Q&A with Composer Brian Raphael Nabors

On June 18, the Minnesota Orchestra hosts its fourth annual Juneteenth Concert, in celebration of the holiday that commemorates the June 19, 1865, anniversary of when the last enslaved people in Texas were freed after news of the signing of the Emancipation Proclamation finally reached the state. Conducted this year by Kedrick Armstrong, the concert is capped off by a first-of-its-kind concerto for Hammond organ—a 20th century instrument that has thrived in genres like Gospel, jazz and R&B and rarely heard in classical music—composed and performed by Brian Raphael Nabors in his Minnesota Orchestra debut.

Before Nabors sits down at the keyboard console to perform the concerto, we asked the Birmingham native and assistant professor of composition at Louisiana State University a few questions about his background, how the Concerto for Hammond Organ came to life and how artists and musicians help keep the stories of our culture alive. 

When you were growing up, what kind of career did you envision for yourself?

I was an extremely curious child and had a hand in all sorts of pursuits. I conducted science experiments, wrote short stories and poetry, painted and spent countless hours outdoors with my father fishing and learning about animals and nature. I’ve always had an insatiable appetite for both creating things and understanding how they worked. For a long time, I wasn’t sure what my path would be. In high school, I became deeply interested in architecture. I took drafting courses, was inducted into the math honor society and even participated in a training program at an architecture firm in downtown Birmingham on select Saturday mornings. At the time, I was convinced I would become an architect.

Yet through all of those interests, music remained constant. I learned to play piano by ear at age five and didn’t begin formal lessons until I was about fourteen. After my first piano teacher tragically passed away, my mother made sure I continued studying and connected me with a local conservatory teacher, Mrs. Moore, who helped prepare me for college auditions. Her impact on my life has extended far beyond those lessons—when my music is performed with the Alabama Symphony Orchestra, she still comes to hear my concerts. That enduring support is something I cherish deeply. Around that same time, I asked my mother to buy me an inexpensive notation program. Once I began writing music, everything changed. Before long, I was composing more music than my school activities allowed time for. The possibility that other people might someday perform something I had created was thrilling. I often say that I was “bit by the bug” and never looked back.

On some level it seems like music was always your path...

What is remarkable to me now is that I knew I wanted to be a composer before I really understood what that meant professionally. I had no awareness of the contemporary music field or that there were living composers actively building careers and creating new work. What I did know was that creating music felt more natural and necessary than anything else I had ever done. Looking back, music had been shaping me long before I realized it. My mother has been a church musician since she was thirteen years old, and I grew up watching her lead worship services. Before that, I was literally hearing those sounds while still in the womb. The music of the Afro-American church, choir singing and communal music-making formed some of my earliest experiences. As a choir student throughout middle and high school, I saw firsthand how deeply music could move people and bring communities together.

More than anything, I fell in love with the service aspect of music—the ability to create something that could uplift, challenge, comfort, or inspire others. Over time, composition stopped feeling like simply an interest and began to feel like a calling. As a person of faith, I prayed about that path often, and I came to believe that this was the work I had been created to do. I was fortunate to discover that purpose at a relatively young age. Even before I knew whether music could provide a living, I felt a deep sense that if I remained faithful to the gift and worked tirelessly to develop it, I would be taken care of.

So while music wasn’t the only thing I loved growing up, it was the thread running through everything. In the end, it wasn’t architecture, science, writing, or painting that chose me—it was composition.

How would you describe your musical aesthetic to someone who hasn't heard your music before?

Indeed! I'd describe my musical aesthetic as deeply soulful, full of color and vividly cinematic. It is a true amalgamation of every sound and human experience that has ever made an impactful impression on me. From my proud beginnings as a church musician, playing Jazz/R&B gigs, to studying the wild rhythmic patterns in Ligeti or advanced timbral orchestrations of Unsuk Chin—there are pieces from every one of these amazing sonic worlds in my music. Overall, I'd say it's soaring, lyrical, groovy and quite thorny at times! I have a tendency to lean in some directions more than others depending on the type of work. I guess you could say there are "sub-aesthetics" to my compositional voice, but the overall goal that I strive for every time is music that contains a compelling narrative, relentless in its craft, sounds sure of itself and beyond all else—honest. 

In your mind, what are some of the roles composers and musicians can play in the current world? 

Composers and musicians can play an enormous variety of roles in helping people better understand themselves, one another and the world around them. We are thought leaders, advocates, activists and arbiters of inspiration. Music is woven into nearly every aspect of human life—it accompanies our celebrations, our grief, our faith, our relationships and our most important memories. Because of that, artists have a unique ability to create spaces where people feel seen, heard and connected.

One of the most powerful things music can do is tell stories. Just as a great film or novel allows us to identify with a character’s journey, music invites us into emotional and human experiences that may be very different from our own. It helps us develop empathy, imagine new perspectives, and recognize our shared humanity. I also believe that representation matters deeply. When people enter a concert hall and see themselves reflected on stage—whether through the performers, the composers, or the stories being told—it creates a sense of belonging and possibility. At the same time, music allows us to encounter experiences beyond our own and discover common ground with others.

The future of our art form depends not on preserving it in isolation, but on maintaining a meaningful relationship with the world around us. The composers whose music has endured were responding to the realities of their own time—their communities, their struggles, their joys and their dreams. I believe today’s composers and musicians must do the same. When we create work that speaks honestly to the human experience, we not only keep the art form alive—we help people feel more connected to themselves and to one another.

The Concerto for Hammond Organ is the first piece of its kind for this instrument. Can you tell us a bit about how it came to life? What is it about the Hammond organ that makes it so easily able to hop from genre to genre?

The concerto began in the spring of 2017 during my first year as a doctoral student in composition at the University of Cincinnati College-Conservatory of Music. I brought the idea to my composition professor, Douglas Knehans, because I wanted my dissertation project to reflect my journey as a Black composer from Birmingham, Alabama, and the musical traditions that shaped me. The Hammond organ has been part of my life for as long as I can remember. My father is a pastor, my mother is a church musician and many of my earliest musical memories are connected to hearing and playing this instrument in church. As I began thinking about a large-scale project, I realized that the Hammond could serve as a powerful symbol of the communities, traditions and experiences that helped make me who I am.

It has played a central role in gospel, jazz, blues, rock, R&B and popular music, yet it remains surprisingly uncommon in contemporary classical music and orchestral programming. I wanted to create a work that celebrated that legacy while also inviting audiences to think differently about what belongs in a concert hall and whose musical stories deserve to be heard there. Because there was very little precedent for writing a large-scale concerto for Hammond organ and orchestra, the process involved years of research and experimentation. I completed the original version of the work in 2019 and later created a revised version for Hammond organ and orchestra that would be more flexible for orchestras to program.

Part of what allows the Hammond to move so naturally between genres is its extraordinary flexibility of sound. Through its drawbar system, performers can shape the instrument’s tone in countless ways. Depending on how it is configured, it can be warm and lyrical, bright and energetic, ethereal and atmospheric, or powerful enough to fill an entire sanctuary. That versatility has enabled generations of musicians to make it feel at home in vastly different musical settings. In many ways, the Hammond organ embodies the idea of connection. It carries the sounds of multiple communities, histories and traditions. This concerto was my attempt to honor that rich legacy while bringing those traditions into conversation with the orchestra. At its heart, the piece is a celebration of the many ways music can bring people together.     

What do you hope for listeners to take away from hearing the Concerto, or your music in general?

More than anything, I hope listeners come away with a sense of connection. In the case of the Concerto for Hammond Organ, I hope they hear not only my story, but perhaps parts of their own stories reflected in the music. The instrument carries such a rich history across multiple musical traditions, and I wanted to create a work that honors those traditions while highlighting the humanity that connects us all.

Throughout the concerto, the Hammond and orchestra move through a variety of sonic worlds. There are moments that feel cinematic, others that feel soulful, energetic, contemplative, or influenced by the musical traditions that shaped me. For me, those different musical languages symbolize something larger. While our backgrounds, experiences and traditions may differ, there is often far more common ground between us than we realize.

I also hope listeners approach the piece with curiosity and an open mind. Because the Hammond organ is so strongly associated with particular genres, some audience members may arrive expecting one specific sound. Part of the joy of the concerto is discovering just how many different voices the instrument can have. While the work certainly acknowledges the musical traditions that made the Hammond iconic, it also places the instrument within a broader contemporary sound world and explores possibilities that many listeners may not expect.

Ultimately, that is what I hope people take away from this piece and from my music in general: a renewed sense of wonder. Music has the ability to transport us, challenge us, comfort us and introduce us to experiences beyond our own. If listeners leave the concert hall feeling more curious, more empathetic and more open to the beauty and complexity of the world around them, then I feel the music has accomplished something meaningful.