants from the window but lack the their sense of purpose. I could pick one or two off from here, probably, although I’m not a good shot (monkeys and typewriters, as they say). Still, as I open my suitcase I imagine a finely polished gun wrapped in as many clothes as I need for a night’s stay. Instead, I have sheet music, and not much of it. I won’t be needing it, it’s just an aid- mémoire….

Time flies. In September 2014, I spent two days in a studio in South Wales recording a solo record. I wanted to document where I was so that, ten years on, I could talk about it from where I was then. And here I am.

Funnily enough, “A Room Somewhere” was intended to be a “twenty years on” statement from “Close Your Eyes”, my first recording done in 1994, a solo piano record made in four hours (a good business plan at the time) at The Premises, recorded by Dill Katz. (I know what you’re thinking….can’t you just make a record now, about now?) Apart from having some of my compositions on it, the remit was similar then…improvisations and covers. Most people thought the improvisations were compositions, as I gave them titles. I took that as a compliment. I’ve always loved playing standards, often as a rebuke to the idea that they should be respectfully. This doesn’t mean respecting the tune itself, but the style associated with it. Things haven’t changed that much.

But with “A Room Somewhere”, I had the benefit of experience. I put a picture of myself on the cover this time, but I couldn’t do it alone and so I had “Gilbert” the rainbow coloured parrot to accompany me. My face isn’t built for jollity, but next to that bird I smiled almost convincingly (plans to have Elmo the muppet ran into copyrighting issues). Gilbert was also the voice in my head, which I felt deserved equal billing and a suitably colourful avatar.

Paul Bley once said you should never make a record that’s already in the shops. Now there are no records and no shops, we don’t need to worry so much, but at the time, and at every time, I’ve thought about that sentiment. Bley, of course, repeated himself endlessly and dared those of us who were listening to complain, and yet every record of his was different somehow. There’s no record like this in the shops because most people don’t try and put Elgar and Gillian Welch tunes together.

Later on, covid prompted me to do a series of online solo gigs where the idea of covers took on a new significance, hurtling myself through a myriad of styles and genres with little preparation for the sake of it. I felt like a combination of pub pianist, online playlist and amateur clown, forever stepping in buckets of water or walking into invisible walls. At that time, playing the piano was therapeutic, and seemed to be so for those stuck at home watching me too. The comedic failures were part of it.

Since then, electronics have become more important to me, and especially in the sense that I’m flying blind somehow. When I like something that happens when I push a note and twiddle a knob, I usually don’t know why and that’s ok. The future will hopefully feature more of this, a way of turning away from whatever “expertise” I have picked up over the years sitting at that wooden box of teeth, the piano. Sometimes I feel too comfortable in its jaws.

But still I’m drawn back. And when I hear Sonny Rollins, or Bill Frisell, or Duke Ellington, and Earl Hines (especially Earl Hines), or Morton Feldman and Erik Satie and Cecil Taylor and Paul Bley again (and Jarrett now I have come to terms with his unmatchable abilities) I want to play, to survive again, to make something . And sometimes, but by no means always, it’s best to do it on your own, the sniper in the small room somewhere with nothing but a fluffy bird and a long-suffering engineer for company.

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One Response

  1. what a brilliant article. he writes as he plays – with an seemingly effortless brilliance laced with humour, self-doubt and purpose. great album, great live act. always worth seeing.

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