Kelly Moran treats the piano as an object to be transformed. The New York musician wrings metallic clangs from its strings and slathers each note in sustain, until the instrument loses its telltale form and morphs into something psychedelic and dreamlike. She established her reverie-like style with 2017’s Bloodroot and further expanded it on 2018’s excellent Ultraviolet, in which fuzz-coated melodies magnified and shrank like the patterns of a kaleidoscope. With Moves in the Field, she strips her music down. Where she used to work with prepared piano, she recorded the new album on the Yamaha Disklavier, a digital descendant of the player piano. While continuing to explore the furthest reaches of her instrument, this time she turns inward, writing intricate melodies that evoke a sense of interiority.
Moran began working with the Disklavier in early 2020, when Yamaha loaned her one to try out while she was working on a piece with fellow composer Missy Mazzoli. The machine, renowned for its technical precision, taught her something unexpected: how to find emotional intensity in softness. She began her compositions by playing looping melodies on the instrument, then stepped away and played them back, listening to find space for gentleness. Finally, she played in real time along with those recordings, layering her fluid performance above the precise playback of the Disklavier. The results are more complex than she could have played on her own. The Disklavier allowed her to create layers and patterns that exceed the physical limitations of the most talented human pianist. But despite these complex techniques, Moran’s music feels anything but demanding. Instead, she lets warmth ring out, finding sweetness within the rapid-fire arpeggios facilitated by the instrument.
Moran’s music gradually unfolds over the course of looped melodies that feel both unhurried and like running up a hill, evoking the fast-paced twirls and grace of the ice skaters that inspire her. Much of Moran’s music is driven by technical prowess, but she still finds room for lightness. Opener “Butterfly Phase” foregrounds rippling, fast-paced phrases that interweave like the strands of a spiderweb; on “Superhuman,” she pairs sparkling melodies that flutter up and down the scales while a meditative melody stews underneath.
Though repetition and precision are at the core of her music, Moran focuses less on interlocking rhythmic patterns and more on forming sweeping melodies out of short phrases that evolve over time. “Dancer Polynomials,” one of the album’s most detailed tracks, pairs a brisk, soft melody that churns above a bed of pensive low tones. These two lines feel like they’re in opposition—one airy, one weighty—but they grow together, and by the end, they swirl into a heady union. Album highlight “Sodalis II” balances the emotion and technique that drive Moran’s music. The piece grows from a measured phrase and unfolds into a deep, resonant meditation, informed by Moran’s increasing emphasis on each downbeat and the slight pauses she takes before rolling a chord. As the music crescendos, she encircles its core with speedy riffs, until all the melodies crumble away, leaving a palpable feeling of catharsis.
While there’s messiness and depth in the emotions she explores, Moran writes wholly consonant music. There are few moments of dissonance or discord. Instead, she finds release in the delicate ways she strokes her piano’s keys and elongates tones and pauses between legato phrases. Tension lies in the way she breathlessly rushes through an arpeggio or holds onto a phrase for just a little bit too long, carrying it over into the next. Where experimental music often favors gnarly harmonies and knotty melodies, Moran’s approach is more subtle. Moves in the Field shows us that technique doesn’t need to be showy or daring—without sacrificing rigor or heft, it can also be tender.
