Gayle Moran
I Loved You Then...I Love You Now
My my my. Never let it be said that I don’t suffer for you people.
In the world of popular culture, there is little that makes one cringe like the spouse of a famous person entering their celebrity betrothed’s field of entertainment. Anyone who’s ever heard a tune by Linda McCartney or seen a movie starring Tom Arnold immediately knows whereof I speak. Sometimes, as with Arnold, it’s the individual’s own hubris that finds the person overreaching. At others, as with McCartney, it’s at the spouse’s insistence. I believe the case with Gayle Moran to be a little of both.
Gayle Moran, for those who don’t know, was the girlfriend (later, wife) of famous jazz keyboardist Chick Corea. I’m not certain if he had anything to do with her brief, two-album tenure playing keyboards and singing with John McLaughlin’s Mahavishnu Orchestra (during their “Third Stream jazz” phase), but he was definitely the main conspirator behind her group membership in the latter phase of his own band, Return To Forever. And it’s pretty clear that he’s the main reason Moran’s 1979 solo album, I Loved You Then…I Love You Now exists.
Moran had one distinct advantage over Linda McCartney in that she came from a musical background. The problem is, she didn’t come from a jazz background, a fact obvious to anyone who’s heard her sing (or, who’s ever heard her attempted piano solo on the Mahavishnu track “Eternity’s Breath”). The problems with RTF’s Musicmagic album are myriad and various, but all seem to stem from complaints about Moran’s voice. Not so much the quality of it, but the inappropriate nature of it in a jazz setting. Moran’s icy soprano may be just the ticket for musical theater, but it just doesn’t gel with funky jazz. It’s not that she had no business performing music or singing, but she sure as heck didn’t have any business in the field of jazz.
The main drawbacks of I Loved You Then… can be epitomized by basically magnifying the shortcomings of Musicmagic by a factor of ten. I imagine those looking for an entire album of songs like “Soft And Gentle” and “Do You Ever” would probably be in the market for this. Admittedly, that market’s not terribly large. And to compound the problem, this album’s long, an unheard-of 56 minutes.
And then, there’s the Scientology factor.
You see, Chick Corea was and is one of the most well-known Scientology-boosters out there. Yeah, we know, Hollywood is crawling with ’em. But few Scientologists were as ardent as Corea was and is. He can always be counted on to appear in those cheesy late-night Dianetics infomercials. In fact, the break-up of the original line-up of his mega-successful fusion group Return To Forever was pretty much blamed on his insistence that band members take personality tests and the like. He seems to have backed down on the issue a bit in recent years (at least in the insistence that fellow musicians be Scientologists), but in the 70’s it was a big bone of contention between him and his fellow musicians.
How Moran got involved is really anyone’s guess. I’ve heard some accusing her of being a “guru-groupie,” moving on to Scientology after a dabbling with the Sri Chimnoy thing, but I seriously think that Corea probably foisted Scientology on her just as he did jazz. She seems genuinely into it at the time I Loved You Then… was made, though. Either that, or she’s really good at faking it. I Loved You Then… is fairly smothered with the aura of L. Ron Hubbard as a result. The Victorian theme of the cover art is rather apropos, the instrumental passages have Ladies’ Auxiliary Classical Music Appreciation Society written all over them. The vocal tracks, on the other hand…well, you’ll see…
The album actually opens fairly impressively with a languid brass fanfare announcing “Walk On.” Instrumentally, this one pivots around Moran’s Hammond organ playing. Her vocal performance here is surprisingly emotional, fitting for such a gospel-tinged tune, though that may be the result of her voice being beefed up here by that of former Bette Midler backing singer Melissa Manchester. Lyrically, we already see the cracks in the surface, with Moran trying to inflate a simple romantic musing into some grand philosophical affair. Not as repulsive as “I've Never Been To Me,” but it exudes a bit of the same odour. Still, it actually gets us thinking that this curious combination of soft jazz, MOR pop and classically-inspired artiness can actually work. It’s also clear (on this song, anyway) that Moran has closely studied the work of Barbra Streisand (one of the folks thanked in the credits) in modelling her voice for this particular album.
“Christmas Song” isn’t so much a track of its own as a sort of dreamy coda to “Walk On.” Mercifully (check the name), it’s instrumental, and is pretty much just a swirly étude for piano, cello and Moran’s wordless voice. It’s not really long enough to merit any deeper insight.
“Outside/Inside” continues the conceptual flow (instrumentally, anyway) from “Christmas Song” by also incorporating Dennis Karmazyn’s cello playing. This is definitely more of a proper “song,” though. It also pretty much epitomizes all the album’s shortcomings. Moran’s voice is completely bloodless and, at times, irritatingly sharp. The song itself isn’t much to write Mom about, with a repetitious melody driven by a run of descending chords and pompous “philosophical” self-help claptrap in the lyrics (“You can play with the outside but the inside is here to stay”). The arrangement hardly helps matters; considering the instrumentation used (cello, bass, drums, various types of pianos and synthesizers) it should have been more interesting. But Moran and Corea took absolutely no chances with the arrangement; it winds up being pure, unadulterated fluff. Incidentally, while Chick plays the acoustic piano here, Moran plays all the other keyboards, including the wheezy synthesizer solo in the middle.
“Remembering” is another light classical interlude, for Moran’s solo piano backed by harp and violin (the latter played by her ex-Mahavishnu mate Carol Shive). It’s basically second-rate imitation Debussy, but anything would seem brilliant after “Outside/Inside.” The vocal track that follows, “Always A Wanderer,” gets our hopes up again. The arrangement this time round really does take a chance. Moran’s voice is solely backed by Stanley Clarke’s acoustic bass and Victor Feldman’s tuned percussion. And when Moran sings the line, “I want to cry out in pain,” the music builds to a frenzy that almost brings Stravinsky to mind. But, once again, the song is undone by Moran’s vocal performance. Her attempts to “swing,” though obviously earnest in intent, just don’t ring true. While Clarke and Feldman definitely are doing interesting things behind her, her voice sounds like it belongs to a different tune.
It’s back to the faux-classical fluff for “Snowflake,” co-written by (and featuring the piano playing of) Diana Hubbard, daughter of L. Ron. I know, it just sounds like the anti-Scientologist in me talking, but this really is the least substantial of the instrumental tracks, all twee prettiness and no meat. But the album reaches new heights of pomposity for the grandiose title track, all eight minutes of it. It’s basically just Moran, her voice and her piano, backed by a string quartet. Again, the overblown attempt at turning a love song into a philosophical diatribe makes one cringe, but there’s a whole other set of issues here. Mainly, that Moran has turned a simple love ballad into a grandiose piano sonata. The two verses of the song are bisected by a lengthy piano improvisation. Admittedly, her piano playing has grown by leaps and bounds since her Mahavishnu days and it’s all rather impressive from a technical standpoint. And the string arrangements (presumably laid down after the piano parts) do complement both the composed and improvised sections. But you have to wonder what was on their minds when they conceived such a thing. The sort of folks who listen to this kind of MOR pop don’t want their silly love songs interrupted by faux-classical solo piano extravaganzas. The whole thing ends up feeling like an unholy collaboration between Liberace and Helen Reddy.
The album reaches an undeniable nadir with Side Two’s opener, “Do What You Do.” Effectively a duet with jazz-pop star Al Jarreau, the opening section is an a’cappella bit featuring a couple of extra vocalists. Clearly this is meant to remind us of the Manhattan Transfer, though precisely why we’d want to be reminded of their anodyne brand of easy-listening pop anti-jazz is anyone’s guess. Corea, of all people, should have known better. Shame on you, Chick! The instruments then enter with a funky groove, and then this all proceeds to display why this whole album is such a ridiculous endeavour. Positing Moran’s voice in an explicitly funky setting, next to a real, live jazz vocalist who knows a thing or two about jazz phrasing, was a big mistake. The contrast between Jarreau’s swinging, soulful voice and Moran’s mannered Julie Andrews phrasing is so great as to be unintentionally hilarious, that is if the song itself weren’t such a chore to listen to. And the lyrics are more self-help nonsense…dedicated to L. Ron Hubbard. Oh, the humanity. Surely, this is the sound of a hydrogen-filled airship crashing in flames.
The liner notes to “Breath Of Love” state, “My suggestion was, ‘Let’s try something delicate and pretty.’” Um…Gayle? Wasn’t that what you were going for with THIS ENTIRE ALBUM? In any case, it’s basically Moran improvising vocally over Chick’s piano and Moog. It sounds rather like what it is, a lesser Chick Corea piece. Again the “like Musicmagic, but more so” comparison applies.
The brass and cello return for “Won’t You Stay,” which is the usual overripe love ballad overdone to make it seem like more than it is. Again, the stiffer-than-stiff Moran tries to swing and cut loose vocally, and it winds up sounding totally ridiculous. Imagine Marni Nixon trying (and failing) to imitate Ella Fitzgerald and you begin to get an idea of what this sounds like. Mostly of note here: both Moran and Corea are credited with playing Polymoog on this track, but I challenge you to find more than two chords of it here, so low-mixed is it. (Compare with Yes’ Tormato album, where Rick Wakeman’s Polymoog drowns out any and all other keyboard instruments.)
The instrumental “Opening To A Smile” is probably the album’s highlight. Co-composed by Moran and bassist Bunny Brunel, it’s basically a jazzy vehicle for Moran’s airy soprano. Unlike most of the rest of the album’s attempts at same, this actually works. Moran’s voice seems to take flight most when not singing words. Freed from having to worry about phrasing lyrics, her voice soars, and is the icing on the cake of Corea’s piano reacting to Brunel’s bass and Tom Brechtlein’s drums. Again, this sounds like a lesser RTF piece, but one of more substance than “Breath Of Love.” It also leaves me thinking that perhaps Brunel should have had a heavier hand in collaborating with Moran on this album; he seemed to have an idea of how to bring out the best in her (in the liners, she thanks him for “providing me with such singable harmonies”). As what came before this has proven, she really needed such an assist.
“Hand In Hand” is a dual piano improvisation, featuring both Moran and Corea on separate grand pianos. Less like Ferrante & Teicher dabbling in jazz than “Where Have I Known You Before” times two, there’s not enough here to stand on its own, but it’s a nice enough interlude. Better, in any case, than what follows. “Song To Myself” contains what must be the greatest mass of Scientological self-adoration in the lyrics, with “myself” narrated to in the second person. “Each day I look at you and see what’s inside…” Ick. Fittingly, this ode to ego-stroking features Moran alone at her piano. This is probably the greatest endurance test of the whole album, just shy of six minutes. The payoff comes when you realize that the album is over when the song is.
I really can’t imagine what I was possibly expecting when I picked up I Loved You Then…I Love You Now in the store. Though, really, you have to wonder what anyone involved was thinking when they made it. Honestly, what sort of audience would go for this? Jazz and fusion purists would certainly sniff at the lightweight, pop-song oriented nature of most of this material. MOR pop fans would surely be put off by the overdone jazz and classical noodling. That leaves prog-rock fans, and I doubt many of them would be interested as it's really pretty far from “rock.” I guess this might find a niche market for those who find Annie Haslam too soulful, or Sally Oldfield too “rock & roll.” Still, how many people like that, besides your parents, do you know?
I sincerely hope you all appreciate what went into reviewing this album. I imagine one or two listens could leave no ill effects. Several will inevitably start subverting time and space. It places a taint on everything you try to listen to after. It all reminds me of when you’re a kid, and you’re in the car with your friend’s dorky mom. She’s got the radio on, and she’s singing along with all the current hits in an inappropriately faux-operatic, Florence Foster Jenkins voice. I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy.
Buy It: On vinyl, at Gemm.com. On CD? Are you crazy?
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