What is Lewis Harrison about?

The musical style that I create when I'm being Lewis, is a kind of jazz—not typical modern jazz, not jazz funk or smooth jazz, but a contemporary yet nostalgic/timeless sound of my own. I enjoy making intricate, complex harmonies and rhythms, often impressionistic but in a way that is expressively clear, so that they never really sound strange or self-consciously "modern". The melodies and textures that appear tend to "speak" in rather subtle, deep ways but I often allow a beautiful, tuneful exuberance to emerge. The production is minimal with solo piano – either acoustic or electric – forming almost the entire arrangement. I record simple beats on a cajon to frame the piano and sharpen the groove. I sometimes also sing in a soulful style, but the piano is always the main storyteller.

I'm one of those musicians who can "speak" the language of music very spontaneously and directly—a skill set that I love to use in my live shows, which combine a kind of musical stand-up or conversational approach with rehearsed performance. In my recordings too, I lean more towards an unedited, improvisatory process, and resist using technology to perfect the material performance. In a world where music is often more of a packaged product, and now with the advent of AI, I want to be as real and embodied a human musician as I can, communicating naturally with a kind of unflitered immediacy. This way, I can avoid the urge to contrive making anything just for effect, but simply express raw feelings with spontaneity in a kind of flow state.

I grew up in the competitive world of classical piano, which didn't feel like a good fit for me in so many ways—although I do love the music and still make and share classical(-ish) music, as Phil Best (my birth name). For so many years, I kept my soulful jazz under wraps—I played it as a kind of rebellion just for myself. The decision to share it publicly is something of a tribute to my wonderful Grandma, Louise Harrison, as she and I really connected when I was growing up. She didn't share the snobbishness about music that my parents and teachers often showed. Instead, she encouraged me to use music as a way of telling my inner stories, as something healing and deep, without any trace of pretentiousness.

Music – the language of feeling

I think the language of music is something magical—it has the power to do something quite remarkable like unlock the wisdom of the soul or connect with a higher consciousness. Words express so much but they can sometimes struggle to impart the deeper feelings that music uncovers with ease. As the language of feeling, music is honest in an uncensored way, whereas words tend towards being more politic or argumentative. Music simply expresses without the need to convince, protest, manipulate or reason. It fascinates me how much compassion and truth can be contained in a few musical shapes—it feels quite mysterious, strangely independent from rational thought.

When I play my own soulful jazz, it's a personal celebration of the human spirit, and also a means of connecting with inner courage and wonder to keep me curious about my inner world. The music is always seeking answers to the questions posed by inner shifts of feeling. Whether or not the music sounds cool or clever is not important to me. At the risk of sounding sentimental, what interests me most is finding the path of love—by allowing the groove to unfold naturally in a kind of spontaneous musical storytelling that is full of compassion and truth.

A way to make sense of life

So I seek a kind of warmth, candour, introspection and sense of "telling the truth" in my improvisations, songs and pieces. People often tell me there's a film-music quality present. But I don't think I quite agree. Film music today tends to generate moods. Whilst the atmosphere that the music creates is important, I'm really looking for something more personal and pointed—I'm trying to give clear expression to the inward experience of being alive in the world, to process it, to work through all the joyful and painful things that we inevitably face.

There's a kind of chatty element to the music, as I engage in soulful examinations of life, seeking something genuinely consoling, encouraging, relieving, revitalising. Soulfulness in music is one of those things that is often talked about. It's not easy to define, but I think it emerges when the language of music processes life's complexities with real compassion and a desire for empowerment. What excites me is the idea that I can create music that might speak to people directly, with intensity, clarity and an optimistic spirit.

The jazzy musical voice that I use here might seem impressionistic or lush but it has a certain precision. A harmonic shift, a rhythmic figure, a melodic phrase might seem to be vague in their intention. And of course, there is none of the literal meaning that words impart. But words can be ambiguous, deceptive, manipulative. I want the musical shapes to say something very distinct and specific, whether they appear inside crisp, clean textures or impressionistic, dreamy atmospheres.

Pianos, both in their acoustic and electric forms have the power to do this, because of their scope as instruments to generate a complex, varied palette of sounds, but also because they feel like an extension of my body and soul. The patterns that I play on the keys come from somewhere deep inside that is very honest. Placed within the earthy, simple framework of cajon beats, and sometimes with the addition of vocals, I love to shape these sounds into a compelling vibe or energy that reveals or explains what words never could.

Inside the "logical" unfolding of a clear groove, I'm searching for a certain kind of lucidity—a musically-induced sanity that comes from its disarming openness and truth. Like a kind of therapy, I do think music has the power to disclose the subtleties of the human soul in sharp detail. And my wish is that as I use this tool for my own inward examination, my listeners might uncover things within themselves.