The ferocious talent of pianist and composer Hiromi
Jazz, classical, and popular music collide
If you ever have the opportunity to see a performance by Hiromi, the mononymous pianist and composer, you are in for an experience of energy, excitement and exuberance. She is a force of ferocious talent.
This past Friday, she performed in Chicago at Symphony Center to celebrate the release that day of her new double album, “Out There.” And is she ever—out here.
The frenzied excitement to get Hiromi to autograph the just-released albums and CDs, and overheard conversations, lead us to understand that the audience was chockfull of young music students who knew her only by reputation, but had not had the privilege of seeing her perform until that night. Her new fans are legion.
Touring with Sonic Wonder, a group she formed a couple of years ago, her genius is supported by trumpeter Adam O’Farrill, electric bassist Hadrien Feraud, and drummer, Gene Coye. With a synthesizer propped on a grand piano and an electric keyboard to the side, she moves between all three of her instruments seamlessly, often playing two at a time. Like some current day Jerry Lee Lewis, she frequently plays standing up, dancing to her own rhythm, raking her finger over the keys of whichever instrument at a dizzying pace.
This was the sixth time we’ve had the honor to see her perform, and her music holds a special place for Dan and me. Her performance at the Blue Note in March of 2023 moved me so that I wrote the poem below. If you have the opportunity to see her, just go, go, go!
Hiromi at the Blue Note, March 3, 2023
She is a genius, I think.
A virtuoso
interpreting notes
—those she originates or composed by other greats—
transforming them into a communal experience
a transmogrifying lifeforce union,
so incredible that it remains indelible,
ingrained in my mitochondria.
At the piano, her groans are audible,
her fingers slam the keys one moment
or barely touch them the next,
like a lover’s lips on your neck.
Swept up by some holy spirit,
she grunts, groans and gasps
birthing her art,
bearing her music,
—harmony her offspring—
while the sloosh of ice at the bar
adds syncopation.
A man in the audience
seated in the tier just below me
seems to have musical Tourette’s
adding his own audibility to her musicality
delivering a moment,
that will remind
this small handful of the crowd
that there was a time, on a modest stage in the West Village
when we all bent a bit closer
to comprehend what she meant
and how that connotation
sent a message from his brain to voicebox
and that transmission
blended with her own performative
charismatic
snake-handling holy ghosting
lent us a sliver of transcendence
to savor later.