One Man's Music

Ned Moran turned his battered Honda Civic off a desolate road and came to a stop on a pebble-strewn patch of dirt, in front of a building the size of a one-car garage whose pink exterior was dirty and badly chipped. A lone window bore a handwritten sign: "Avalon Archives-Rock and Roll Museum."

It was a cold, autumn morning in Kent Cliffs, NY, 60 miles northwest of Manhattan. Save for chirping birds and rustling leaves, all was quiet. I pulled a notebook from my bag and moved to open the car door. Moran grabbed my arm. "You don't need that," he said, shaking his head disapprovingly. "Just remember as much as you can."

A few minutes later, we were poring over the rock 'n' roll memorabilia-photos, posters, concert t-shirts-lining the walls and lying in heaps on the floor of this damp and musty "museum." Moran pointed out the framed cover of an old issue of Reader's Digest that advertised an exclusive interview with Bob Dylan, and offered an anecdote.

"The writer of that piece was my friend, and he hounded Dylan for months to get that interview," he said. "Finally, Dylan said, 'Okay, come to my house and you can have an interview, but don't bring a notebook and don't bring a tape recorder-just write it from what you remember.'"

Ned Moran is 61 years old, unemployed by choice, and the twice-divorced father of a 16-year old girl. He is thin except for a small potbelly, and his red moustache, like the ponytail that hangs below a ubiquitous baseball cap and falls midway down his back, is rapidly turning gray; the cap hides a bald head. Moran, who was born and raised in Queens, is consumed by a single grand vision: to found a major Rock 'n' Roll Museum on the East Coast, with his personal collection of memorabilia serving as its basis. He spends the bulk of his days trying to acquire additional museum-worthy material from potential donors, and working on small exhibits that he hopes will generate publicity.

At present, Moran's dream takes the form of the tiny pink structure in Kent Cliffs. It is one of two pink buildings in the area; the other is the general store next door. He rents the space from a friend for $150 a month. In the past, he made an effort to open the museum every Saturday and talk about music-in his words, "rap to the people"-with whoever wandered in. Now, he says, he's too busy to make it to the museum very often; the building essentially functions as storage space for part of his collection.

Three miles off the two-lane road that runs through Kent Cliffs proper, and high up a thickly wooded hill, sits Moran's house. As we approached, a black dog with a pronounced limp hobbled toward us. We stood on the porch for a bit and looked into the forest.

"I bought this house for $19,000 in the early 1970s," Moran said, gesturing toward the outhouse visible about 20 feet away. "I didn't have indoor plumbing for the first five years, so I'd be running back and forth to that outhouse all the time. For a while I was nervous that somebody would try to build a house over there"-Moran pointed into the empty forest-"but I got lucky, because about 20 years ago, 100 acres stretching from my house all the way to the Hudson River were set aside for a state park. Now I don't have to worry about it. The location, plus the house, make this place worth about $400,000. I'm not selling, though; I'm saving it for my daughter."

Before we stepped inside, Moran nodded down the road. "Moby just bought a place down there. He's not my thing, but he seems like a pretty cool cat."

Inside the chilly house, every inch of wall space in the cluttered, high-ceilinged den was covered with rock 'n' roll pictures. I pulled the collar of my coat up and thrust my hands into my pants pockets. Noticing this, Moran pulled aside a wool blanket draped across a doorway, and led me into a warmer adjoining room. "I keep part of the house cold to conserve heat and save money," he said. "I'm used to it, but sometimes I forget that not everyone else is."

Moran guided me to a couch and popped a tape into the VCR. "I want to show you something," he said. On screen appeared the image of Rick Danko, deceased member of the Band, sitting in a chair on a stage, singing "It Makes No Difference."

Moran leaned forward, his chin resting on his palm, a smile creeping across his lips, his eyes agleam. "This is from Uncle Willy's," he said softly.

In 1980 Moran suffered an injury while working as a New York City fireman and, restless in the desk jobs to which he was relegated, decided to find a line of work that would allow him to be involved with music. Soon he became co-owner of a Kingston music club that took the name of his partner, a drinking buddy named Uncle Willy. It thrived for six years in the 1980s.

"All of the memorabilia that's in here was on the walls of Uncle Willy's," Moran recalled fondly. "When musicians would see that stuff, they knew they were in a place where they were understood; they knew I knew about 'the life.' And we treated them well-like kings. They got whatever they wanted. Danko. Richie Havens. Levon Helm. A couple of the Allman Brothers-they all played there. That place would rock."

Then Moran pointed at the screen. "That's me," he said, indicating a head visible behind the stage. He rewound the tape. Upon closer inspection, his face and ponytail are clear as he places drinks for the performers on the stage.

The footage continued until Moran abruptly shut the VCR off. "Willy's was great until cocaine worked its way in and people fucked up," he said bitterly.

Moran moved through the house, offering a bit of history on items in his immense collection. At the end of his monologue, he spread his hand out before a batch of photographs. "All of this-everything I've got-is for my daughter. Maybe it's her college education; maybe it's a fortune for her later in life-I don't know. But it's all hers."

More than just fatherly generosity, Moran's plan reflects Lauren's birth as the impetus behind the idea of turning his memorabilia collection into a museum.

"I was running Willy's when I found out my second wife was pregnant, and I knew I had to change my ways; you can't be partying all night with a baby at home," he said. "So I thought about what I wanted to do and looked at all of the memorabilia I had accumulated and decided to give the museum gig a go. I knew I had a goldmine on my hands."

I asked Moran if his collection had been appraised. He wrinkled his nose and shook his head dismissively. "I don't need to have it done. I've seen enough to know what it's worth. I could easily get half a million for it, and that's being conservative."

Late in the afternoon, with the sun dropping behind the mountains and the sky colored blood red, we drove to the town of Carmel, where Moran has a small exhibit in the local Starbucks. "If you want hot chocolate or something, don't be shy," he said as we walked through the door of the coffee shop. "I get whatever I want for free in here."

While two teenage girls gossiped loudly about schoolmates, Moran talked about the genesis of the exhibit that he calls "Icons," which features photos of musicians like Johnny Cash, Jimi Hendrix, Mick Jagger and Bob Marley.

"I came in here one day, saw all this wall space, and said, 'I've gotta do something here.' It feels a little weird for a rocker like me to be doing business with Starbucks, but I try to think of it as a good place to express my creativity."

Moran currently has memorabilia exhibits on display in three other Starbucks, a train station, a post office and a high school. Schools are one of his favorite venues.

"I did an exhibit at a school once, and the kids packed in to see it. A month later, I got a call from the principal [saying] that the kids were staging their own rock exhibition. It was like I started a revolution."

As darkness settled over the land, I was in danger of missing my train back to Manhattan, but Moran assured me that he'd have me at the train station with time to spare. We began to race along poorly lit country roads, careening up and down rolling hills and taking turns at dangerously high speeds. Moran started to speak rapidly as well, his words spilling out of him.

"The Uncle Willy's days were great, but this museum can be even greater. Willy's went down the tubes because other people fucked up when drugs got involved. Bad characters starting hanging around, then Willy got into the coke himself. Then one day I find out we owe $50,000 in taxes. Bam! Like that, the place was done. But I'll do this museum on my own; I just need to find the money. The way I envision it, we'll have a refreshment area, a little gift shop and a stage area for performances. It'll be real cool."

We streaked past Dia:Beacon, the modern art museum that opened in 2003. Moran gestured disdainfully in its direction.

"This place is getting write-ups for attracting 100,000 people in a year. I know my museum will do better than that," he said, pounding the steering wheel once for emphasis. I asked Moran if he had a time frame in mind for opening the museum.

"I'm holding back, waiting for the right time. I know a lot of people-a lot of people in high places-but I have my pride. It'll happen, though. I'm thinking about calling Yoko Ono soon. I once gave her some rare photos of John Lennon; now we send each other Christmas cards every year. She's got all the money in the world, you know. I don't want to beg, but Yoko Ono is my ace in the hole."