Album review: Paul Moran – Running on Fire

In jazz, many musicians spend years shaping the sound of other artists’ music before stepping forward to reveal their own voice. Paul Moran belongs firmly to that tradition. Yet this is not the first time Moran has stepped out from behind the bandstand and into the spotlight. His Hammond-led album Smokin’ B3 reached No. 8 in the HMV British Jazz Chart, and its follow-up Smokin’ B3 Volume Two further established him as a formidable organ player in the classic soul-jazz tradition.

For many listeners Moran is best known as the long-time musical director and keyboard player for Van Morrison, a role he has held since 2006. Yet behind that association lies a far broader musical life: composer, arranger, trumpet player and Hammond organist, with a career that stretches across television music, soul recordings and jazz projects.

Running on Fire brings those experiences together in a record that sits comfortably between jazz, soul and groove-based funk.

From the opening moments a bass-driven introduction sets the tone, laying down a deep groove that immediately establishes the album’s rhythmic character. The Hammond organ soon follows, becoming the record’s central voice. Moran’s playing carries the unmistakable lineage of the classic soul-jazz organ tradition — warm, percussive chords and blues-inflected phrases — yet the album avoids becoming a simple revival of that sound. Instead the arrangements lean toward contemporary soul and jazz-funk, built around tightly structured songs and a rhythm section that favours groove over extended improvisation.

The title track sets the tone, driven by punchy horn lines and a deep rhythmic pocket that feels as much at home in R&B as in jazz. Elsewhere Lost Together pushes further into soul-funk territory, the horns rising above the rhythm section while the Hammond organ provides the harmonic engine beneath the groove.

At its heart Running on Fire sits comfortably at the intersection of Hammond-led soul-jazz and contemporary jazz-soul. Moran clearly draws from the classic organ tradition, yet the record avoids the extended improvisational approach of many organ trio albums. Instead the music leans toward groove-driven songwriting and polished arrangements, placing it somewhere between modern jazz-funk and the sophisticated studio aesthetic that characterised much of the late-70s and early-80s jazz-soul recordings. Listening across the album, there are moments that call to mind the urbane studio craftsmanship of The Nightfly by Donald Fagen and the melodic warmth of vL is for Lover by Al Jarreau, while the production itself carries a similar clarity and richness to Rapture by Anita Baker.

One of the album’s most reflective moments arrives with Living Without You. Here the music breathes more freely, unfolding through a spacious, piano-led arrangement that allows the melody to settle gently over a restrained rhythm section. The performance has a calm, almost late-night quality, offering a moment of contrast within an album otherwise driven by groove and momentum.

Throughout the record Moran’s experience as an arranger is evident. Horn parts are used sparingly but effectively, appearing in short bursts that lift a chorus or reinforce the groove. The organ shifts easily between accompaniment and lead voice, sometimes barely noticeable within the ensemble before emerging again at key moments.

This is also an album that travels easily between settings. It would feel equally at home playing through the speakers of a car (on a late evening drive or a road trip up the West Coast of America from LA to San Fran along the mighty Big Sur coastline), at the dining table alongside good company and a glass of fine Merlot, or simply as the soundtrack to a quiet moment of listening. Yet beneath that easy going surface there is a deeper musical fire. The grooves and arrangements hint at a band that would feel entirely comfortable stepping onto the stage at Love Supreme Jazz Festival on a sunny Sunday afternoon, or at Ronnie Scott’s Jazz Club upstairs in the newly reopened room, where this music would no doubt take on an even more electrifying life in front of an audience.

What ultimately defines Running on Fire is not virtuosity but craft. Each piece is shaped around groove, melody and atmosphere rather than extended soloing. It is the work of a musician who understands how to serve the song while still leaving room for instrumental personality.

In the end, Running on Fire feels like the sound of a musician who has spent years shaping the music of others now stepping forward with a voice that is unmistakably his own. Glenn Wright