Memories: PJ Morton of Maroon 5, who recently put out an autobiography titled Saturday Night, Sunday Morning, performs at the New Orleans Jazz & Heritage Festival in Louisiana in May. Photo: Erika Goldring/Getty Images
“Just play something, Paul.”
It was 1996, and I was 15 years old. I was in the front room of my parents’ house on Wright Road in New Orleans East, seated at our upright piano. Sitting next to me on the bench, close enough that I could smell his after-shave, was Mr Alphonse, my piano teacher. He was an older Black man with grey hair, a grey moustache, and glasses — a sweet man and a kind, patient teacher.
My mom, Dr Debra Brown Morton, loved classical piano and wanted all her children to learn to play the traditional way. My dad, Bishop Paul S Morton, Sr, had a different perspective. He was from a musical family and had spent his whole life in and around music, and everyone he knew who played piano had learned to play by ear. But he was busy, so he let my mom do things her way. That meant piano lessons.
My sister Jasmine, who’s four years older than me, went first, taking lessons with a teacher named Mr Burns. When I turned 10 years old, it was my turn. I had been teaching myself to play by ear by playing the songs I heard on TV and the radio, but Mr Burns wanted me to play scales. I thought that was a waste of time, because the scales were so much more basic than what I was already playing. But I was an obedient, respectful child, so I did my best.
When you start off in piano lessons, you number your fingers, and at first I really tried to learn the patterns by the numbers. Still, I ended up playing the pieces by ear because learning them that way was so much easier and faster. But Mr Burns wasn’t fooled. He would snap, “Paul, you’re not reading the music. You’re playing extra stuff that’s not even there.”
I couldn’t help it! I didn’t want to learn the traditional way. A few more weeks and my mom decided maybe I wasn’t ready for piano lessons yet.
Now, five years later, I was trying again with Mr Alphonse. My playing was a lot more advanced by this time, because I had been playing on my own a lot. When I was 12, I started a band, Christians Combined, to play at my father’s church, and three years of gigs and rehearsals had really helped me develop my technique and ear. But for my mom’s sake, I still tried to learn the old-fashioned way.
I had four or five lessons with Mr Alphonse. He would sit right next to me and have me play a pattern, watching my fingers move up and down the keys. Then he would say, “Do it again.” I would repeat the pattern, and he would say, “Do it again.”
Then came that day when he asked me to just play something. I looked at him, confused. Gently, he said, “Just play whatever you want to play.” So I played something I made up on the spot. I don’t even remember what it was, just a series of chords and notes.
When I finished playing, Mr Alphonse was smiling. Then he said the words that would set the course of my life: “Paul, what you have is something I can’t teach people. I don’t know if you really need lessons. You’ve got the gift.”
For a long time, I had known I could do things at the piano that other people couldn’t. I could hear a song once and just play it, naturally, without thinking about it. But no one outside my family had ever told me that I had a gift. It wasn’t a long conversation, but that was the moment I decided to quit piano lessons and put all my energy into playing my way.
I never did learn to read music. I used to think, man, if I could read and have this natural ear, I could be dangerous. But you know who can’t read music? Stevie Wonder and Paul McCartney. You know who couldn’t read music? Prince and Michael Jackson. I think I’ve done alright.
Oregon, 9 July 2023
It was a warm, dry summer afternoon, and my band and I were having a fantastic time entertaining a joyful crowd at the second annual East Portland Summer Arts Festival, “Celebrating Black Excellence”. The grass of the park was covered with thousands of people on blankets, in folding chairs, kids on the swings, all here to see me, a preacher’s kid.
I was surrounded by friends — family, really — who had been playing and singing with me on the road for years, sometimes decades. Pressed up against the stage barriers was a line of people — white, Black, Hispanic, men, women — who had been on their feet dancing for the entire show, singing along, lost in the music. Behind them, curving in a semicircle … thousands more were dancing, clapping, and singing along with my music. My music. I was the headliner, the reason all these people were there.
The band and I would close out the festival with my Grammy-winning version of How Deep Is Your Love, spend time … relaxing, eating, clowning and enjoying each other like we always did, then I would fly home for a few days to film a segment for BET. A few weeks later, I would fly out to Las Vegas to hook up with the guys from Maroon 5 and resume our residency at the Park MGM.
Those two episodes are the bookends of my life, and sometimes, it’s still hard to believe how much has changed for me, and just as hard to believe how little has changed. On the one hand, I’m composing for Disney and for Hollywood, touring Africa, and writing a memoir. On the other hand, I’m still a preacher’s kid steeped in gospel traditions and living in New Orleans, only now I live there with my wife and three children, one of whom is in college.
Somewhere in the middle, I’m still doing what I’ve done since I was 14, fascinated by Stevie Wonder and wanting to make his dad proud: playing the piano the way Mr Alphonse gave me permission to play it, making the music I love with the people I love, and doing it on my own terms. I’ve come full circle, cracked the code, and figured out how to be independent in a world of compromise.
In between Mr Alphonse at the piano and that warm, appreciative crowd in the Pacific Northwest, a great deal happened to shape the person I’ve become, more than I could ever put in this book. But looking back, I’ve noticed a pattern that’s pretty revealing. I’m a natural people pleaser, but every time in my life that I’ve set aside my vision of what makes me happy and fulfilled in order to do what I thought someone else wanted, it’s been the wrong decision.
That’s how I ended up feeling misunderstood and alone as a young man, trying to convince myself to follow the path of a gospel musician. I started down that road because I thought it was what my dad wanted. I even came within inches of launching a can’t-miss gospel group before backtracking in a panic. Ironically, all my dad ever wanted was for me to be myself.
That’s how I wound up—after years of making independent records I loved, touring with friends, and playing for rooms of fans who sang along with every lyric — sitting in a series of humiliating, demoralising meetings with record executives who told me they loved everything about my music, except for what they wanted to change, which was everything.
It’s how I burned out so badly on the music business that after another loss at the Grammys, I told my worried wife, Kortni, “I’m done”, put my tail between my legs, and moved back to New Orleans, ready to turn my back on my music career and run a sneaker store.
Every time I failed to listen to my authentic artist’s voice and trust my instincts, I ended up compromising, chasing things that didn’t matter —commercial hits, popular acclaim, awards — and wondering why I was miserable.
On the other hand, whenever I’ve disregarded outside influences, followed my instincts, and trusted my vision, incredible things have come my way without even trying. Because I had faith in my vision, I got a call one day to audition for Maroon 5, and became part not only of one of the biggest bands in the world, but a group of guys I love like brothers.
Saturday Night, Sunday Morning is published by Worthy Books.