Kelly Moran on Music, Misogyny, and the Myth of Perfection
Few artists in the 21st century have reimagined the piano’s voice as radically as composer Kelly Moran.
Raised on Long Island and classically trained from a young age, she’s spent her career dismantling and rebuilding the instrument’s boundaries — transforming its strings, hammers, and inner mechanisms into a living organism of sound. Through her meticulous use of prepared piano, sampling, and electronic manipulation, Moran conjures music that feels both tactile and weightless, bridging the warmth of human touch with the precision of machine logic.
Her breakthrough came with 2018’s Ultraviolet on Warp Records, a luminous, genre-defying album that cemented her as one of the most visionary voices in experimental composition. Since then, Moran has only further expanded her scope, composing for automated Disklavier pianos and collaborating across the classical, electronic, and avant-pop worlds.
Her latest record, Don’t Trust Mirrors, deepens her exploration of both duality and perception — it’s an album that feels at once reflective and refracted, a meditation on identity, illusion, and the emotional possibilities of sound.
In conversation, Moran speaks with the same clarity and curiosity that defines her music. She is as much a technician as she is a dreamer, a rare artist who merges discipline with discovery, crafting a body of work that invites us to reconsider what it means to truly listen.
KP: Whenever I speak with a fellow native New Yorker, I can’t help but start with the city and the indelible impact that it leaves on so many of us. You grew up on Long Island — how do you feel that environment shaped your early relationship with music?
KM: I think a lot of people who grow up near the city are told that New York is the center of the universe, especially for art and music. People come from all over the world to perform and pursue opportunities here, and I was lucky that being in such close physical proximity to NYC made me feel like “making it” as an artist there was literally within my reach. As a teenager, I was always taking the train to the city to see concerts and theatre performances, and I got to see such a huge range of shows, from CATS and The Phantom of the Opera on Broadway to bands like Glassjaw and Primus at Radio City Music Hall.
I lived in a quiet suburb outside of the city, so if I wanted to experience real music or culture, I’d take the train to Manhattan and get my mind blown. I remember feeling that there was a place for every kind of artist in NYC; whether you sang on Broadway or played punk shows, there were opportunities for you. And I think that helped me musically as an adventurous young person — I felt like I could explore so many different creative paths and then eventually figure out a way to make a career from it. New York was a place where anything could happen.
My early music teachers wanted me to focus on piano, but I had too many other musical interests to focus on just one instrument. If I had grown up in a place where I wasn’t able to be exposed to so much music and culture, I might not have been as multifaceted creatively as I am now.
KP: I feel all of that completely. I don’t know if anywhere in the world is as creatively free as New York.
And after returning here after your graduate program, you played bass in the no-wave punk band Cellular Chaos and later joined Voice Coils on synth alongside Mitski. I didn’t know any of that previously, but when I came across it while prepping for this piece, it made complete sense to me sonically.
How do you feel that those experiences in collaborative, experimental bands — and in the genre of rock itself — influenced your growth as a composer and solo artist?
KM: I have a deep love and appreciation for heavy music. I primarily listened to metal, rock, and emo music in high school when I wasn’t listening to electronic music. I think that I’ve always wanted to find a way to integrate that kind of heaviness into piano music, which in our current streaming era is usually utilized for studying or soothing people’s moods.
KP: I really, really love that. You can hear it!
KM: While I really enjoyed my experience playing in bands, I’ve never been part of a band where my creative voice was the main driving force — I was usually in a supporting role.
It’s funny — I played in both of those bands that you mentioned right after I moved back to NYC after finishing graduate school, and initially when I moved back to the city, I had no idea what to do with myself creatively. I had just finished an MFA program in California and desperately needed a break from academia. But being back in NYC after grad school was a really rude awakening — I didn’t have a piano studio to compose out of, and I wasn’t sure how I fit into the local music scene because my focus in grad school was writing chamber music for dancers.
In 2012 there was a really rich underground music scene in Brooklyn, and all of my friends played in bands. I ended up joining some of these projects and really enjoyed the community and collaboration, but I also realized that after being in these bands for a few years, I had let my solo projects fall by the wayside. I had become too content being a supporting character in other people’s music. It’s why I quit all the bands in 2016 to focus on my solo work, and that’s when I made Bloodroot.
KP: To speak about your solo work, your prepared piano pieces have been described as both strikingly avant-garde and deeply emotional. How do you balance experimentation with accessibility in your compositions?
KM: Experimentation comes very naturally to me because I am always looking for new ways to play with the piano and find inspiration from it. I’m not necessarily thinking about accessibility as much as I am thinking about trying to be creatively honest. This is going to sound so cheesy, but I think the more honest you are with yourself emotionally and spiritually, that will come through in your art, and listeners will recognize that energy. People resonate with art that feels honest and true. That should be the goal, more than trying to appeal to a wide range of people.
KP: Absolutely — authenticity is tangible. How did you first start composing prepared piano work? What initially drew you to it?
KM: I was initially drawn to prepared piano after seeing my college professor, Stephen Rush, perform John Cage’s Sonatas and Interludes for Prepared Piano at the University of Michigan. Every year on the last day of class, he would perform this work via an “illegal” concert in the dance school, since the music schools didn’t let you prepare the pianos!
I had been diving into extended piano techniques at the encouragement of another professor of mine, Virgil Moorefield, so I was already exploring different ways that you could generate sound from a piano. Hearing how the sound of the instrument was completely transformed by the preparations fascinated me — it made an instrument that was so familiar to me feel brand new again! This was in 2008.
I didn’t begin composing with prepared piano in my own music until 2016, when I found myself stuck at my parents’ house in Long Island during a snowstorm. I was initially afraid to compose on the prepared piano since it seemed like it “belonged” to John Cage, but seeing composers like Hauschka use prepared piano in their own way made me realize that I could find my own sound with it as well. Once I started improvising on the prepared piano, it felt so natural and inspiring that I wrote my album, Bloodroot, in less than two weeks.
Unfortunately, I have conflict with Hauschka now because I said “Free Palestine” at his music festival in Dusseldorf last year, but we’ll save that story for another day.
KP: Oh, no... Okay, I will remember to revisit that next time. [Laughs]
You’ve mentioned influences ranging from John Cage to Björk, and I think that you’re the perfect marriage of both. Which artists or composers most directly shaped your sonic identity?
KM: That’s very nice of you to say — John Cage and Bjork are definitely huge influences. I’d also cite Tori Amos — the impact her music had on me growing up was massive. I’m also really inspired by some of my friends from the New York music scene — Mario Diaz de Leon is a brilliant composer that I met when I moved here in 2012; he became a bit of a mentor to me. When we met, both of us were writing pieces for oboe and electronics, and he gave me such good advice for writing electro-acoustic chamber music. I’m also really influenced by Toby Driver from the band Kayo Dot, as well as the band Krallice. All of the aforementioned artists make extremely heavy and intricately composed music, and I think I’m interested in merging the heaviness from metal and electronic music into the lightness from piano, ambient, and classical music.
KP: Definitely. I think it’s such a fascinating crossroads to explore.
Given your extensive classical training, how has that background informed the ways that you’ve chosen to bend or subvert its traditions?
KM: Classical music really values virtuosity, and I’ve been thinking about how this is very capitalistic, because it almost renders the value of the performer as a machine who can output the most data. We really value that in performers, right? We’re dazzled when someone can play something inhumanly fast. But I’m not actually a virtuoso despite what some critics have said, and I’m definitely interested in having my music feel raw and human. I think that means leaving room for imperfection in my music. Classical music is very obsessed with perfection, but some of the most interesting recordings are the ones that have flaws or some kind of human approximation in them, where you can tell that a person made them. It’s one of the main reasons why I am completely uninterested in AI as a means to generate music or art.
“In my opinion, artists have a responsibility to speak out against injustice and to try to change society. If we can’t speak out or if we’re being censored, we’re in big trouble — and we are.”
KP: I agree with you wholeheartedly.
Your album Ultraviolet received significant critical acclaim. What was the most transformative part of making that record?
KM: Well, truly the most transformative experience was when I took three hits of acid and improvised all of that music on piano during the trip! I had been experiencing some major creative blockage working on a commission for the pianist Margaret Leng-Tan, and I needed to set my mind free for a day. While I was walking in the forest by my house, I realized how forced the music that I was writing for Margaret sounded and that I simply needed to let go and let myself play the piano with no goal in mind. As soon as I allowed myself to do that, all of the music came flowing out effortlessly. I wasn’t thinking about making a record or meeting the standards of anyone else, and removing those constraints set me free creatively. I think it’s really important to have a practice where you make art for no purpose. Our capitalistic society values output and productivity, but that can be truly stifling for artists.
KP: I truly loved “Echo in the Field” from the first listen. I’ve been listening to it on repeat while completing much of my work, actually! [Laughs] Can you tell us a little about it?
KM: Yes, that track is very special to me! I played at a lot of music festivals in 2019 and really wanted to make music that felt more driving and groove-oriented. Because everything on Ultraviolet was improvised, the music is free-flowing and not very repetitive rhythmically — it’s good music if you want to lie down and let it wash over you, but it’s not something that you can dance to. I wanted to make music that would make me want to move! The first thing I wrote for “Echo in the Field” was the synth arpeggio, and from there I came up with the piano loop that you hear fade in at around 45 seconds. Once I made that loop, I couldn’t stop bouncing my head back and forth — it locked into the synth pattern so nicely — and the rest of the track flowed out really easily.
KP: “Echo in the Field,” of course, is off your latest record, Don’t Trust Mirrors. It marks your much anticipated return to both the synth and prepared piano, “showcasing the emotional experience of seeing yourself through distortion, reflection, and the slow work of piecing yourself back together.”
Can you speak about the process of creating this album? And that’s quite the theme to explore — what does it represent for you personally?
KM: I got signed to Warp Records in late 2017 and put out my first record with them in November 2018. Prior to this, I had been pretty unknown as an experimental “underground” artist in Brooklyn. Suddenly, I was given a huge platform and a lot of people discovered who I was overnight when Warp announced my album. I was not prepared for the amount of attention that I received — both positive and negative — from being signed to a record label like Warp. They have some very hardcore fans with strong opinions about what kinds of artists deserve to be on the label, and I’m very sensitive to the negative comments that I sometimes receive online from their fanbase.
Initially when I got signed, I was working with three A&Rs who were all extremely passionate about my work — they said that they had been searching for a pianist to sign to Warp and they all unanimously agreed that I was a perfect fit. They were very supportive of Ultraviolet, and after its release they encouraged me to start writing a follow-up album that I could release in 2020 to continue gaining momentum. I started working on the music for Don’t Trust Mirrors in Summer 2019, and I made it about halfway through finishing the record when COVID hit in March 2020. Once that happened, my A&R told me that there was no rush to finish the album since the entire world was on pause.
Then, from 2020 to 2022, all three of those people who brought me to Warp left the label one by one for different reasons, so I lost my greatest cheerleaders. It was a devastating loss to go from feeling like I had a team who was invested in my professional trajectory to feeling like now I had no one at the label with that level of investment anymore. I dealt with a lot of self-doubt during those years and lost a lot of confidence — if these people were leaving the music industry, how would I be able to make it without their support? They mirrored my enthusiasm and dedication, and I didn’t have that anymore. I completely lost motivation, so I needed to shift my focus creatively to something else, which is when I made Moves in the Field. It was a necessary side quest to revive myself creatively outside of the expectations that I had put on myself to make a clubby, dancey followup to Ultraviolet. Instead, I went deep into my roots as a pianist and limited myself to only using acoustic piano and sub bass for that record.
Once I completed Moves in the Field, I was ready to revisit and complete Don’t Trust Mirrors since I had spent enough time away from my synth and prepared piano — I was eager to work with those sounds again.
The title “Don’t Trust Mirrors” has a lot of different meanings to me. The visibility that I’ve gained from being on a bigger record label has produced a ton of personal anxiety and self-consciousness that I have really struggled to overcome. I never thought I’d be in a position to put myself out there visually as much as I do now that I’m on a label — the marketing and promotional aspect of it is very difficult for me, and it’s hard to retain my confidence. Then there’s the other aspect of being a woman in an industry that is very superficial — I am just way more aware of how I’m perceived by others. That can be really inhibiting for me, and I can’t be inhibited as an artist — I have to be free! I used to be way more casual about what I posted online, but the fear of being perceived in a way that doesn’t match who I am really stifled my ability to communicate who I am to the world. I felt like I lost my ability to relate to others for a while, and I don’t think that I’m the only one who faced this issue due to the pandemic.
Did you ever hear about how plastic surgery got more popular during the pandemic because people were looking at themselves more? People had more time to scrutinize themselves in the mirror, which led to these changes. I also had a period where I was scrutinizing myself in the mirror too much. One of my takeaways from therapy was that if you’re staring in the mirror and you’re looking for problems, then you will find them. You need to step away and stop looking at parts of yourself like they are problems that need to be fixed — no one else but you sees them that way.
KP: I’ve gotten a nose job, so I understand. [Laughs]
KM: I think that if you look in a mirror too long, you can end up having a distorted perception of yourself. You notice flaws that other people would never see or fixate on your features in a way that isn’t normal. Humans were never meant to see their own faces as much as we are, which has created a really dark preoccupation with perfection, hence the existence of “Instagram face!”
The title actually came to me while I was driving my car. I realized that I never trust the mirrors in my car and always look over my shoulder to make sure that I have space to merge. That message in the sideview mirrors about objects being closer than they appear — that always really messed with me, like, you’re literally telling me that I can’t trust you! So I don’t :)
KP: [Laughs] That’s so true.
Going back to being a woman in the industry, during your time studying electronic music in college, you were one of only two women in a program of eighty men and felt that you might be underestimated, particularly in the studio. How did that experience shape your decision to handle every aspect of your music yourself, and what did you learn from that choice?
“New York was a place where anything could happen.”
KM: I felt vastly underrated when I was in school because my classmates just treated me differently. During my freshman year, I wore makeup and had long hair and dressed up nicely for class, so sometimes when I’d walk in, my classmates would comment on how I looked that day. Then they’d turn to each other and talk about what we were studying in class or some other real topic, and it just made me feel like a total bimbo. I felt like I was in Legally Blonde! I wanted to be treated like I was one of the boys, so I cut off all of my hair, started wearing glasses, and dressed a little more conservatively in my second year of college. I didn’t want to look too pretty — I really just wanted to fit in and be treated the same as everyone else, but I was definitely minimizing myself.
Based on the way that I was treated, I had the idea that people already underestimated me because of how I looked, so I needed to work extra hard to gain their respect. Due to that, I made a very conscious decision that there would be no other producers or collaborators on my solo music; this way everyone knew that I did all of the work — it was all me! I was very obsessed with getting the credit that I wanted, and I really worried that working with other people would undermine that.
KP: I relate to that heavily. I have always done everything myself in my career, even if it meant progress taking much longer than other people that I knew in the industry. I have this very acute consciousness of people taking credit for my work or connections, especially as a woman. I think it gets better over time, but it’s still something that I’m always inherently thinking about.
KM: Well nowadays, I feel like I’ve established myself enough as an artist to feel more free to present myself the way that I want. I’m back to dressing nice, wearing makeup, and having long hair. I experience a different flavor of misogyny from leaning into my femininity, but I feel more like myself now.
I also realized that this insistence on self-reliance is a bit of a trauma response from feeling like I can’t trust other people, and it’s something that I want to work on. I don’t think it’s a good thing to be a total control freak in your work, because you can learn a lot from working with other people. This album is special because it’s the first time that one of my tracks has a feature from another artist. My friend, Stephen Wilkinson (aka Bibio), played guitar and synthesizer on the title track for Don’t Trust Mirrors. I’ve never let someone contribute that much to my work, and it feels like a good step forward for me in opening up my creative process — it’s actually one of my favorite songs that I’ve ever made. I want to keep growing and developing my work, and I think it’s inevitable that I make my solo music more collaborative for it to get deeper.
KP: I think that balance — of working with others and still relying heavily on yourself — is incredibly important.
On that same note, as a woman working in contemporary experimental music, what unique challenges have you faced? Do you feel that being a woman has shaped the way that critics or audiences perceive your work?
KM: We all have subconscious (or unconscious) biases that inform the way that we perceive art. I’m not sure how that’s shaped the way that critics perceive me; I can’t speak on that, but I’m sure it has somehow.
KP: You’ve described yourself as a “very outspoken feminist” and suggested that a woman making music can simply be a political act in and of itself. How do performance and composition serve as ways for you — and for women more broadly — to reclaim space and assert your presence in the music world? Is that something that you ever consciously think about while composing?
KM: I don’t remember where that quote comes from or when I said that. I don’t want to renounce my feminism, but I’m less concerned with making music as a mere act of resistance these days.
I think artists have to do more than make music and take up space. In my opinion, artists have a responsibility to speak out against injustice and to try to change society. If we can’t speak out or if we’re being censored, we’re in big trouble — and we are. In the last few years with the genocide in Palestine, I feel so insanely disillusioned by the brand of early 2010s feminism that I previously subscribed to. I think that died when Hillary lost the election, but Kamala’s campaign really drove the nail into the coffin, which is that it’s not progressive for a woman to simply be in power. Especially if that woman’s feminism is not intersectional — and again I’m sounding like I’ve just teleported back to 2016 — but the reason that everyone was so fucking pissed at Kamala and wouldn’t vote for her was because she was trying to sell us on her being a girlboss while refusing to condemn a genocide that was killing women and children every single day. And honestly, I think one thing that bothers me about the genocide in Palestine is that we often forget that innocent men are suffering in this genocide as well — women and children are not the only ones deserving of this. Feminism is a privilege to worry about when your entire city isn’t being bombed to rubble.
On the other hand, the structures that we operate in as musicians are largely male-dominated, and that needs to change. Most of the professors at my music school were men, most orchestra conductors are men, most sound engineers are men, and so forth. There is a clear imbalance, and we need more women in these spaces. I’m grateful that we have musicians like Missy Mazzoli who do outreach programs like her Luna Composition Lab that focus on nurturing female composers. If I’m on tour and need opening acts, I direct my agents to send me a list of local musicians who are women that we can add to the bill. For the few of us that can break through in music, we need to do our part to help and uplift other women, too.
KP: On that note, are there any female artists, past or present, that you wish were more widely recognized as influences in contemporary composition?
KM: That’s a hard question. I’m not sure I know many artists who are influential but also not widely recognized — that’s a bit of a catch-22.
I will say that my friend, Molly Joyce, is writing some of the most brilliant contemporary classical music right now, and she’s a worthy successor to contemporary titans like Philip Glass. If there is any justice in the world, she will be viewed as being on that level someday.
KP: On the topic of influence, when you think about your body of work so far, what do you hope will endure?
KM: I hope my work’s legacy is to inspire people to be creative and experiment in their own practice. I met someone at one of my shows recently who said that he wanted to be the “Kelly Moran of clarinet,” which was truly such a lovely compliment to receive, so I hope I can inspire people to try new things on their instrument!
KP: That’s an incredible thing; I love that.
Looking back, what advice would you give your younger self when you were just starting out as a composer?
KM: The Beatles didn’t write all the good melodies already — you can still make some new ones.
KP: What advice would you lend to women about life, work, or love?
KM: I think one of the biggest lessons I’ve learned is that I severely underestimated the satisfaction that I would get from having a “successful” music career. At the end of the day, your biggest marker of happiness will be determined by your interpersonal relationships, so prioritize spending time with your friends and family as much as you prioritize being independent and successful in your career. Acclaim, money, and accomplishments will only give you so much satisfaction at the end of the day if you don’t have people to share it with. Don’t lose sight of what the real purpose of life is, which is hanging out with your friends and family, preferably enjoying music, art, culture, travel, and movies together.
KP: What do you feel makes a provocative woman?
KM: A provocative woman is someone who isn’t afraid to make people uncomfortable by asserting her truth.
Photography: Brian Karlsson
