Noah Franche-Nolan: Music-Making as Spiritual Practice
The JUNO-nominated Vancouver pianist and composer discusses his new trio album Rose-Anna, a record rooted in family, grief, and the quiet power of music passed down through generations.
Today we’re putting The Tonearm’s needle on pianist and composer Noah Franche-Nolan.
Noah’s latest album, Rose-Anna, is named after his Acadian great-grandmother, a church organist from Grand Falls, New Brunswick. The Acadians are French-speaking people with deep roots in Canada’s Maritime provinces. The Acadians were expelled from their land by the British in the late 1700s and many of them migrated south to Louisiana where they became known by their more famous name, the Cajuns. Noah’s family connection runs deep through the record and he even plays organ on two tracks, honoring the woman who sparked his musical heritage.
The album pairs him with bassist Jodi Proznick and drummer Nicholas Bracewell in a trio that displays deftness with groove-driven chops, tender hymns, and free exploration. The music conjures thoughts of home, family, and what gets passed down through generations.
Noah’s also one half of Arid Landscapes, an ambient electroacoustic project with guitarist Dan Pitt, that takes a totally different approach—live looping, processing, and soundscapes that feel vast and open. My November 2024 talk with Dan for The Tonearm is linked in the show notes.
Noah and I talk about both projects, his work as a church music director in Vancouver, and what it means to make music that honors the past while pushing into new territory.
(The musical excerpts heard in the interview are from Noah Franche-Nolan’s album Rose-Anna)
Dig Deeper
• Visit Noah Franche-Nolan at noahfranche-nolanmusic.com and follow him on Instagram
• Purchase Noah Franche-Nolan’s Rose-Anna from Bandcamp or Qobuz and listen on your streaming platform of choice
• Noah Franche-Nolan on All About Jazz
• Vancouver Guardian profile
Arid Landscapes (duo with Dan Pitt):
• Arid Landscapes released September 2025, available on Bandcamp
• Dan Pitt — official site
• Dan Pitt on Bandcamp
• Between the Lines of Dan Pitt’s Horizontal Depths (The Tonearm)
Collaborators and Ensembles:
• Jodi Proznick — bassist, Noah Franche-Nolan Trio
• Nicholas Bracewell — drummer, Noah Franche-Nolan Trio
• Raagaverse — JUNO-nominated Indo-jazz fusion quartet led by Shruti Ramani
• Shruti Ramani — vocalist and bandleader, Raagaverse
• Jaya (Raagaverse debut album) on Bandcamp
• Nick Fraser — Toronto drummer and University of Toronto faculty; Noah’s former teacher
Recording Labels:
• Cellar Music Group — Vancouver label founded by Cory Weeds; 2023 Grammy Award winner
• Cory Weeds — Cellar Music Group founder and artistic director
• Frankie’s Jazz Club — Vancouver jazz venue run by Cory Weeds (Rose-Anna release show venue)
Film Scoring:
• Häxan (1922) — Swedish-Danish silent horror essay film directed by Benjamin Christensen
• The Cinematheque — Vancouver independent film institute that commissioned Noah’s live score for Häxan
Educational Institutions:
• Vancouver Community College (VCC) — where Noah teaches jazz piano
• VSO School of Music — Vancouver Symphony Orchestra’s school; Noah teaches in Jazz and Classical Theory/Composition
• University of Toronto, Faculty of Music — where Noah and Dan Pitt studied jazz
Venues and Spaces:
• The Tranzac — Toronto’s not-for-profit community arts venue; central to the city’s improvised music scene
• Brentwood Presbyterian Church — Burnaby; where Noah serves as coordinator of musicking and where Arid Landscapes was partly recorded
(This transcript has been lightly edited for clarity.)
Lawrence Peryer: My understanding is that you've named your new album after your great-grandmother. I'm wondering if you could tell me a little bit about her and her story, and what about her inspired you to name the album after her.
Noah Franche-Nolan: So my great-grandmother, Rose-Anna, was a church organist in her hometown, and she really sort of carried music in her life with my great-grandfather as well. My grandmother told me that they would get together and play after church services on Sundays. He would pull out the violin and she would play on the piano at home. And so for that reason, I incorporated some tracks with the organ on my record—for this very reason—to sort of connect with my musical heritage. My great-grandmother, as I said, was an organist.
My grandmother is an incredible pianist. She can sing basically any piece by Beethoven or Bach back to you. I have memories of just sort of playing some Bach pieces at her place, and she would sing me back the corrections when I made mistakes, just as a sort of kind thing. On my dad's side, it's Polish heritage, and my grandfather would play polkas with his other brothers.
And so I wanted to honor that musical heritage, primarily because we're getting to sort of the main concept behind the album, which is not clearly stated in any way—and that's intentional. The main concept is that there's wisdom that's passed down from one generation to another. And I believe that, for me, part of that wisdom has come through with the music that's been passed down to me. So that's the reason why I named this record after my great-grandmother.
Lawrence: I'd like to come back to some of the conceptual or thematic elements of the album in a moment, but I was curious about your use of the organ on a few tracks and whether that was an intentional sort of homage or channeling of your great-grandmother's instrument, versus just responding to what you felt the composition needed—just a tool like any other arrangement tool.
Noah: I mean, it certainly was that as well. You know, I can't imagine "Sublimation I" without it. That said, I do play "Sublimation I" on the piano when I'm playing in a venue that doesn't have an organ, of course. But I think certain tracks truly suit the organ—"Prayer" as well. All of these tracks, I've played them on the piano when the trio toured right before we made the record, and when we've played in different venues.
But there's something special about tapping into the organ, getting that texture, that sound, and also the implications of that instrument. The organ sort of alludes to some kind of spiritual contemplation. It's often used in that kind of context, and I think that's important as well.
Lawrence: That's really interesting to hear about "Prayer"—that you play it on the piano. Because in the recording, the organ just seems—even just the way it's miked and the percussive nature of the key clacks—I would love to hear it on piano. Please put out a recording of it on piano. So tell me about the various concepts of sublimation and how that sort of theme or concept manifests across the record. At what point in the composition or recording process did that reveal itself as the organizing principle for you?
Noah: To give you a bit of a backdrop, the original piece that I wrote was "Sublimation II"—what it then became "Sublimation II." From there, I decided to create variations off of that, which gave me number one and number three. I would say that it became clear perhaps a month before the recording session. If I go back to that time, that was approximately a year ago. We recorded the record on January 3rd or 4th, 2025, just under a year ago now.
I had compiled some new compositions, brought it all together, and there were some things that had happened in my family around that time. There was some loss that kind of gave me some perspective on what this music was leading towards. With "Sublimation," the intention behind that piece was that throughout whatever struggles you're going through, you can carry forward and find some kind of hope.
And so I realized that I could sort of frame these compositions as some kind of emotional or spiritual transformation. The title alludes to that—sublimation is about transformation, really. That was sort of the idea behind it, and connecting back to the title.
It's really that wisdom that's shared through your family members and through your loved ones that sort of feeds or provides the energy for that transformation, for that hope, on many scales.
There was a lot going on last year. I remember touring when we toured the music before recording. That was the week the president of the United States was elected, and so there was a lot of talk. I remember going into the tour thinking: how can we make something out of this moment and help people feel some hope, or just help energize them or activate them in some way?
I mean, we were not in the United States, but of course we're neighbors, and we feel what's going on and are impacted by it. So there was that backdrop as well—not just the internal struggles, but also the external struggles of our society or our community. That was all sort of influencing the reasoning behind framing the music in the way that I did.
Lawrence: Have you always been comfortable with so explicitly talking about, or expressing through the music, what's going on emotionally and spiritually? Is that something that's always been part of your practice, or is that something that's newfound to you? And what does that contribute to the music, from your point of view?
Noah: It's always been at the core of why I make music. I think that music moves people. I can look back on the first time I heard Coltrane's A Love Supreme—that was a very special moment.
Whatever pieces really move you, I think music is meant to move people in various ways. And so I've always been aware of that, and that's why I was drawn to it from a very young age. I've developed a relationship with that ability to tap into these deeper emotions. So I'm more aware of what's actually going on, and yet at the same time, when I'm writing the music, it just comes out, and often I look back and make a bit of sense out of it.
I think I've become more comfortable with engaging with this side of music making, but I'm aware that it's always been a core element of why I make music.
Lawrence: As you were speaking just now, I took a quick glance down at my notes, and the next thing I was going to ask you about was that interplay between when you have a composition that has maybe a specific inspiration or a backstory—which several of the tracks, if not all of them, do to one extent or another. I was going to ask you: do you typically start with the extra-musical concept that you want to write a composition for, or does the music come first and then you go back and, after sitting with it, the framing emerges? And by the way, I acknowledge it also may not be a binary—it may vary. Could you dig into that a little bit more for me?
Noah: I would say that the music primarily comes first. I'm aware of certain things that I'm feeling or thinking about, but ultimately the music comes first. And music is subjective. You can make sense of a piece of art in your twenties and then in your forties interpret it completely differently. And that's one of the reasons why I haven't been explicit about the intention behind the record—in regards to the liner notes or even the title track. It's somewhat explicit, but nobody would ever know that the record was named after my great-grandmother unless they sort of read into it on the internet.
So the music comes first. I understand it as it develops, and the period of development is a long period. There's the composition, but then the rehearsal and the performance of the music, and by the time we're recording, the piece feels different. We've played it—I'm referring to my trio, of course—but the trio plays the music. We interpret it, we find spontaneous moments within the piece, and develop an understanding of it, and then something comes out of it. So I guess there's a mix of the inspiration that came before I wrote the music and then how I interpret it while I'm naming the piece or speaking about it.
And I'm sure perhaps 20 years, 40 years from now, I'll think of it differently.
Lawrence: As fascinating as I find topics like this—and to speak with artists about the nature of inspiration and certainly process—I also try to be careful about not deconstructing it too much, just out of broad respect for the relationship the musician or the composer has with their music. But also because not everyone has such a high... lack of a better way to say it.
I frequently ask artists about titles in particular, especially creative or instrumental music artists, because I'm just so intrigued about how a composition comes to have a name, especially something with no lyrics. And I love the range of responses I get—from everything from "somebody else named those songs; I gave them to the producer and he named them" to very specific backstories and a channeling of a particular emotion or anecdote. The nature of inspiration and creativity is something that's at the heart of a lot of what I like to talk to artists about. But it's a delicate balance, being careful of too much deconstruction and navel-gazing.
Lawrence: So, with that said, I'm going to ask you a couple more process questions. (laughter)
Noah: Go for it.
Lawrence: I'm really curious about when you write for film or theater. There's a predetermined narrative, if you will—a context you're working within. How, if at all, does that change your compositional thinking?
I forget the example I was just reading about in the last day or two, but it was a filmmaker who was talking about a film score. The composer really didn't have access to the imagery, just had some vague idea of what the storyline was going to be. And then I've heard other stories of composers sitting there with a cut of the film and actually working to it. I'm curious: what modality do you work in, and how does that impact your compositional thinking?
Noah: So there's a practical element to this, and it depends on what scenario you're in. For example, with the record, there are two pieces that come from music that I wrote for film. There's "Haxan" and there's "Union Town." I wrote the music for those two films in two very different ways.
Häxan—the film was already made. It's an old black-and-white silent film about witches, a Danish silent film. And I had been commissioned by The Cinematheque in Vancouver to write the full score—a live score—for a screening of the film. Of course, in that scenario, I had the final cut that I could work with. So I really got into the details there. With the piece on the record, that's just one theme, but if you look at the entire score—or if you hear the score—I really sort of sequenced the music and tried to catch little moments.
I didn't want to be too literal. Of course, there's the whole concept of Mickey Mousing in film scoring, and with silent films, that's certainly an approach that has been taken. I didn't really want to do that. However, there were moments where I did really want to capture the shock of a scene. There's a scene in Häxan where the devil jumps out from behind an organ, actually. And I really wanted to capture essentially a jump scare, before jump scares were even a thing in filmmaking. So with Häxan, I was really working from scene to scene. I've probably watched the film—I don't even know how many times. I've found little details in the film through just watching it over and over again.
In regards to "Union Town"—"Union Town" was written for a documentary about the unionization of the Chicago Art Institute workers. The material that I had when I wrote the music was a rough draft of the documentary that certainly still needed a lot of editing. And then I was given notes about what I should sort of be thinking about. But the director didn't really give me many notes on where the music needed to be placed, so I primarily wrote from a place of having watched the film. I identified the themes, I analyzed how the themes in the film connected to one another, and then I thought about how that could relate to the music. "Union Town" was inspired by one of the chants in the documentary that I heard at one of the rallies, which was "Get up, get down, Chicago is a union town." That was directly inspired by that. So it really depends.
And I would say that, as much as we've been talking about emotional and thematic concepts, as a composer and as a working musician, I'm very practical and organized with how I do things. So before I start a project, I think about the timeline—how much music needs to be written. I always think about form. I think about the time that I have to express the idea that I need to express and how I will break it up into sections in order to convey some kind of idea that is developed and that grows throughout that period of time. So there's a practical element to it as well.
Lawrence: When you were adapting the "Haxan" track for the new record—bringing it down essentially to the trio format—what was going on there for you? Was it just an element of the score that you couldn't leave alone? What was it about that that caused you to bring it into the context of the new album? Was it painful to strip away elements? What was that all about?
Noah: Well, I really liked the theme. I spent a lot of time with that theme. This is kind of funny, but my friend Shruti Ramani, who I play in a band with, she gave me this little percussion instrument for my birthday—I think two years ago. And I wrote the melody to "Haxan" on it. I spent a lot of time with it. The theme that you hear on the record is the main theme for the film, and I really wanted it to feel organic, so I wanted it to come from my voice. I didn't write it at the piano at first—I just wrote the melody. And I also used this little percussion instrument that only has eight pitches. So I thought that was an interesting setup to be working with.
And so I ended up coming up with a theme that I was very fond of. I like playing strong themes, and I wanted to bring it into the trio context. I brought that tune into the trio right when we went on tour before the record. So it was perhaps a spontaneous decision that I made, but I was very happy with it. I didn't have any problem with missing the strings or anything like that. It's a different beast. And you know, we see that in the history of jazz piano—many jazz standards come from themes from films as well. So there is that element to it.
Lawrence: I'd like to go back to "Prayer" for a moment. I'm very grateful that in the material I read as prep for this, there's an open acknowledgement of the Alice Coltrane influence—her organ style. The drone-anchored quality—that's a very specific lineage to draw from. I'm curious: what about her approach to the organ speaks to what you were trying to convey with that track?
You've said a couple of times now that there's been this dichotomy between being overt in some of your intention and also not putting it out there—not necessarily hiding it, but it's not what you're leading with. This track seems to be one where it's all kind of out front. The title, the fact that it ties into such a spiritual predecessor in the music. Could you talk about it a little bit?
Noah: Well, I'll start with—this is interesting. So in some ways it's sort of inspired by the other band that I play with, which is Raagaverse, led by my friend Shruti Ramani. We always start our set with "Saajan," which is a piece that she brought in. And we talk about how it's this meditative, prayer-like approach to starting the set. I was inspired by that, and I wanted to create something similar within my band, where we start our sets with something that sort of grounds us in the intention behind the music.
I've been greatly inspired by the approach that Alice Coltrane and Pharoah Sanders and John Coltrane and that lineage of musicians brought to their approach. And it's funny, because I'm not Christian. I do work within a church—I work as a music director for a church—and so I've spent a lot of time in religious settings and have been greatly inspired by that. I see a lot of value in it.
I think there's something very valuable in the place that music holds in our spiritual practices, whichever religion or approach you're taking, whatever it means to you. Music can create some kind of trance-like state, and through music we can reach some kind of other realm and feel connected. And I know that artists like Alice Coltrane certainly—her recordings and that whole lineage of musicians—they opened my mind to that.
And it's funny that, over the years, I've been fortunate enough to work in churches that allow me to express my own musical thoughts. I have worked in certain churches where things were much more strict, but I've worked in great churches where I could improvise while people were walking into the church. And so I've developed a strong understanding of the actual role that music plays in people's spiritual practices.
By the time I was 20, I understood that music needed to provide a space for people to connect with their understanding of some greater force, or greater sense of connection, with the reality that we live in. And through the many services that I've played, I've gained an understanding of the role that music plays in this that goes directly into my art. Music is a great way to sort of connect with our spiritual practices, whichever they are.
Lawrence: It's interesting to hear you talk about your professional work in churches. I've talked to many jazz and creative music musicians who have gigs like that that have proven to become sort of gateways into exploring sacred music or ancient music—even just providing these weekly opportunities for public improvisation, like you mentioned, during the beginning of a service or while people are entering. And some of the folks I've talked to weren't expecting any of that. They were sort of some combination of gigs which working musicians need, or something that maybe they grew up doing and just stayed doing. But it's really fascinating how spending time in that realm—that sort of sacred creative realm—there definitely appears to be an unlock there. I say that with the caveat that my sample size is decidedly non-scientific, but it is fascinating what it does in terms of mindset and openness.
Noah: Well, I would describe it as—it can be very humbling. Because it's a scenario where, in order to do your job well, you really must simply serve the music and the role that the music plays in this sort of social context. The music is there to serve people's prayer or contemplation. That's what it's there to do. You're not there to show off anything. You're really there to support this congregation, lift up the space so that people feel like they can reflect on certain things.
This goes directly to being a performer in a performance context, a working musician performance context. In a club where people are paying to hear you—ideally, you're there to serve the music. You're not there to show off. You're simply there to play the song, and in my case, convey some kind of feeling or message to the audience, whether it's spoken or unspoken. You're there to serve that purpose. Over the years, I'd say that it's been a humbling experience in that way.
Lawrence: If you don't mind, I wanted to ask you a couple of questions about the Arid Landscapes project with Dan Pitt. I talked to Dan a little over a year ago and really enjoyed that conversation. Sonically, these two projects are quite different—Arid Landscapes being much more electronic or experimental in a way. I hate these words—they're inarticulate—but maybe more post-production-oriented. What are each of these formats? What's the interplay there for you? They scratch different itches. What's the importance for you of moving between these contexts?
Noah: It certainly scratches different itches. I have various musical interests, and I really see my trio as the song project—the project that I work with to explore songs.
Whereas with Dan's project—that project came directly out of a longstanding friendship. We've known each other for many years now, and we've always sort of inspired one another. I remember during the COVID lockdowns, we would send music to one another and call on the phone and sort of share musical ideas that way. So that project is very much grounded in our collaborative relationship and friendship.
In regards to the aesthetic of that project and what I'm going for—I'm interested in the sounds that are available to us in this year of 2025, soon to be 2026. I've thought about how music comes from human interaction with the technology that we have developed in our society. And we live in a world now with new possibilities, with the softwares that we've developed and the new instruments that have been developed in the electronic world. Of course, people are also developing really interesting acoustic instruments, but I want to explore that.
In some ways, music can perhaps express the time that we live in through the soundscape that we find with the instruments that we're using. And I think there are certain things in electronic music that are certainly not unattainable in acoustic music. The format of it—in Arid Landscapes' case—there's sort of looping going on, and it's funny, there's very little post-processing that actually occurs on that record.
The way it works is that Dan plays guitar and has a few pedals—really just reverb, looping pedals, and delay. And then I use Ableton, which is a software, and I run his guitar sound and my piano sound into Ableton. I've created these devices that can process the audio in a live context. So everything that you're hearing on the record is primarily what was captured on the day of the recording session.
It's interesting to just sort of explore what's possible there, and some of those things are just much harder to do with acoustic instruments. I can't grab audio and slice it up in different ways in real time with an acoustic instrument the way I can with Ableton. And it's been interesting to practice my instrument—which is really just a MIDI controller with some knobs that are controlling Ableton—and find the expressive quality within that. It's a different mindset.
Lawrence: I love that. Pardon my ignorance on this, but are you and Dan able to present that material live? Do you perform?
Noah: Yes, we do. Dan lives in Toronto, so performance is a little bit hard to organize. We did a string of performances in September, and that was really fun.
Lawrence: What, do you meet in Alberta or something?
Noah: Right, that would be fun. I went to Toronto. We did our record release gigs out in Toronto. So yeah, we do perform live, and I use that setup in different contexts as well. I have a project with a visual artist named Zell. She does live projected visuals—she kind of codes these visuals and projects them while I'm performing piano. It's really great, and I process my piano sound through the same kind of instruments that I built in Ableton for Arid Landscapes. So I do use it in a live context, and I'm trying to find new opportunities to bring that into the concert when I can.
Lawrence: Was there any overlap between these two projects in terms of maybe compositional timeline or recording timeline? Were they in conversation with each other in any way, or do you sort of compartmentalize?
Noah: Funny enough, on the Arid record, there's a track called "Union," which actually came from an improvisation that we played after—you know, we started off with "Union Town" and we sort of broke it apart and did something new with it. So there's actual use of similar material. It just sounds completely different.
But in regards to timeline—when I was mixing the Arid record, I was also in the post-production stage for the trio record. I did most of the work for that record—making the album layout, picking the mixes, and all of the work you have to do for releasing a record after it's mixed and mastered. I was doing that while also mixing the Arid record myself. The timelines did intersect.
Lawrence: You're credited as producer on these projects. I love to find out: what does that mean to you in the context of a record? Is it about capturing the performance? Is it about sculpting the sound? What does a producer do when the producer is you?
Noah: So "producer" is kind of a funny term because it's used in different ways in different musical circles. In the jazz circle, producers aren't—at least in my experience—very creatively involved in the record. Oftentimes the producer sort of organizes everything, puts the session together, coordinates all of the pieces of the puzzle in order to make and release the record. Sometimes you get a producer to come in and say, "Oh, yeah, no, I need you to do that track differently. How about you improvise off of this?" And I'm aware that that's how producers work on different labels.
Corey Weeds from Cellar Live is great. He sort of gives me the reins, and I can take care of it as I wish. He doesn't impose any artistic limitations or tell me what to do, which is great. In the jazz context, it's really about the person in the room perhaps providing some guidance or calling some shots during the session, and then putting all of the puzzle pieces together.
In a more electronic context, producers are often the ones who are actually editing, doing the sound design, that sort of thing. I was not doing any of the mixing for my trio records—that was Sheldon Zaharko, who did all of that. He's incredible. But I did certainly make all of the artistic decisions for my record, which I was very grateful for. That was something that Corey and the Cellar Live label graciously let me do. I remember having a conversation with Corey where he told me, "We don't normally do this, but give it a shot."
So I was able to pick the album artwork. I made the layout for my record. I had control not only over the artistic decisions, but also the business decisions—how are we going to release this, when are we going to release this, how am I going to promote this. All of these sorts of things. That's kind of what's going on.
Lawrence: I have to pick up on that thread of you being told that the label didn't normally do that. Why was it done with you in this project?
Noah: Perhaps because I was able to convince Corey to let me do it.
Lawrence: Gotcha. (laughter)
Noah: We had a good call and he said, "I don't know, but I'll let you do it." We had a good conversation. He's a great guy, and he trusted me not to screw it up.
I think sometimes—and I was certainly in this position—I had never made the layout for a record before. It's fairly complicated, having to figure out all of the different details. I don't even like the rendering of the text and the format of it all—all of these little things that I've never been trained to take care of. That's what a graphic designer does. So it's easy to screw up. It's really easy to screw up. And I went through probably seven iterations of the layout before I actually got it right. (laughter) That's kind of what happens.
Lawrence: Can you tell me about the role of Brentwood Presbyterian Church? In sort of what it gives you sonically or creatively that causes you to work there?
Noah: So that's the church that I work for as a music director. First and foremost, it's very convenient because I can use that space for free to record my records. But the acoustics in that space are really nice. It's not one of those churches with big concrete walls—everything is wooden. You can think of Rudy Van Gelder's studio as a similar sort of situation. The piano is also really nice, and it's tuned by Bruno Hubert, who's one of the best pianists in Canada, I would say—but also a great piano tuner. So I love that space. I'm comfortable within that space, and I've been lucky enough to be able to use it for recording.
Lawrence: I have to ask: what makes a great piano tuner?
Noah: For me, there's actually a sound that comes out of each piano that he tunes. As soon as I play a piano that's been tuned by Bruno, I know that it's been tuned by Bruno. He's got a particular sense of temperament. He's a very special person.
So Bruno—he used to book this venue called the Libra Room on Commercial Drive. I live quite close to Commercial Drive, and the Libra Room was the venue where I sort of cut my teeth as a younger musician, when I was a teenager. I would go there on Thursday nights and listen to Bruno play solo piano every Thursday night. Then I was playing with a band and we were gigging there, and Bruno ended up giving me the happy hour slot once a week at the Libra Room. So I got to know his piano because he lived above the Libra Room and would tune it every day before it opened. And so I got to know how that piano felt. There's just this smooth feeling to the action, and there's this particular resonance to the keys that no other piano tuner that I know of has sort of found.
And then if you spend time with Bruno and you talk to him about piano tuning, or just pianos in general, he talks about pianos as if they were these living, breathing organisms. He knows everything about the piano. He's taken my piano apart—I've got an upright. He's shown me how, when the wood expands a little bit, it pushes on one mechanism and it changes the action. So he is very much aware of everything.
Noah: There's just a recognizable sound to the pianos that are tuned by Bruno. And just for a shout-out to Bruno—there's a funny story. When Keith Jarrett came to Vancouver, he heard Bruno play. He said that Bruno was one of his favorite pianists that he had heard in a while. So I really mean it when I say that Bruno is an incredibly special pianist. He plays in Brad Turner's band—perhaps you've heard Brad Turner's music.
Lawrence: Yeah. I can't imagine Keith Jarrett throws around compliments about piano players.
Noah: That's it. Yeah. (laughter)
Lawrence: Tell me a little bit about the University of Toronto's jazz program. It seems like there had to be something in the water there. And I think that thing in the water led to a certain open-mindedness that seems to be a hallmark of people that came through that program. What's your take?
Noah: Well, it's funny that you say there's something in the water, because there's a running—well, not really a running joke—it is true that most of the water in that building you can't drink. It's got too much lead in it.
Lawrence: Well, there we go. (laughter) So basically we have a generation of lead-poisoned creative music musicians. Is that what you're telling me?
Noah: Yes. That's it. But you know, when I was there—and when Dan Pitt was there—perhaps you've spoken to other artists who went to that school back in that time. Perhaps Harry Bartlett—I don't know if you've spoken with Harry—or Harrison Argatoff maybe.
Noah: Yeah, so. I actually made my first record with Harrison. Dreaming Hears the Still was Harrison. We made that record in the basement of—there were these students who were in the master's program in Recording Arts at U of T that needed hours, they needed work hours, and so they were asking music students to just come in and play, and they would record you for free. And so we did these late sessions on Friday nights with some folks from that program to record our first record, Dreaming Hears the Still.
But anyways, I think it really boils down to what was going on in Toronto at the time and who was leading the scene or really contributing to the scene in meaningful ways. The Tranzac—which is a venue in Toronto—was very active and still is very active, and is certainly a space for musicians to really explore whatever they want to explore. The Tranzac was never imposing any kind of sound that you had to adhere to.
So you've got the Tranzac, and then you've got artists like Andrew Downing, and I would say Nick Fraser. Nick Fraser is a huge influence—he's been a huge influence on so many musicians who have just come out of Toronto in general. Nick taught and teaches at the University of Toronto, and so does Andrew Downing. And Nick was always so kind when we were students, because he would be willing to play whatever gig. Of course you had to be respectful of his time, but he would say yes to playing gigs with students, and he still does. He's very much aware of the mentorship that is required to keep a scene alive and thriving.
So Nick is this very interesting person who works both as a teacher and as a mentor, but will also gladly be a bandmate and share his knowledge with you. He's played with Tony Malaby and Kris Davis and so many great musicians. So the mentorship that was available to us—I'm trying to think of other venues. Of course, the Rex—and the Rex is still very much active—but there were some great jam spaces where musicians would hang out. I don't live in Toronto anymore, so I'm less familiar with the jam spaces that are active nowadays. I know the Jazz Bistro has a fairly healthy jam space.
But I think it's really about the venues that allowed musicians to put on the projects they wanted to put on and try the stuff they wanted to try out. That's what's required in order to have a scene that is open-minded: you need the infrastructure that supports creative risk taking.
Lawrence: Yeah, that's something I hear a lot.
Noah: That's it. If the gigs that are available to the artists require them to play in a certain style, or turn down any creative idea that perhaps would make less money, then you're not going to have that kind of open-mindedness—at least it's not going to be supported as best as it could in that context.
It's hard, because I think things have changed a little bit. The economy is in a tougher place than it used to be, and we've seen that in a scene where bookers have less funds—they don't have as much money to spend on out-of-town artists or artists who may be a bit more of a creative or financial risk. And that's showing. I think it will perhaps impact the decisions that artists make who are just starting off now. If they're being told they can't try this crazy idea out, then they might not try it. Or maybe they will—I think grassroots, sort of DIY concert organization is on the rise, and that will lead to some interesting things. But anyways, that's a bit of a different topic.
Lawrence: Well, listen—I know our time together is winding down, but I did want to ask, especially after all that context about Toronto: how would you compare and contrast where you are in Vancouver and its scene with Toronto?
Noah: Well, I would say, first of all, Toronto is a bigger city with many more people and many more performance opportunities. So there's that element to it. Vancouver is really special in that it's got some interesting scenes that are very active. We have two incredible people working hard to keep the scene active—those being Corey Weeds, of course, who's been putting on many great concerts for many years, and Tim Reinert, who runs Infidel Jazz, which is also a label. He's been putting on many shows in the city. We've got some great communities with some interesting ideas. Toronto is just a larger city with more people, more ideas, more playing opportunities. That's how I would compare it.
But with Vancouver, I think there's this interesting thing. I remember—Darius Jones, whom I studied with, told me: "You know, Vancouver, it's kind of a wacky place"—and he meant it as a compliment. There's this whole sort of countercultural, hippie history to Vancouver. Commercial Drive is this really special place. I haven't really been to a neighborhood that reminds me of Commercial Drive. It's a very unique spot. And so there's this really interesting history of artists who are very much willing to take these risks and do crazy things.
We had the Veggie Orchestra back, you know—about 20 years ago. John Korsrud, the Hard Rubber Orchestra—I play in that orchestra. He's got incredible ideas and really writes incredible pieces and brings great artists together. François Houle—a great improviser whom I've started playing in his quartet with. He's doing so many things. And all of these artists have these really unique ideas. I think it is influenced by the history of this city, the countercultural mentality, as well as perhaps the connection to nature.
I mean, we live in such a beautiful part of our country. We have access to these beautiful Gulf Islands—you go over there and there are all sorts of countercultural ideas and communities going on on the islands as well. And that's really unique and interesting to witness.
Noah: I think that's something very special. Toronto has that as well—Kensington Market, and there's such a beautiful history to Toronto. Every time I go back I love sort of hanging out with some people who know a lot about that. There's this trumpet player named Michael Louis Johnson, who is very knowledgeable about the history of that city. And so Toronto was very special as well. But there's something—as Darius Jones said—kind of wacky about Vancouver and British Columbia that I do truly love. And I am a west coaster at heart. I love being by the ocean and being by the mountains. I can't say that the rain that we've had over the past little while has been that great, but other than that, it's great.
