Soprano Sax Talk: Conversations on Music, Life, and Politics.

ALGORITHMISM: The New “Ism” of the Digital Age

2025-12-02T16:32:00.000-08:00

There’s a new ism in town.

For generations, society has coined these terms to capture the ways we feel held back—sexism, racism, ageism. Each one names a real force that shapes our lives. But now, in this digital era, as more of us create online, a new one has emerged, whispered from timeline to timeline: algorithmism.

Algorithmism is the belief that the invisible gears of the algorithm are working against you—that your work isn’t reaching people not because of its content, but because some unseen machine has decided you don’t deserve the spotlight. It’s the feeling that your creativity is being lost in a rigged system, where the deck is stacked, and the numbers never fall your way.

I’ve seen this thinking everywhere lately—on Substack, on X, on Instagram, on Facebook. Folks convinced that the reason their posts don’t soar is because the algorithm clipped their wings. And I understand the frustration. I’ve been writing and posting online for over fifteen years. I know what it’s like to send something out into the world with excitement in your chest, expecting a spark, only to watch it fall flat without explanation.

But here’s what I’ve learned: sometimes it’s not the algorithm.

Sometimes the work simply didn’t resonate.

And that’s a truth many people don’t want to sit with.

Over the years, I’ve had posts that took off — not full-on viral, but certainly catching fire enough to travel far beyond my own circle. They sparked conversations, questions, even arguments. And I’ve had others that went nowhere, slipping quietly into the digital abyss. I couldn’t predict it. I couldn’t control it. And it never bothered me too deeply, because I never saw creation as something that owed me anything.

See, when I put something out into the world, I’m not doing it to be crowned or rewarded. If it brings opportunity, beautiful. But that’s not the engine behind my work. I write and post because there’s something in me stirring — a thought, a question, an excitement — and I want to share it. I’m extending my hand not to have it filled, but to offer what I have.

That’s a big distinction in this age of algorithmism.

Because we’ve reached a point where many creators extend their hand the other way — palm up, expecting something to be dropped into it. A like. A share. A subscription. A sign from the digital universe that what they’ve created is worthy. And when it doesn’t come, the algorithm becomes the villain.

But sometimes, the piece wasn’t meant for a stadium.

Sometimes it was only meant for a small room — a quiet corner where a handful of people whisper, “I get it.”

And that’s enough.

I think we need to learn how to live with that again.

Because if we’re honest, algorithmism becomes a kind of digital victimhood. A convenient shelter. A way to say, “It’s not me; it’s the machine.” It protects the ego, but it robs the artist. It cuts us off from the crucial question every creator needs to ask: What can I do better? What can I say clearer? What truth am I missing?

Algorithms are real, yes. But they are not gods.

They are not destiny.

And they are not responsible for shaping our voice.

Our job — the only job we truly control — is to create, to share, and to stay present. To keep offering. To keep showing up. To keep placing our work into the stream without demanding the river flow the way we want.

When you move like that, you step outside the reach of algorithmism entirely.

You return to the pure act of creation — the joy of it, the mystery of it, the freedom of releasing something into the world without needing to dictate how it should be received. Once I hit “publish,” my work is no longer mine. I’ve done my part. The rest belongs to the reader, the moment, and the unpredictable currents of human attention.

Sometimes you’ll catch the wind.

Sometimes you won’t.

But if the work is honest, if the offering is sincere, it will land where it needs to land.

And that, to me, is more meaningful than any algorithm could ever engineer.

We Have the Potential to Be All That We Are

2025-12-01T09:45:00.000-08:00

At first glance, a phrase like we have the potential to be all that we are might sound limiting—maybe even pessimistic. It can read as if we’re being asked to settle, to see ourselves in a dimmer light. But in truth, what I’m reaching for is the opposite. This idea is rooted in empowerment, in clarity, in the freedom that comes from letting go of illusions about what we—or others—are “supposed” to become.

There’s a misconception many people carry, something I call the KISA factor—K-I-S-A: Knight In Shining Armor. This is the fantasy that someone will come riding in on a white horse to save us, transform our lives, or pull us into a better destiny. But I reject that idea fully. There is no hero galloping in from the horizon, no magical figure that arrives to rewrite your story.

And this piece isn’t just about dismantling the KISA myth—it’s about taking the next step. When I say we have the potential to be all that we are, I mean this:

We often imagine that somewhere out there is a pot of gold with our name on it—some special opportunity, some quick adjustment, some person who just needs to “fix” one thing. We project that same thinking onto others: “If they could just change this… If they would only do that…” We look at people through a me-centric lens. We imagine what we would do if we were in their shoes, and then judge them for not doing it.

But over the years, I’ve learned something humbling and liberating:

Trying to push people past not only their abilities, but even their aspirations, is a losing game. Everybody’s frame, everybody’s wiring, everybody’s hunger is different. Some people are not waiting for a breakthrough moment. They’re not secretly a diamond in the rough just waiting for the right pressure. Sometimes what you see in them is what they are—and that is not a failure. That’s simply their light.

And if that light shines at 60 watts, then let it shine at 60. Don’t try to force it to burn at 120. You might cause a fire, and you might destroy the very thing you were trying to help.

Empowerment is not about insisting on someone else’s “latent greatness” as we imagine it. It’s about accepting that each of us has a natural range, a natural rhythm, a natural glow. And within that authenticity, there is a quiet power. Not every beam has to blind the world. A softer light can still warm a room.

So when I say we have the potential to be all that we are, I’m not saying aim low. I’m saying aim true. Honor your actual gifts. Honor the way your light is built to shine. And extend that same grace to others. Not everyone wants to transform. Not everyone needs to be pushed. Sometimes the fullest version of a person is already standing in front of you.

And there is nothing pessimistic about that. In fact, that might be the most empowering truth of all.

The Cost of Playing: Investing in Music Without Losing Yourself

2025-09-24T17:00:00.000-07:00

I’ve always been fascinated by the willingness of musicians to “pay to play,” so to speak. On one level, it’s understandable. We know there isn’t always a lot of money in jazz, and when we bring people on board — sidemen, engineers, designers — we want to respect their time and make sure they’re compensated. That part makes sense. But there’s a line somewhere, and I think it’s worth asking where that line is. Because while supporting the presentation of our own music is one thing, supporting the entire infrastructure of the industry just to keep it afloat is something else.

How many institutions in the jazz world — magazines, grant organizations, publicists — would continue to function without the steady stream of money coming directly from artists? Take the musicians out of the equation, and many of these organizations would collapse. Yes, they review our records, they run features, they expand our reach. But we’re also the ones footing the bill.

Which leads to the deeper question: How much of what we pour into press campaigns, magazine ads, award submissions, and the rest actually builds something that lasts?

I don’t raise this to sound bitter. I’ve benefited from these systems myself. I’ve worked with first-rate publicists like Chris DiGirolamo and Lydia Liebman, and through that work I’ve been reviewed in DownBeat numerous times, received five-star reviews, been featured in the New York Times, and even heard my work reviewed on air by Kevin Whitehead on NPR. All of that has been gratifying. But after each milestone, I find myself asking, “Now what? Do I need another Times review? Another five stars? Is this really the kind of foundation that builds a future?”

Our financial worth should not only be determined by how much horn we’re playing. There was a time when bandleaders could reasonably expect touring and CD sales to provide a steady stream of income. Of course, a sideman might still come away in the black after a tour, but for the leader it’s often a different story — the expenses pile up, and breaking even is sometimes considered success. I’ve heard countless stories of leaders piling into vans, driving city to city, only to return with little or nothing to show for it financially.

And it wasn’t just the road. There was a time when selling CDs offered at least modest returns. You could count on distributors to get the music into stores, and if listeners wanted to hear it, they had to buy it. Add to that the royalties paid out when terrestrial radio was still the primary way music reached the public. Those performance rights checks weren’t enormous, but they represented a real income stream.

Contrast that with today, when most listeners expect to get music for free. And there aren’t many business models where the creator produces the product but doesn’t expect anyone to pay for it.

I guess if I had to come up with some justification, I would say that many musicians are most likely trying to figure out how to build a legacy more than they’re chasing financial independence. But at some point, we have to ask whether the traditional markers of success are enough.

And maybe part of the shift is understanding how the broader music industry has already adapted. These days, when major labels or top agencies sign artists, it’s often through what’s called a 360 deal—they’re not just signing the music. They’re taking a piece of everything: clothing lines, books, movie appearances, perfume, TV—whatever the artist touches that falls under the umbrella of entertainment. That model says a lot. It says the real value isn’t just in the album—it’s in the brand, the vision, the full creative identity of the artist. And maybe as jazz musicians, we should be thinking more along those lines, too.

To be clear, I don’t want to sound discouraging to younger musicians. One of my cardinal rules is never to dump on someone else’s hustle. My life motto has always been: get what you can get with what you’ve got. And I mean that. So by all means, pursue the reviews, the ads, the campaigns if they serve your goals. But also consider the bigger picture. The old paradigm — when record companies were the industry — is long gone. If we’re serious about building something sustainable, maybe it’s time we thought past it.

Plenty of musicians already are. I know artists who’ve built entire income streams from writing books, giving masterclasses, lecturing, and public speaking. Some have gotten entrepreneurial with instruments or gear. Others branch into clothing, branding, or other ventures that make sense with who they are. Personally, I’ve thought about pursuing writing — not just music-related but fiction as well — and even experimenting with selling some of my horn preparations. There are more avenues than ever to think broadly about what our art can generate.

Because at the end of the day, if everything comes down to a musician’s handshake at the end of the night, we’re not really setting ourselves up for long-term success.

So what can we do? For me, it comes down to a few steps:

• Be intentional. Ask yourself whether each dollar or hour you invest is actually building something lasting.

• Diversify. Don’t let your worth be measured only by the gigs you play. Explore writing, teaching, entrepreneurial ventures — anything that reflects your broader vision.

• Protect your legacy. Think beyond the short-term hustle. What will remain after the campaign ends, after the tour is over?

• Stay open. The industry is shifting every day. Don’t get stuck in an old model just because that’s how it was always done.

None of this is about abandoning the horn or the stage. It’s about making sure that the energy we pour into the music is matched by a strategy that allows the music, and the musician, to endure.

Between the Classroom and the Bandstand: Staying Relevant Even When Trends Aren't Built for You.

2025-09-07T18:20:00.000-07:00

I’ve spent more than twenty years in academia. That might sound like a long time, but it didn’t feel like a career path. It felt like something I did alongside my real work—music. Even though I don’t wear the facade of an academic—and no one who really knows me would call me one—the path I’ve walked through teaching, publishing, and shaping ideas carries that imprint.

In fact, I’ve been more productive—more visible—than many artists who live completely outside academia. That isn’t bragging. That’s reality. And part of the reason I’ve been able to do that is because the university gave me something the music industry wouldn’t: a long runway. Time.

They didn’t hire me because I was charting. They didn’t bring me in to generate buzz or profit. They wanted someone who could teach, serve the department, and help shape the direction of the program. In return, I had the space to do my work. No one asked me to be marketable. No one tried to fit me into a formula. That kind of freedom is rare.

In music, it’s different. People don’t support your work simply because it’s honest or original. Granting organizations may be an exception, but more often than not, support comes only if they believe it can sell. And if it doesn’t, they walk away. Record labels, booking agents, presenters—they’re all operating under the same basic logic: Will this make money? If the answer is no, then the meeting is over. That’s not cynical. That’s how they survive.

Years ago, a label head told me he regretted not recording more of my group. He’d only done one album with us. At the time, he didn’t think the sound would catch on. He was probably right. It didn’t check the usual boxes. So there was that familiar push: straighten it out, smooth the edges, give the people something they can digest easily. I didn’t take the bait, and he didn’t press the issue. He made his calculation and moved on.

That’s how this business works. It’s short-term by design. If you want something preserved for the long term, you’ll have to do it yourself.

Artists talk a lot about support. They wait around for someone to come along and believe in them. But the truth is, no one’s coming. If you want your work to last, if you think it matters, then you have to record it, release it, fund it, and stand by it. That’s not idealism. That’s basic responsibility. In music, there’s no tenure. The only thing that keeps you alive is the work.

Some years, people notice you. Other years, they forget you exist. That doesn’t matter. The important thing is to keep showing up. Keep putting the work out. Keep building. Because once you stop doing that, you disappear. Not figuratively. Literally.

I’ve said this before: look at the critics’ polls. Wynton Marsalis. Kenny Garrett. Cassandra Wilson. When I first hit the scene, these were names you couldn’t leave off the top five. Now? Their rankings barely make a dent. Not because they’re no longer good. Not because they stopped mattering. But because public attention moves on. Critics move on. Audiences move on. What remains is the body of work.

The rankings don’t mean much. Legacy is built through consistency, not applause.

The music business is full of moments that don’t add up. You do everything right, and nothing happens. You make your best work, and nobody hears it. Meanwhile, something younger—and sometimes safer— wins awards. That’s how it goes. But if you understand that from the start, you won’t be shocked when it happens. And you won’t let it stop you.

The goal isn’t to be popular. The goal is to be present. To stay in motion. To keep making music, keep telling your story, and keep adding to your archive—even if no one’s asking for it. Especially if no one’s asking for it.

And if you do that—if you stay in it long enough and remain honest about what you’re doing—it ends up being worth it. Maybe not financially. Maybe not in terms of praise. But in terms of purpose. In terms of clarity. In terms of building a life you don’t have to apologize for or explain away. Most people don’t get that far. They flame out early or drift into bitterness. But if you hold on, keep doing the work, and accept the trade-offs, you’ll look back and see it for what it is:

A life well lived.

The Music Continues: Life as a Jazz Artist Over 50

2025-08-29T07:15:00.000-07:00

Life can be a scary time for many jazz musicians over 50—certainly for me. As Ralph Peterson Jr. once said, when you hit 50, you’re entering the third quarter of life. That idea has always stuck with me. It can feel daunting, especially in a field like jazz, where youth is often equated with innovation, relevance, and opportunity.

Most of us didn’t pursue this path expecting riches or fame. But I think we all hoped—modestly, realistically—that we’d at least be recognized for our work. And that’s the tricky part. Because as you’re doing your best to be seen and acknowledged, there’s a constant wave of younger musicians moving to New York, hungry and talented, stepping into the scene. You pay your dues, and then someone else comes along and steps in. And sure, that’s how it’s supposed to work—there should be room for the next generation. But the truth is, the industry doesn’t always make room for you. Sometimes you get overlooked. And when you hit that 50-year-old mark, you can’t help but wonder: maybe it’s never going to happen.

And you know what? You might be right.

At least, it might not happen in the way you envisioned.

But that doesn’t mean it can’t still happen in a different way—maybe even a better way. It might not come with the same spotlight or recognition you once imagined, but that doesn’t mean it’s any less meaningful. What it does require is a revision of your plan. A willingness to let go of one story so that you can write a better one.

Sometimes, happiness and fulfillment come not from achieving what you set out to do, but from discovering something you never knew you needed. Maybe your career won’t be defined by headlining at the Village Vanguard or winning a Grammy, but instead by deep artistic breakthroughs, meaningful collaborations, or having your music resonate with a small but dedicated circle of listeners. Maybe it’s mentoring the next generation. Or creating work on your own terms, without needing a gatekeeper to validate it. There are many forms of success, and many ways to still find joy in the music. The key is being open to rewriting the story.

And I say this not as someone bitter, but someone who has actually been quite fortunate. I’ve experienced more success and recognition than many. I won’t say most—but certainly many. That’s pretty remarkable, especially considering I’ve worked a full-time teaching job for years. I’m not in the trenches, booking gigs every week or hustling nonstop to advance my performance career. I’ve done what I can to stay active: I release recordings, even if not prolifically. I maintain a solid Instagram presence. I post regularly on my blog. And I stay engaged in the musical discourse. It may not be the kind of discourse that gets critics excited—or furious—but I believe it speaks to the broader jazz community in a meaningful way.

I consider myself to be in a unique position because I know people who are still in the trenches—low- paying to no-paying gigs, scraping by, working day jobs outside of music—and I know people who are soaring on top. Playing the major venues, headlining the major festivals. And I just want to say: being a jazz star is not all it’s cracked up to be. People make a lot of sacrifices. It’s not like you get there and suddenly your life is a bed of roses. There are real challenges at that level too. Some sacrifice the opportunity to start families. Others forgo the stability of homeownership or fall behind in preparing for their senior years financially. The costs can be high, and the rewards—while meaningful—aren’t always sustainable or secure.

So you have to ask yourself: What am I really missing out on?

Of course, who doesn’t want a three-week tour in Europe? Who doesn’t want to play the major festivals? I’ve done those things. I’ve even been on a major label. And yes, it was a lot of fun. I do miss aspects of it. But I certainly don’t miss the travel. These days, flying feels like riding a bus with wings. It’s uncomfortable, draining, and airport security only adds another layer of stress. That old saying—the grass is always greener—definitely applies here.

The truth is, this path we’re on as jazz musicians isn’t linear. As an aspiring writer of fiction, I’ve written many stories, and what I’ve learned is that the finished version is rarely the story I set out to write. Things shift. Characters evolve. Plot points change. And yet, more often than not, the story becomes more profound because of that transformation. We can approach our careers the same way. Sometimes the version of success that finds you later in life is deeper, more grounded, and more personally rewarding than the version you chased in your twenties.

So what can we do? Here are a few ideas that have worked for me, and that I believe can work for others:

Redefine your audience.
Your circle doesn’t have to be the entire world. Sometimes ten people who are deeply moved by your music matter more than a thousand casual listeners. If my core base is a handful of horn players curious about attaching tubes to their instruments, I’ll take it.
Mentor and collaborate.
Your wisdom is gold to the younger generation. Sharing it not only helps them, it keeps you connected to the vitality of the music. When knowledge is lived—not just book-learned—we often underestimate the depth of what we have to offer.
Build your own platforms.
Blogs, podcasts, self-released albums, house concerts—these tools free you from gatekeepers. You don’t need permission to share your voice. I moved to New York during the height of the scarcity era, when getting heard meant selling your soul to the devil. Those days are over.
Prioritize depth over breadth.
Maybe you don’t release ten albums a decade. Maybe you release one every few years—but it’s honest, layered, and meaningful. That’s still a legacy. A career isn’t defined by sheer productivity. Depth carries more gravity than volume.
Take care of the whole person.
Music is central, but so are health, family, financial planning, and joy outside of music. Stability doesn’t kill creativity—it sustains it. Looking back, a Grammy on the mantle and twenty bottles of medication in the bathroom is not the life well-lived we should aspire to.

The music continues. And so do we. Not in spite of being over 50, but because of it. We’ve lived, we’ve seen, and we have something to say. And that—if we keep at it—is where the true power of our artistry lies.

Don’t Leave the Hype: How Art is the Light, Not the Applause

2025-08-20T12:09:00.000-07:00

A lot of times our perception of ourselves—and of others—is shaped less by the truth and more by a narrative that the industry builds. Magazines, radio, television, movies, even the educational system all work together to tell us: this is the person leading the path, this is the legend of their generation, this is the artist doing the “important work.”

That has its place. Narratives can inspire, elevate, and bring attention to deserving artists. But there’s also a danger. The hype can give us a false sense of our importance—and, even more tragically, a false sense of our unimportance.

We see someone on the cover of a magazine and think: they’re the one making an impact. And if we’re not on that cover, we start to think: maybe I’m not making an impact. Without realizing it, we internalize the idea that our work doesn’t matter.

But that is simply not true.

When I look at my own career, I don’t play the major festivals. I’m not headlining the so-called “important” stages. I’m not being called to guest on the albums of jazz stars. Most of my gigs are in small venues in Brooklyn, often for twenty people, sometimes fewer.

And still—I say this with humility—my work is just as important as anyone gracing magazine covers or headlining festivals. I’ll put my contributions bar for bar, spirit for spirit, against theirs any day. Because the value of the work isn’t measured by how brightly the spotlight shines on it. The value is in the light you create where you stand.

Some of my greatest influences are musicians most people have never heard of. Folks you won’t see on magazine covers or topping polls. But their impact on my playing, my vision, and my development has been profound.

I think about Bob Rainey, a soprano saxophonist I recently performed with. In my opinion, he has the most expansive vocabulary of multiphonics on the soprano saxophone to date. When I first heard him, he wasn’t using multiphonics as a gimmick or an occasional noise effect—he was using them as part of an expansive language, the same way others use single notes. That completely shifted my perspective on what was possible.

That’s influence. That’s light.

And none of it happened at the Newport Jazz Festival, JEN, or the Jazz Journalists Awards. It happened in a room, on a stage, through the sound of one musician taking their craft seriously.

I can only imagine that I’ve had a similar effect on others. Maybe someone sees me working on a certain experiment, and it sparks a thought: I never considered that before. That ripple is real. And it doesn’t require hype. It requires presence, honesty, and a willingness to create light where you are.

Because the important thing isn’t to stand under the spotlight. The important thing is to create light where you stand—whether that’s in a packed hall, a neighborhood club, or a subway platform.

The hype fades. The light remains.

And one final word to the artist: you may not always get the affirmations you think you need to keep going. But you have to create and put your work into the world with the belief that it is reaching people, making an impact, and doing what it was meant to do. More often than not, your work is shaping lives in ways you may never see or imagine.

The Art of Engagement: Why Connection Starts Long Before the Music Drops

2025-08-03T08:15:00.000-07:00

As musicians, we’re always putting something out into the world. Maybe a new recording, a performance, a presentation, or some kind of debut. We’re constantly giving, presenting, sharing. And we need an audience for that.

But here’s what often happens. and I think it’s a big mistake. We put everything into the creation of the work, and then, maybe a week or two before the release or performance, we go into panic mode. Suddenly we’re flooding social media with posts, ads, and reminders: “Come to my gig!” “Listen to my new album!” “Check out this project!”

Sure, sometimes this last-minute push gets results. But in most cases, it doesn’t work the way we want it to.

Why? Because many of us are trying to activate an audience we haven’t really been connecting with. We show up out of nowhere and say, “Hey, I need you to come to this thing,” but people aren’t always ready to listen. It’s not personal. It’s just that if they haven’t seen or heard from you in a while—if you haven’t been present—they’ve already been engaged by others who have.

Social media isn’t just a billboard. It’s more like a conversation that never stops. And if you’re not in the conversation, you’re not top of mind. When you’re silent for too long, you fall behind those who are consistently engaging. So when it’s finally your turn to announce something, you’re starting from the bottom of the feed—literally and figuratively.

Here’s a common scenario many of us can relate to. You’ve got a new recording coming out. You hire a publicist, hand them the materials, and say, “Hey, get people excited about this.” You write a check for several thousand dollars and sit back, waiting for the buzz to build.

What usually happens? Sure, most publicists will get you something. A few reviews, maybe a feature or two. It’s rare that they come up completely empty. But more often than not, what they deliver falls short of what you were hoping for. And let’s be real—you didn’t spend $3,000, $4,000, or even $5,000 just for a couple blurbs. So you walk away saying, “This publicist was terrible,” or “This whole publicity thing just doesn’t work.”

But here’s the hard truth: most times, it’s not the publicist’s fault. It’s yours.

You put all the responsibility on them and did nothing to build interest yourself. You treated them like a magician rather than a megaphone. And that’s a mistake. If you really want to benefit from hiring a publicist, you can’t expect them to create the spotlight. You have to be the spotlight. Their job is to amplify what you’ve already built. They reflect attention; they don’t create it out of thin air.

If the only thing you’ve created is the music, that’s not enough. You need to cultivate a sense of presence, context, and narrative around your work. That’s what people connect to. And that’s what makes a publicist’s job actually work.

When I think about the books that I publish, it’s rarely the case that they just come out of nowhere. I’m usually writing on my blog, engaging people with ideas, sharing thoughts as they develop. I’m giving people a steady sense of who I am as a writer, how I think, what I care about.

So when a book finally drops, there’s already a relationship in place. People recognize the voice. They say, “Oh yeah, I know that guy. I like his ideas. Let me check this out.” That’s the result of groundwork—of staying present, being visible, and building trust over time.

And none of that is about scamming people or tricking them into buying something. It’s not a hustle. It’s just an honest continuation of a conversation that’s already happening. That’s the key. Engagement isn’t about selling; it’s about sharing. It’s about staying connected in a way that feels natural, not forced.

There are plenty of ways to engage. One approach that musicians used to use more often, though it’s fallen out of fashion a bit, is the full-on crowdfunding campaign. You’d raise money for your project and, in the process, get people excited about the recording. Fans weren’t just emotionally invested—they were financially invested. They had skin in the game. And so when the project finally came out, they felt a sense of ownership. It mattered more to them because they were part of it.

Now, I’m not saying everyone needs to go back to those days or that crowdfunding is the only way to build connection. But it’s a great example of how involvement creates engagement. There are other ways to do the same thing, just in smaller and more casual ways.

You can invite people into your process. For instance, say you’re trying to decide on an album cover—post a few options and ask, “Hey, which one do you like best?” Or you’re stuck between a few different title ideas. Put them out there and ask for input. Or maybe you just had a photo shoot and you’re torn between a couple images. Ask your audience which one speaks to them.

These may seem like little things, but they go a long way. They’re not gimmicks. They’re honest ways of saying: “Hey, I value your input. You’re part of this with me.”

It shifts the dynamic from “Here’s my finished product, come buy it” to “We’ve been building this together.” And when people feel like they’ve been part of the journey, they’re far more likely to care about the destination.

At the end of the day, you have to decide the best way to get your music out into the world. But my main point is this: engagement doesn’t start when the CD is finished—it starts much earlier. You’ve got to bring people into the vault, into the process, long before the final product is ready. That way, you stay in the driver’s seat.

Don’t just hand over all your power, and your money, to a publicist and hope for the best. Sometimes the most effective strategies are free. They just require time, honesty, and a willingness to connect.

Thanks for reading.

From Piracy to Obscurity: The Shift in the Artist’s Greatest Fear

2025-07-22T07:10:00.000-07:00

Not long ago, the primary concern for working musicians, particularly those in jazz, was the unauthorized use of their work. Piracy, bootlegging, and exploitative recording contracts that demanded portions of an artist’s publishing were seen as the greatest threats to creative ownership. Artists operated with a defensive posture. Sharing ideas too freely meant risking the loss of control over one’s own music.

I recall a performance years ago; a trio gig. Midway through a tune, the bassist noticed someone in the audience filming. Without hesitation, he stopped playing and insisted I ask the man to put the camera away. Besides from being unprofessional, that moment captured the anxiety of the time. Even rehearsal tapes came with firm instructions: “Don’t let anyone hear this.” Ideas were treated as intellectual property in the strictest sense—something to be protected, even hoarded, until they could be officially released.

Today, that fear has largely disappeared. And it has been replaced by something far more corrosive: the fear of being ignored.

We have shifted from an era of scarcity to one of saturation. The central problem facing many artists is not theft but indifference. In the past, the idea that someone might steal your music was alarming. Now, for many, it would almost be a compliment—an indication that the work was at least valuable enough to copy.

Where artists once protected their ideas with near-paranoia, today they flood the internet with content—live-streaming rehearsals, posting snippets of unfinished compositions, uploading fragments of gigs in the hope that something will catch fire. What was once guarded with secrecy is now offered up for free, often in real time.

I frequently perform with younger musicians: primarily members of Gen Z. One striking difference I’ve observed is how naturally they document and share performances. After certain gigs, I’ll receive notifications linking to several video clips, all posted to Instagram within hours.

Far from being a nuisance, this has proven beneficial. It allows me to revisit moments from the performance, and in many ways, it functions as post-concert promotion. Because the music is improvised, I have no concern over copyright. What matters more is that someone attending the gig found the moment compelling enough to record and share. That sense of value, of something being worth capturing, is not insignificant.

The other side of this shift, however, is worth considering. Does constant visibility risk diminishing an artist’s impact? Oversaturation may not only lead to audience fatigue, but also erode the sense of mystique that once surrounded public figures.

There was a time when musicians existed at a distance. They appeared in limited, curated contexts—on stage, film, television, or a crafted magazine interviews. Outside of those formats, they were largely inaccessible. That distance itself created a kind of reverence. You rarely saw them, and when you did, you paid for the privilege.

In the age of social media, that separation has vanished. Musicians and artists alike, now present themselves daily—via tweets, livestreams, TikTok videos, and casual behind-the-scenes clips. What was once extraordinary becomes routine. The mystique that comes with scarcity has been replaced by the banality of constant exposure.

Of course, one could reject this trend and choose to remain offline. But in doing so, the risk is not mystery—it’s irrelevance. The platform economy moves quickly, and opting out often means being left behind. So the artist today must navigate an impossible contradiction: be visible, but not overly familiar; be present, but not predictable.

Still, the broader trend is clear. Musicians today feel compelled to remain visible at all times. There is an unspoken belief that if you are not constantly producing content, you will disappear from public consciousness. As Art Blakey once said, “In this business, you’re either appearing or disappearing.” That used to be a commentary on the need for artistic urgency. Today, it feels more like a sentence handed down by the culture of digital media.

The fear isn’t being copied.

It’s being forgotten.

Have we traded artistic integrity for attention?

Or have we just shifted the spotlight—from excellence to engagement, from soul to scroll?

In a world ruled by algorithms, perhaps the real art is learning how to be seen without disappearing.

The DownBeat Critics Poll: Recognition, Incentives, and the Reality of the Game

2025-07-11T10:04:00.000-07:00

Each year, the DownBeat Critics Poll is released to much fanfare in the jazz world. Critics cast their votes on the musicians they believe have done exemplary work over the past year. For some, it brings joy—a tangible nod to years of effort. For others, it brings disappointment or even bitterness. But if we step back and examine the incentives and mechanics behind this recognition, it becomes clear: this isn’t a meritocracy in any meaningful sense. It’s a popularity contest filtered through a specific, narrow lens.

The question isn’t who’s best. The real question is whose name came up most often when a group of critics—who, like all of us, operate under constraints of time, taste, and visibility—filled out a ballot. It is not a rigorous process of comparison, nor is it grounded in some objective ranking of artistry. It’s about presence in the discourse, not necessarily excellence in the music.

This is not an indictment of the winners. Many of them are excellent musicians. But their recognition is the outcome of an ecosystem structured around attention—not necessarily innovation, depth, or longevity.

Unlike a grant process where work is reviewed, scored, and debated, the Critics Poll operates on something much simpler: memory and visibility. Critics submit names under predefined categories—Tenor Saxophonist, Pianist, Rising Star Trumpeter, and so on. The ballots are counted, and whoever gets the most votes wins. No debates. No deliberation. No quality control. Just numbers.

So when someone says, “How did they win?” the answer isn’t always found in the music—it’s in the mechanisms.

If your work didn’t receive a critical spotlight, you’re at a disadvantage. If your release didn’t appear on a major label, or wasn’t reviewed in the “right” places, or didn’t feature collaborators with high visibility, it likely never entered the critics’ field of vision. That’s not injustice. That’s just how the system is structured.

I play the soprano saxophone exclusively. I could release an album that breaks ground sonically and artistically, and yet if it doesn’t circulate among the critical class, it won’t matter. Meanwhile, a well-known tenor player who plays soprano on one track of a widely praised album will place higher in the soprano category. Perhaps even win it. Not because their soprano work is better—but because the album got attention. That’s not personal. That’s structural.

People often confuse desires with incentives. Many musicians desire recognition. But if they ignore the incentives of the system they’re in, they shouldn’t be surprised when recognition doesn’t come. The system rewards visibility, association, and presentation—not necessarily excellence in a vacuum.

And I get it. For the winners, it can feel like a long-awaited validation—especially in a field as isolating and underpaid as jazz often is. You start thinking maybe the sacrifices were worth it. For others, the absence stings. Not because they believe awards define their worth, but because they’ve invested decades, sometimes quietly, in a craft that rarely makes headlines. It’s not about ego—it’s about wanting to know your work reached someone. And when it doesn’t show up in these results, it can feel like you’re invisible.

And just as visibility shapes who gets noticed, format shapes how your work is interpreted. The same music can be perceived entirely differently depending on how it’s packaged.

Want to be known as a serious composer? A piano trio won’t cut it. Critics associate composition with large ensembles—seven, eight, or nine instruments. Whether the music is through-composed or freely improvised hardly matters. The ensemble size alone signals “serious writing” to many critics. That perception often carries more weight than the actual structure or process behind the music.

If you want to climb the polls, you have to operate within the system’s logic. That might mean collaborating with higher-profile musicians, performing in high-visibility settings, or tailoring your work to formats that critics recognize as legitimate. That’s not selling out. That’s understanding the rules of the game.

This isn’t a moral critique—it’s an economic one. Recognition is a scarce good, and critics allocate it with limited information. That leads to predictable outcomes.

So if your name didn’t make the list this year, don’t despair—and certainly don’t take it personally. Just be clear-eyed about what the system rewards. And then make a choice: either engage those incentives, or focus on building your own path outside of them.

Either is valid. But confusing the poll for a referendum on your value? That’s a category error.

As it’s often said in the world of economics: there are no solutions, only trade-offs. And understanding that is the first step toward sanity in this business.

The Double-Edged Sword of Technical Proficiency in Jazz: A Hard Look at Art in the Age of AI

2025-07-04T07:18:00.000-07:00

In an era increasingly obsessed with measurable outcomes and flawless execution, it’s no surprise that the world of jazz—once a sanctuary for raw expression and individual voice—has not escaped this trend. Over the past decade, there has been a noticeable rise in the technical abilities of young jazz musicians. Social media clips and conservatory recitals overflow with lightning-fast runs, impossible intervallic leaps, and harmonic sophistication far beyond what was typical even twenty years ago.

At first glance, this appears to be an unequivocal victory for the art form. After all, what teacher wouldn’t want their students to play in tune, in time, and with a deep understanding of harmony? But progress, like everything else in life, comes with tradeoffs. And the tradeoff we now face is subtle but significant: as technique rises, meaning seems to diminish.

We are witnessing, in real time, a shift from the expressive to the mechanical.

I remember my own time at Berklee College of Music. It was a crucible of talent, competition, and relentless ambition. Among the many gifted players was Scottish saxophonist Tommy Smith—already a prodigy when he walked through the doors at sixteen, with only four years of playing under his belt. His command of the instrument was stunning, and his rapid ascent only confirmed the depth of his abilities. Being surrounded by such musicians was both inspiring and, at times, paralyzing. It made me question my own place in the music, and more deeply, what I hoped to contribute.

What I eventually discovered—and what so often gets lost in today’s race for technical mastery and jazz vocabulary display—is that fast fingers and encyclopedic regurgitation alone cannot carry the emotional freight of great art. Technique is a tool to create language. And like any language, it’s not what you say that matters most, but what you mean. The greatest players—those who endure—aren’t always the most technically advanced, but the ones who play with conviction, clarity of identity, and a willingness to be vulnerable.

In my own creative practice, especially through prepared saxophone and extended techniques, I’ve chosen a path that falls outside traditional measures of proficiency. It’s not always understood. And it’s certainly not for everyone. But that’s precisely the point. If your work resonates with everyone, chances are it doesn’t go deep enough to truly move anyone.

This brings us to a broader cultural moment: the growing presence of artificial intelligence–like values in art.

AI, by its very nature, thrives on patterns, probability, and imitation. It can write sonatas, generate paintings, and even mimic the cadence of a jazz solo with stunning fidelity. But fidelity is not the same as soul. AI does not long. It does not mourn. It does not celebrate. It merely aggregates the longings, losses, and triumphs of others—and rearranges them into a new format.

To the uncritical eye, this may seem like creativity. But it is creativity without cost. And art without cost is, at best, decoration.

Young musicians growing up in this climate face a dilemma that previous generations did not. They’re pulled between the seductive ease of digital-like precision and the messy, unpredictable terrain of authentic expression. It’s easier to quantify speed than sincerity. Easier to teach harmony than humility. Easier to program a performance than to cultivate a voice.

But jazz—at its best—was never about ease. It was born out of struggle, shaped by improvisation, and carried forward by those brave enough to sound like themselves, even when doing so went against prevailing norms. It wasn’t about being polished. It was about being personal.

If we’re not careful, we may end up with a generation of musicians who can dazzle but not move us. Who can impress but not inspire. Who, despite having everything—sound, speed, and skill—somehow still leave us cold.

The purpose of art is not to prove how much we know. It is to remind others—and ourselves—that we feel. When someone walks away from a performance not thinking, “I could never do that,” but instead, “That made me want to try,” then something profound has taken place. That’s the moment when technique bows to meaning—when the intellect yields to the heart.

And in that moment, we are no longer simply musicians. We are human beings in conversation with other human beings.

That’s something no machine can replicate.

And it’s something we should never stop defending.

Cannonball Adderley on the Soprano Sax

2025-03-12T14:24:00.000-07:00

In his 1970 DownBeat interview, Cannonball Adderley reflected on his struggles with the soprano saxophone:

“It’s a total new experience for me because it is not like the alto sax or the tenor sax; it takes another kind of technique to play it well. I have much more admiration for Sidney Bechet now than I ever did, although I always loved him musically.

This realization hits home for anyone who has spent serious time with the soprano. I still cringe thinking of my first notes. I actually made the fatal mistake of accepting a recording session after having owned it for only a few weeks. Big mistake. I’d just graduated from Berklee and needed the money. However, the guilt of having sabotaged that poor guys session was not what I needed.

Like many saxophonists, I assumed that because it shares fingerings with the alto and tenor, transitioning to it should be straightforward. This could not be further from the truth. But Adderley was right—it demands an entirely different approach. The embouchure is less forgiving, air support must be more focused, and the instrument’s inherent instability means that control is everything.

For a musician as masterful as Adderley to acknowledge this speaks volumes. It suggests that even the most accomplished saxophonists cannot simply “pick up” the soprano and expect to sound great. The instrument demands commitment. And people aware of my journey, know that "commitment" is my middle name.

Adderley was an alto master—his tone, articulation, and phrasing were second to none. But even he quickly recognized that the soprano is its own beast. His words challenge a common assumption among saxophonists: that the soprano is just a smaller saxophone, a quick doubling instrument. In reality, it requires a complete recalibration of approach.

This is something I’ve seen over and over. Many players pick up the soprano for its range and expressiveness, only to struggle with pitch control and sound depth. They can play fast, but the notes often end up as some sonic mush. Adderley’s comment reminds us that the soprano doesn’t reward casual engagement. You either put in the work, or the instrument exposes you.

One of Adderley’s keenist observations was about the soprano’s notorious tuning difficulties:

“The technical aspects of being a good soprano saxophone player are frightening. You have to use what we call a tempered intonation concept because you can’t find an instrument that is really built in tune. Consequently, as you play, you have to make adjustments for the intonation in order to maintain a sound."

Frightening is the right word. Even today, despite decades of instrument design improvements, a perfectly in-tune soprano saxophone is hard to find--even though it's getting close. The player is responsible for making real-time pitch corrections, often on a subconscious level. It’s not just about knowing which notes are sharp or flat—it’s about developing the ability to bend pitch instinctively while maintaining a consistent sound. Oral cavity awareness is everything.

This is one of the main reasons so few saxophonists truly master the soprano. It requires a heightened sense of intonation compared to other saxophones. On an alto or tenor, you can get away with minor pitch inconsistencies—on a soprano, they stick out like a sore thumb. Adderley clearly grasped this reality early on, and it may explain why he never made the instrument a major part of his voice.

Adderley also touched on the soprano saxophone’s lineage, acknowledging two dominant figures:

“Of course, John Coltrane was the outstanding modern soprano sax player, so it is difficult to find some way to play an instrument which only has the major Sidney Bechet and John Coltrane influences ongoing."

This is a fascinating statement. In 1970, it was largely true—the soprano saxophone, at least in the jazz world, was still defined by these two giants. Bechet’s explosive, vibrato-heavy New Orleans style represented one lineage, while Coltrane’s modal explorations created a new modern framework. Lacy was around, and certainly had made several landmark recordings, but he was documenting a lot of his important work in Europe during this period.

But what about today? Have we moved beyond this binary? Absolutely! Steve Lacy pioneered a stark, angular approach, treating the soprano as a vehicle for avant-garde improvisation. Wayne Shorter developed a more fluid, compositional a voice. Jane Ira Bloom, Evan Parker, and Dave Liebman have each pushed the instrument into new sonic territories. And as quiet as it’s kept, Branford Marsalis created a new post-bop/Ornette Coleman sensibility that brought a new generation of saxophonists to the straight horn table.

Adderley's words still resonate today because they capture something every serious soprano player understands: this instrument doesn’t come easy. It requires precision, patience, and a willingness to engage with its challenges. Adderley’s brief encounter with the soprano may not have led to a lasting relationship, but his reflections on it remain as relevant as ever.

For those of us who have put in the time, there’s no greater reward than finding a true voice on the soprano sax. It may not be built in tune, but when played with mastery, there’s nothing else like it.

Here's an example of Cannonball doing his rare soprano thing on his 1968 release, Accent on Africa.

Click here to view the full article.

https://drive.google.com/file/d/1jq5Ot-ox6nXKlHjW00akn2s05PVSbU9A/view?usp=sharing

Shout out to all of my straight horn brothers and sisters, spreading the tonal message. These are in no particular order of importance. And I apologize to those whose names I may have overlooked.

Jane Bunnett

Harri Sjöström

Jan Gabarek

Kayla Milmine

Jonathan Kay

Gianni Mimmo

Michael Veal

Michel Doneda

Michael Foster

Rodney Chapman

John Butcher

Vinny Golia

Catherine Sikora

And many others....

Embracing the Unscripted: Five Benefits from Playing Improvised Music

2025-03-09T13:17:00.000-07:00

Live at Freddy's Backroom with Eric Mandat, Brittney Karlson, and Nick Neuburg. Photo by Peter Gannushkin.

In recent years, I’ve found myself increasingly drawn to the world of improvised music—a realm where traditional boundaries dissolve and spontaneity takes on new meaning. While my background is rooted in straight-ahead jazz, where rhythm and harmony serve as the foundation, the freedom afforded by improvised music offers an entirely different creative landscape. It’s a place where the absence of preset rhythmic, harmonic, or melodic structures challenges me to invent on the spot and engage with the music in fresh, unexpected ways. This openness is a privilege, and although I hesitate to label myself an “improviser” in the purest sense, I have immense respect for those who inhabit this space daily.

Improvised music can be intimidating to musicians accustomed to the well-defined forms of traditional genres. For many, the transition may seem daunting because, unlike hard bop or other structured styles, improvised music does not rely on stringent harmonic or rhythmic frameworks. Yet, beyond its inherent unpredictability lies a host of benefits that can enrich any musician’s approach to improvisation and ensemble playing. Here are five significant advantages that improvised music offers to players of all styles and calibers:

1. Learning to Play More Spontaneously

One of the most liberating aspects of improvised music is its demand for spontaneity. Without a predetermined blueprint, every performance becomes a journey into the unknown. Musicians are encouraged to trust their instincts and allow ideas to evolve naturally in the moment. This skill—of performing with no fixed agenda—transcends genre boundaries, cultivating a flexibility that enhances creativity in any musical context. Whether you’re engaging in a structured solo or a collective improvisation, embracing spontaneity can open new pathways to expression.

2. Heightened Listening and Communication

In conventional musical settings, each musician often occupies a well-defined role. This can sometimes lead to a situation where individual players perform their parts without fully engaging with one another. In improvised music, however, every sound and gesture matters. With no score or set roles to rely on, players must listen intently to capture the direction and emotion of the moment. This heightened awareness fosters a deeper connection between musicians, enabling a more responsive and interactive performance. The result is a dynamic conversation where every instrument contributes to a constantly evolving narrative.

3. A Focus on Texture and Dynamics

Traditional forms often emphasize melodic lines and rhythmic patterns, but improvised music shifts the focus to the creation of soundscapes. In this context, texture and dynamics become essential tools for shaping the musical narrative. The static nature of some improvised passages invites musicians to explore subtle changes in timbre and volume, thereby cultivating moods that go beyond the typical constructs of melody and rhythm. This approach allows players to experiment with silence, space, and the interplay between different sonic elements, enriching the overall palette of the performance.

4. A Platform for Extended Techniques

Improvised music is renowned for its embrace of extended techniques—those unconventional methods that expand an instrument’s expressive range. Whether it’s producing two-fisted chordal clusters, experimenting with multi-phonics, or even incorporating everyday objects as percussive elements (imagine hitting a drumset with a fork or spoon), improvised music provides a fertile ground for innovation. These techniques challenge the traditional limits of instrument performance, inviting musicians to think outside the box and express their individuality in truly unique ways. This experimental spirit not only broadens one’s technical abilities but also pushes the boundaries of what is considered musically possible.

5. Rethinking Solo Architecture and Pacing

In a conventional song form, solos often follow a predictable arc. In improvised music, however, the absence of a preset structure forces musicians to consider the architecture of their solos more deliberately. Without the safety net of a defined chord progression or rhythm section, players must carefully craft the beginning, development, and conclusion of their improvisation. This self-awareness leads to a more deliberate pacing and a heightened sensitivity to the overall flow of the performance. The challenge lies in balancing spontaneity with structure—finding the right moments to push forward or pull back, building tension, and ultimately creating a coherent musical statement from seemingly disparate ideas.

Conclusion

While improvised music may not be for every musician, its benefits are undeniable. By embracing spontaneity, listening more intently, focusing on texture and dynamics, exploring extended techniques, and rethinking solo architecture, players can cultivate a deeper, more intuitive approach to music-making. These skills not only enrich improvised performances but also bring a fresh perspective to more conventional styles. Whether you’re a seasoned improviser or someone looking to expand your sonic vocabulary, improvised music offers invaluable lessons in creativity, expression, and collaboration.

The Lizard Brain and the Fear of the Unknown: How Survival Instincts Kill Creativity

2025-03-06T17:39:00.000-08:00

Deep in the core of our brain lies the amygdala, often called the “lizard brain.” One might say it’s a relic of our evolutionary past, designed to keep us alive. When faced with danger, it triggers the fight-or-flight response—an automatic reaction meant to protect us from threats. But in the modern world—filled with iPhones and social media, where survival is rarely about outrunning four-legged predators, this same mechanism sabotages creativity by making us fear the unknown.

Creativity demands risk. This is non-negotiable. It requires stepping into uncharted territory, making connections others don’t see, running towards the darkness, not the light, embracing the possibility of failure. Easier said than done, mind you. The lizard brain sees all of this as a threat. It whispers:

What if this idea doesn’t work?

What if people laugh at you?

What if you waste your time?

These fears, rooted in our biology, can manifest as perfectionism, procrastination, self-doubt, or clinging to familiar formulas instead of pushing boundaries.

Great artists, musicians, and thinkers have all had to wrestle with this resistance. The difference between those who create and those who don’t isn’t talent alone—it’s the ability to push past the fear. The jazz musician who dares to improvise beyond the comfort of familiar licks, the writer who puts controversial ideas to paper, the composer who experiments with dissonance—each of them has learned to override the lizard brain’s instinct to retreat.

David Bowie said it best: “If you feel safe in the area that you’re working in, you’re not working in the right area.”

Personally, I’m in constant battle with the lizard brain. But I have to remind myself that even though the lizard brain thinks it’s keeping me safe, the reality is that it’s keeping me stagnant.

One of the best ways to counteract this resistance is to recognize it for what it is: a biological reflex, not reality. Fear of failure isn’t an actual threat; it’s a signal that you’re on the edge of something new, something daring. By reframing fear as a necessary companion to creativity rather than an obstacle, we can learn to move forward in spite of it.

The lizard brain is never going away. And once you learn to use it to your advantage, you’ll see it as a signaling of new and exciting things to come. It will always try to pull you back into the blanket of the familiar. This is just the lizard brain being the lizard brain. But creativity lives in the unknown, and the only way to reach it is to override the part of your brain that tells you to stay safe. Or in the creative realm, to play safe.

Wayne Shorter, one of jazz’s most forward-thinking musicians, famously said, “You’ve got to go into the unknown. The unknown is where all the music is.”

I wouldn’t say that it’s where all of the music is. But it’s certainly the place where the most daring music lives.

As someone who plays a lot improvised music, I have trained myself to embrace uncertainty by making it a habit—reacting in real time, trusting instincts, and accepting mistakes as part of the process. Over time, repeated exposure to this rewires the brain, making uncertainty less intimidating and more inviting. Whether in music or life, improvisation provides a framework for stepping beyond fear and into discovery, proving that mastery is not about control but about embracing the unpredictable.

The unknown isn’t the enemy. It’s where the real magic happens.

Does Jazz Journalism Still Matter? A Look at Its Past, Present, and Uncertain Future

2025-02-23T13:45:00.000-08:00

For much of jazz history, journalists and critics shaped how the music was understood, celebrated, and, at times, dismissed. From the swing era to the avant-garde movements of the 1960s, they defined the narrative of jazz—for better or worse. But that power dynamic has shifted. In an era where musicians engage directly with audiences through social media and streaming platforms, one has to ask: does jazz journalism still serve a purpose?

Criticism has always been a double-edged sword. On one side, it has elevated artists and provided historical context. Writers like Nat Hentoff and Leonard Feather were instrumental in documenting and championing bebop when mainstream audiences still clung to swing. Publications like DownBeat gave space to discussions of race, culture, and jazz’s legitimacy as an art form.

But jazz journalism has also been a gatekeeper, often shaping public perception in ways that didn’t align with musicians themselves. Critics dismissed John Coltrane’s later work as “anti-jazz.” They failed to fully acknowledge the contributions of Black musicians in early jazz history. They drew rigid genre lines that sometimes alienated innovators. Nowadays, it may be just the opposite. They're probably to quick hail a developing musician still finding their way, as the future of the music. Which is dark on many levels.

Now, the intermediary role of the critic is vanishing. Musicians don’t need journalists to tell their stories. More importantly, neither do fans. Social media allows for direct engagement, and platforms like Bandcamp, Facebook, and YouTube let listeners discover music without waiting for a magazine’s approval. Personally, I get more engagement from Instagram than I ever would from a jazz publication. I can share ideas, get immediate feedback, and—best of all—not spend loads of cash on a publicist.

So, who is jazz journalism really serving now? Are they properly informing the public? Or just talking among themselves? With shrinking readerships, struggling legacy publications, and younger audiences consuming music differently, one has to wonder whether traditional jazz journalism has a future at all.

That said, there’s still value in informed, thoughtful writing about jazz. Not every musician has the time or skill to articulate their artistic vision through the written word. And while there’s novelty in a musician penning their own memoir or book of poetry, the literary quality often falls short. Of course, a poorly written book filled with truth and wisdom is still better than a well-written book that’s biased and misinformed. Musicians have an insight that resonates with other musicians—and with fans. I've self-published a couple of books of personal essays that most jazz writers would not consider to be noteworthy writing. But I guess it doesn't have to be, because my writing resonates with musicians. In fact, I doubt a single DownBeat writer has written anything as compelling as the pieces I’ve published on Soprano Sax Talk. And I say this humbly speaking. I'm free to be free in a way that they're not.

But if jazz journalism is to survive, it must evolve. Writers don’t all need to take piano lessons, but they do need to get out and hear the music in the trenches. They'll go to the Village Vanguard, or some show at the Winter Jazz Festival. But you won't see these folks at iBeam, Record Shop, P.I:T., Freddy's Backroom, or the Downtown Music Gallery, where new sounds, and players are emerging. Instead, they cling to establishment figures, recycling the same safe names. Meanwhile, the possible innovators of tomorrow go unnoticed while they continue to write yet another piece on A Love Supreme or Kind of Blue. It’s not that those records aren’t important, but the constant recycling of the same stories signals a lack of engagement with what’s happening now.

And then there’s the issue of forced narratives—where we’re told someone is “the future of jazz” based on little more than checked boxes--age, gender, ethnicity, sexual orientation. Take your pick. The industry’s push for representation sometimes prioritizes optics over substance, and calling that out isn’t about dismissing diversity—it’s about demanding that all artists, regardless of identity, be judged on the strength of their music, not their demographic profile. If jazz writers want to stay relevant, they should take risks, embrace unpredictability, and let the music—not industry politics—lead the conversation.

I’m not speaking from the sidelines here. I’m writing from the trenches—as a musician, as someone who has been on the receiving end of criticism, and as someone actively shaping the conversation through my blog. I know firsthand what’s being ignored, what’s being misunderstood, and what narratives are being pushed. The public no longer needs jazz journalists as intermediaries. So if they want to matter, they’d better start proving why they should.

At this point, what do they have to lose?

The Creative Power of Mess: Why Tidy Isn’t Always Better

2025-02-17T18:01:00.000-08:00

We’re constantly told that a clean, organized space leads to a clear, productive mind. Productivity gurus, minimalists, and self-help books all preach the same message: order equals efficiency. And while there’s some truth to that, I’d argue that too much tidiness can stifle creativity. Sometimes, a mess isn’t a distraction—it’s a catalyst.

I first realized this while preparing for a performance. If you’ve seen my work, you know what’s in front of me: wooden chimes, plastic tubes, balloons, machine hoses, bottles, mixing bowls—whatever I happen to bring that night. It looks like chaos, but that disorder is part of my process.

Early on, I tried to keep everything organized at the start of my set. But I quickly saw that neatness was working against me. Disorder became my creative freedom. My performances are entirely improvised, and my best ideas come when I stumble upon a new combination or repurpose an object in an unexpected way. The mess itself invites discovery.

Can a mess be a catalyst?

Creativity, like most of life, is rarely linear. It’s trial and error, chaos and breakthroughs, accidents and revelations. Some of history’s greatest minds thrived in disorder. Jazz drummer Art Blakey was once quoted as saying that “jazz started because somebody fucked up.”

A few examples:

• Beethoven composed in a whirlwind of scattered papers and jumbled notes. His desk was a mess, but from it came some of the most profound music ever written.

• Picasso’s studio was a chaotic mix of half-finished canvases and erratic brushstrokes. That creative disorder allowed him to challenge artistic norms.

• Einstein’s desk was famously cluttered with stacks of papers and books. His workspace mirrored his thought process—fluid, evolving, and unrestricted.

And I’ve known a few copyists who’ve had the misfortune of trying to interpret Wynton Marsalis’ musical score noodling. Of course, once put in front of capable musicians they became Grammy and Pulitzer Prize winning works.

What do all of these great thinkers have in common? None of them prioritized order over creation.

Their genius thrived in spaces where ideas could collide, shift, and transform.

And I guess this is my bigger point: a messy environment can offer freedom—the freedom to experiment, to fail, to rethink, and to stumble upon the unexpected. During my performances, I’m often working within the messiness of sound. Without this unstructured sonic environment, I would not feel inspired to push the sonic boundaries in the way that I do. The chaos gives me permission to reach for that which is not quite within my grasps. In this instance, creativity isn’t about control; it’s about exploration.

And please don’t think that I’m advocating that we all become environmental slobs, or forgo musical refinement. I’m just simply saying that a mess, as I see it, is not chaos without purpose. It’s a reflection of a mind in motion, a space where ideas are constantly forming, breaking apart, and reshaping. You just have to trust the process. Easier said than done.

A few words about perfectionism.

Perfectionism is a great motivator in terms of having high standards and pushing yourself and others around you to new heights. However, it can be creativity’s greatest barrier. The fear of making mistakes, of things being “out of place,” limits one’s ability to take risks. But creativity, on the other hand, thrives on imperfection. It requires us to willing to make a mess, to fail, and to discover something unexpected in the process.

So, don’t be afraid of the clutter. Whether it’s on your desk, in your head, or on the bandstand. Let it happen. Let that space reflect the creative energy at work. The next great idea might be hiding in the very mess you’ve been trying to clean up.

If you're interested in reading more of my ideas and thoughts on music, please check out my new book, Be Inspired, Stay Focused: Creativity, Learning and the Business of Music. CLICK HERE

Winning Isn’t Everything: Why the Grammys Don’t Define Great Music

2025-02-04T11:24:00.000-08:00

Every year, the music industry gathers for its biggest night—the Grammys. Artists get dressed in their most extravagant outfits, cameras flash, speeches are rehearsed, and someone inevitably gets “snubbed.” For decades, the Grammys have been positioned as the pinnacle of musical achievement. But here’s the thing: they don’t really matter. At least not the way we think.

Now, don’t get me wrong—I’m not one of those vocal Facebook warriors ranting about how the Grammys are a complete waste. In fact, I actually attended one year when my wife Meg Okura was nominated, and we had an amazing time. If you ever get the chance to go, you absolutely should. It’s an unforgettable experience—one for the scrapbook.

But my point is this: music is not about trophies, industry politics, or validation from a panel of voters. It’s about something far deeper—connection. That’s what keeps people coming back, not a gold-plated statue.

The Grammys is perceived as the ultimate authority on musical excellence. And for more commercial music, maybe it is. But for jazz, history tells a different story. Duke Ellington, one of America’s greatest composers, never won a competitive Grammy. John Coltrane, the architect of modern jazz saxophone, only won one—and it was posthumous. And we’ve all seen Grammy winners whose careers fade into obscurity just a few years later.

Whether or not you know this, the Grammy voting process is notoriously flawed. The awards are decided by industry insiders, many of whom have little understanding of non-commercial or independent music. It’s a system that rewards marketability and industry relationships over risk-taking and artistic substance. And let’s be real—geography plays a role, too.

Los Angeles isn’t just where the Grammys are held most years—it’s where the Recording Academy is headquartered, where major record labels are based, and, more importantly, where industry politics are strongest.

Musicians who live and work in L.A. have an undeniable advantage. They have more opportunities to network with Grammy voters, attend industry events, and get their music in front of the right people. Grammy campaigning is real—labels and management teams lobby for nominations through private listening sessions, marketing pushes, and behind-the-scenes deals. If you’re an artist working outside that system, you’re already at a disadvantage.

That doesn’t mean East Coast or international artists can’t win—many do. But the industry machinery favors those who are plugged into the L.A. ecosystem. The awards aren’t just about musical excellence—they’re about who’s connected and who plays the game.

So when did jazz musicians start caring about the Grammys?

For most of jazz history, the Grammys barely registered as a concern for serious musicians. Thelonious Monk, Charles Mingus, and Sun Ra weren’t waiting around for this kind of industry approval. They built their own paths, made their own music, and let time determine their legacy. The Grammys were an afterthought, at best—an event designed for pop stars, not artists who viewed music as an evolving conversation rather than a competition.

But in recent years, the Grammys have somehow become a career milestone for many jazz musicians, viewed as the pinnacle measure of success. Why? Because in an era where grants, festival bookings, and institutional recognition hold more weight than album sales, the phrase “Grammy-winning artist” opens doors. It’s a nice sound bite, a marketable credential that looks good on a press release.

But let’s be honest—winning a Grammy isn’t just about making great music. It’s about having the right people behind you, pulling the right strings. In all honesty, this is probably the case with most forms of recognition.

The ones who benefit most from the Grammys aren’t the indie musicians—it’s the consultants, publicists, and industry insiders who make a living lobbying Grammy voters on an artist’s behalf. Grammy lobbying is good business. Labels and management teams invest in Grammy campaigns, hiring specialists whose job is to ensure that the right people hear the right records at the right time.

Historically, independent artists were rarely part of that machine. But today, many jazz musicians have bought into the idea that the Grammys is the ultimate validation.

The problem with the Grammys is that it has become as race to determine who’s “the best.” But real music doesn’t work that way. When you listen to a Coltrane solo, a Monk composition, or a raw Robert Johnson recording from the Mississippi Delta, you’re not thinking about awards. You’re feeling something. That feeling—of connection, of recognition, of transcendence—is what makes music powerful.

A lack of a Grammy doesn’t make an artist irrelevant. What matters is the one's ability to move people—to stir something in the soul, to inspire, to challenge, to heal.

For all the hardworking folks who have won Grammys, congratulations. For those who haven’t—that’s okay too. I’m sure you have other sound bites you can use.

Because at the end of the day, it’s not about the trophy. It’s about the music. And no award can measure that.

Should Musicians Work a Day Job or Play Uninspiring Gigs?

2025-01-27T10:46:00.005-08:00

I'd like to begin by saying that making a living solely from performing seemed like a pipe dream for much of my early musical career. Finding ways to supplement my income has always been something I’ve had to consider. When I decided to play the soprano exclusively, the challenge of achieving financial stability reached new heights.

I still remember many years ago sitting at a table at Bradley’s, a then-popular after-hours jazz club, listening to musicians complain about not making enough money from their gigs. Realizing it was getting late, I excused myself, mentioning that I had to wake up early the next morning. One of the musicians asked if I had a flight to catch—back then, that usually meant Europe or Japan. Feeling a bit embarrassed, I revealed that I needed to get up for my temp job, probably working in an office or mailroom. I’ll never forget the looks on their faces, as if one of their colleagues worked a typical 9-to-5 job. Back then, there was an industry that enabled many musicians to make a decent living—a scenario that seems almost elusive today. I mention this to show that I understand this situation well.

But back to the original question: Is it better to work a day job or play uninspiring gigs?

As a musician, balancing passion and practicality is a recurring dilemma. Unless you’re one of the select few, when it comes to earning a living as a musician, two common paths often emerge: working a non-music-related day job or playing gigs that don’t ignite your creativity. Mind you, I know plenty of musicians who make a good living playing only the music they love. But for many, this is not the case. This is not always a refoection on a player’s abilities. I know some amazing players who simply grew tired of the rat race, and found happiness doing other things.

The Case for a Non-Music Day Job

A steady, non-music-related job, as uninspiring as it may be, offers financial stability, sometimes health benefits, and more importantly, a clear boundary between work and creative pursuits. Many musicians find this approach liberating, as it allows them to reserve their artistic energy for projects they truly care about. However, a five-day workweek, 9-to-5, can be time-consuming and leave little room for practicing, networking, and sometimes actual gigging, especially if it involves traveling.

As someone with a full-time teaching job, I'm well aware of the musical sacrifices made by having to report to work several days a week. In fact, I feel a little guilty about some of the gigs I've had to cancel for others, simply because I did not have time to properly practice the charts. When you have full days of teaching, grading papers, and endless administrative duties, working on a young musician’s charts with a different time signature every other measure takes a back burner. Nowadays, I make sure to assess the time commitment before accepting most gigs. Otherwise, it's unfair to me and to the person looking to have their music properly performed.

The Case for Uninspiring Gigs

Performing even at uninspiring gigs keeps you in the music world, hones your skills, and provides a direct income from your craft—which is a good thing. It can lead to networking opportunities and, many times, rewarding experiences. Contrary to popular belief, not all wedding gigs are dreadful; sometimes you get to play really cool music with great musicians. On the downside, playing for money alone can eventually sap your passion, making playing music feel like a chore rather than an art form. However, this will only happen if you allow it. I'm a firm believer that if you want it bad enough, you’ll find a way to make it work. And besides, a horn on the stage, is worth two in the case. You get what I'm saying!

Which Path Is Right for You?

The decision depends on your long-term goals. A day job may offer peace of mind and financial security, while uninspiring gigs allow you to remain active in music, even if they challenge your artistic integrity.

Ultimately, a hybrid approach—doing as many inspiring gigs as possible while maintaining a flexible day job—might strike the best balance. Either way, your path should align with both your financial needs and your creative aspirations.

We’re living in an age where many musicians don’t automatically assume that only performing will be their norm. Some of my favorite players didn’t even major in music in college. As times become more challenging, musicians are having to become equally creative off the bandstand when it comes to diversifying their hustle. This doesn’t have to tarnish the joy and beauty of being a musician. If anything, it makes that much more enjoyable.

I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments! Which path have you taken, and how has it shaped your journey? Maybe you have some tips for relieving the financial burden of being an artist that might help some up-and-coming players. Whether we know it or not, we’re all in this fight together.

Civil Rights Era Envy: Are We Marching Forward or Standing Still?

2025-01-20T14:05:00.000-08:00

On this Martin Luther King Jr. Day, I'm reflecting on his enduring influence much like a jazz musician listens closely to a familiar melody—attentive to every subtle shift and pause. Dr. King's approach to change was thoughtful and nuanced, blending deep moral insight with practical steps toward justice. His legacy reminds us that effective activism is not about loud declarations alone, but about listening, adapting, and finding the right notes to move society forward. As I consider today's challenges, his example encourages a careful, measured approach to pursuing lasting change.

During my sophomore year at Berklee, the spring semester began under a cloud of uncertainty. Word spread quickly that the teachers, frustrated with their contracts, had officially decided to go on strike. Their demands likely revolved around the usual grievances in academia: better pay, manageable teaching hours, and job security. For us students, however, the strike wasn’t about labor negotiations; it was about our education and our dreams. The idea that our path to success might be stalled indefinitely felt almost existential.

Tensions escalated when a group of Black professors crossed the picket line to continue teaching. Their decision, though practical—they had bills to pay—drew sharp criticism. The picketing teachers, mostly white, called them “scabs," a term deeply entrenched in labor disputes. However, in the heated context of race relations, some professors interpreted “scab” as a code for the N-word.

This moment of racial tension sparked a reaction. Black students rallied to act as escorts for the strikebreaking professors, framing their actions as a stand against racial injustice. From where I stood, their efforts seemed to overinflate the stakes, equating these professors’ choice to cross a picket line with monumental civil rights struggles. No one was denied a job, brutalized by the police, or living under systemic segregation. Yet, the protesters carried themselves as though this was the next chapter in the fight against racial oppression.

I watched my peers assemble on Massachusetts Avenue, shoulders squared, exuding self-congratulation. "Rebels without a cause," as I like to put it. They were ready to escort the professors across the street like heroes emerging from the pages of history. While their intentions were noble, their actions felt misplaced. They weren’t rallying because these professors had been singled out for racial discrimination—they were upset because the professors weren’t being coddled. In that moment, they weren’t seen as Black professors breaking a strike; they were simply strikebreakers. In other words, they were treated like equals.

What’s ironic about the Berklee strike is that, years later, many of the same students who had marched to escort the professors benefited from the increased wages and improved conditions that the strikers fought to achieve. So did the scabs whom they were protecting. This is often the case: when we fail to take a more nuanced view of situations involving race relations, we run the risk of protesting against our own best interests—or at least being willing to protest without seeing the bigger picture.

Looking at today’s political climate, I see parallels everywhere. Over the past several years, activism has surged, particularly in response to racial injustice. Movements like Black Lives Matter have inspired massive protests, both in the U.S. and abroad. In 2020, the murder of George Floyd set off a cascade of changes, many of them impressive: Minneapolis banned the use of chokeholds. New Jersey updated its use-of-force guidelines for the first time in decades. Confederate monuments were toppled across the South. The street in front of the White House was renamed “Black Lives Matter Plaza.” These were tangible shifts sparked by collective action.

But amid these victories, I noticed something missing. In the rush to demand accountability from institutions, police forces, and white America, little was said about what changes Black America might need to make. Conversations about personal accountability, community responsibility, or the alarming rates of violence within Black communities were drowned out.

We seem to suffer from what I call Civil Rights Era envy. How can we not? It was during that period that Black America had a unified sense of purpose. Blacks from all walks of life were united in their effort to overthrow white supremacy. We finally had center stage, not only in the mainstream media but in the consciousness of mainstream America. Lady Liberty was reinventing herself, and we were leading the way.

It was a time of immense pride and strength. The shell of white supremacy was cracked open, and the world watched as we collectively mopped away the yolk of racial oppression. But in our yearning to replicate that feeling, we sometimes misdirect our energy, rallying around causes that don’t always serve our long-term interests.

Blacks in America are in an awkward position. We're the only group who fears being expelled from our race—at least in the court of public opinion. Unfortunately, the extreme left has also borrowed from this playbook of ideological manipulation. And it doesn’t take much. Bill Cosby spent years and millions of dollars in support of Black America, particularly HBCUs. He gave one speech pushing Black America to step up to the plate, and he was forever demonized. Pretty harsh stuff.

This fear keeps us tethered to a dangerous kind of collectivism. Standing out as an individual—or expressing views that deviate from the dominant narrative—can quickly result in being labeled a “sellout,” “Oreo,” or worse. This fear stifles meaningful dialogue within our communities and holds us back from embracing the diversity of thought that could empower us to solve our most pressing issues.

If there’s one lesson I’ve carried from Berklee to today, it’s this: Activism without nuance is activism without progress. As a developing musician, imagine if your teacher just said, “Your playing sucks!” That’s far different from a more nuanced assessment where tangible weaknesses are identified: poor intonation, inconsistent instrumental facility, or limited jazz vocabulary. Taking a measured and detailed assessment allows you to work toward meaningful progress.

Protests are no different. Modern movements, like musicians, risk stalling their progress when they refuse to identify specific, tangible goals and address inconvenient truths. A musician who ignores critique and simply practices louder or faster will only amplify their weaknesses. Similarly, movements that rely on symbolic victories without substantive follow-through—like renaming a street or tearing down a statue—may feel triumphant in the moment but fail to address systemic problems at their roots.

Great music, like great activism, isn’t just about volume. It’s about clarity, intention, and precision. A powerful solo is built on honesty—the willingness to confront flaws and embrace growth. Movements need to embrace that same spirit of intentionality, seeking to harmonize their passion with concrete strategies for systemic change.

The Civil Rights Era was powerful because it had clear goals and a unified sense of purpose. Like a well-composed piece of music, it had structure, vision, and a relentless pursuit of excellence. Modern movements risk losing that power if they devolve into performative gestures or avoid engaging with uncomfortable realities.

True progress isn’t about being loud. It’s about being honest—with each other and with ourselves.

As we honor Martin Luther King Jr., his legacy calls us to approach our work with the calm precision of a seasoned jazz musician. True progress requires us to tune into the complexities around us, to engage with honesty and intention much like a musician crafts a delicate solo. By grounding our activism in thoughtful critique and clear goals, we echo Dr. King's spirit. In doing so, we not only pay homage to his memory but also ensure that our modern movements move forward with measured purpose, crafting a future of meaningful and lasting change.

Are You Building a Career or Just Doing Gigs?

2025-01-12T09:41:00.000-08:00

As musicians, we’ve all been there—balancing a packed calendar of gigs while trying to stay true to our artistic vision. Keep in mind, having a filled calendar is an accomplished within itself, so it's certainly nothing to snub. But at some point, we do have to stop and ask: Am I building a career, or am I just keeping busy?

For many, it’s not an easy question, but it’s one we must face if we want to create a life in music that’s both meaningful and sustainable.

Gigs are the lifeblood of a musician’s journey. They’re immediate. They pay the bills, help to hone your craft, and keep you visible. Like many, I’ve often said yes to almost every gig. Big or small, glamorous or gritty, it didn’t matter. At the time, it didn’t matter. I was on the scene, getting my name out there. It's what you do.

But over time, I began to notice something: even though the work was steady, a lot of it didn’t seem to be adding up to anything bigger. The gigs felt like isolated dots with no clear line connecting them. That’s when I began to realize that playing gigs for the sake of playing gigs wasn’t enough.

The bigger question: What’s the difference between gigs and a career?

A gig is a moment. A career is a journey.

When you’re building a career, you’re thinking beyond the next paycheck. You’re asking yourself:

• Who am I as an artist?

• What do I want to contribute to the musical landscape?

• How can I leave a lasting impact, both musically and artistically?

It’s about crafting a vision and staying true to it, even when the day-to-day grind tries to pull you in different directions.

A few words about the dangers of the gig trap.

The danger of the gig mentality is that it can lead to complacency. When you’re only gigging just to stay afloat, you can lose sight of your artistic vision You might find yourself saying yes to gigs that don’t inspire you or align with your goals. And over time, this can drain your energy and make you question why you started playing music in the first place. Mind you, not all of us have the luxury to pick and choose. I’ve been there. Playing some party gig that’s more about ambiance than artistry can make you feel invisible.

Jokingly, I've noted that musicians go through three stages of gigging:

Stage 1: Trying to get the gig.
Stage 2: Getting the gig.
Stage 3: Complaining about the gig.

Back to my point. The problem isn’t the gig itself—it’s the lack of balance. If all your energy goes into maintaining a busy schedule, there’s no room to build something bigger. This is where we can get behind the wheel and shift our focus.

Where possible, the key is to use gigs as a means to an end, not the end itself. Ask yourself:

• Does this gig move me closer to my artistic goals?

• Will it challenge me creatively or help me grow?

• Can it connect me with people or opportunities that align with my vision?

If the answer is no, you might want to think carefully before saying yes. Every gig you accept takes time and energy away from something else. Make sure it’s worth it.

A few words about building a career.

Building a career as I see it takes intention. It’s about finding clarity in your purpose and taking deliberate steps toward your goals. Here are a few things that have helped me:

1. Define Your Artistic Voice

Spend time exploring who you are as a musician. What do you want to say? Your voice is your currency—it’s what sets you apart.

2. Invest in Your Legacy

Record your music. Compose. Write (as in words). Create something tangible that people can connect with. Your body of work will outlive any single gig.

3. Diversify Your Income Streams

Gigs are just one piece of the puzzle. Teaching, composing, writing books and articles, recording, applying for grants can all give you stability and freedom to pursue your art without compromise. I would even say don't be too prideful about having a non-musical hustle. Many have confessed that they're happier doing non-musical jobs than gigs that drain their creative spirit and cloud their focus.

4. Build Relationships

Networking isn’t just about landing gigs; it’s about connecting with like-minded individuals who inspire and challenge you.

How do we define success?

At the end of the day, the definition of success is deeply personal. Some musicians thrive on the energy of gigging. Others aspire to build a legacy that extends beyond the stage. There’s no right or wrong path—only the one that feels authentic to you.

The real question is: Are you making choices that align with your values and goals? Whether you’re playing a restaurant gig, headlining a festival, or posting musical excerpts on social media, the power lies in being intentional about your path.

The choice is yours.

Maybe You’re Just Not Good Enough

2024-12-23T12:23:00.000-08:00

Sometimes when I hear fellow artists gripe about not getting their due, being underrated, or feeling wronged by the unfair industry as a whole, my first thought is: Well, maybe you’re just not good enough. It’s harsh, I know. And it cuts right to the core of something most of us fear—myself included. But before you get too riled up, let me explain: this isn’t about tearing someone down. It’s about challenging them to confront a hard truth and grow from it. It’s about reframing what “good enough” really means and turning it into a call to action.

Because here’s the truth: “good enough” isn’t some universal standard. It’s deeply personal. It’s not about being as good as someone else—it’s about being good enough to succeed with what you have to offer. And maybe, just maybe, that means you’re not there yet. And that’s okay. This way of thinking has gotten me over numerous musical and emotional hurdles.

It’s easy to look at someone else’s success and think, “Why not me?” But the reality is, their strengths aren’t your strengths, and their circumstances aren’t your circumstances. In other words, “you’re not them.”

The person with traditional good looks might attract attention effortlessly. The naturally charismatic person might walk into a room and instantly command the crowd. The flashy performer might turn heads and bring down the house like it’s just another day at the office.

But what if you’re not any of those things? What if you’re the one who has to try harder? Does that mean you’re not good enough? Not at all. It just means you need to figure out how to work with what you have, not what someone else has.

I consider myself a very shy person, with the charisma of a pair of socks, who will never be the life of the party. However, I am a very good listener and inquisitive conversationalist. If you sit next to me on a plane, I’ll know your whole life story by the time we land. Or if you share something with me at a party or after a gig, I’ll probably mention it the next time I see you. Even if it’s not until three years later.

These kinds of things enable me to build much deeper connections than the loud guy wearing the lampshade constantly bragging about his accomplishments. Similarly, the subtle artist with modest technique and a left-of-center vision may not dazzle immediately, but they can create work with layers of depth and meaning that resonate long after the musical moment has passed.

When you have to try harder, you learn things others might never bother to understand. You discover how to adapt, how to innovate, and how to lean into your own strengths. Effort doesn’t make you less capable—it makes you more resourceful.

Of all the tenor saxophonists who were associated with the Young Lions period of the 1990s, today, my playing sounds the most radically different. Some may not agree, but I was probably the least skilled of all of those players. So, as a consequence, I had to devise a different plan of creative action. Otherwise, I felt I’d just spend eternity playing catch up.

Switching to the soprano saxophone, even though I suddenly found myself extremely limited—technically, sonically, musically—I felt liberated not having to be in a race, of which I was the slowest runner. I not only had to think outside the box, I had to build my own box.

Which brings me back to my original point: being “good enough” doesn’t mean meeting someone else’s standard. It means reaching a level where you can succeed in your own way, with your own tools. It means building your own box.

If you’re less outgoing, you might need to be more deliberate about forming more personal, musical, and business relationships. If you don’t have that kind of flash that makes the industry beat down your door, you might have to form your own network of gigs, players, and audiences—a world where your unique qualities are valued. One thing the internet has taught us is that there’s room for everybody.

The key is to stop chasing someone else’s career path and start forging your own.

Maybe you’re just not good enough yet. Or better yet, maybe you are good enough but haven’t figured out how to leverage your strengths. Either way, that’s not the end of the story—it’s the beginning. Being “good enough” isn’t about fitting into someone else’s mold. It’s about shaping your path in a way that makes your strengths shine. Success isn’t one-size-fits-all. It’s about making your own way with what you’ve got.

“Maybe you’re just not good enough” isn’t a judgment; it’s a challenge. It’s a reminder that your journey isn’t about being like someone else. It’s about becoming the version of you that’s capable of thriving, no matter where you start. Because in the end, “good enough” isn’t about them. It’s about you.

Imagination Unbound: The Case for Playing Experimental Music

2024-12-03T19:14:00.000-08:00

(Image by Peter Gannushkin)

Some musicians hold the belief that those who exclusively play experimental music either lack the discipline to fully master their craft or rely on abstract soundscapes to mask their limitations. In other words, they can't "really play." According to this perspective, being able to "really play" is defined by being able to improvise over moderate to advanced harmonic structures in sync with a moderate to advanced rhythmic backdrop—a demanding skill set that I continue to refine in my own practice.

Even if they don’t say it outright, the implication is clear. I share this, not to stir up controversy, but to set the stage for a broader discussion. Before I explain why I disagree with these assertions and why I personally focus on experimental concepts, let me first introduce an intriguing study that illuminates the nature of creativity: the NASA imagination test.

Developed by Dr. George Land and Beth Jarman, the test was designed to measure the creative potential of NASA's rocket scientists and engineers, identifying those with the most innovative thinking--maybe even the future game changers. The test was highly effective. Curious about its broader implications, Land and Jarman extended the study to children, testing 1,600 kids between the ages of four and five.

The results were astonishing: Ninety eight percent of the children scored in the genius category of being able to come up with innovative ideas or solutions to problems.

But what followed was even more surprising. When the same children were tested five years later, at age ten, only 30% still scored as creative geniuses—a 68% drop. By age fifteen, the number plummeted to 12%. Among adults over 31, only 2% remained in the genius category.

These are pretty surprising numbers. But does this mean we’re getting less intelligent as we get older? Not at all. By conventional standards, a fifteen-year-old knows far more math and language than a five-year-old. But as the study proves, while we grow in skills and knowledge, we lose much of our imagination—a loss often attributed to education systems that prioritize correct answers over creative exploration.

This brings us to two key ways we learn:

Divergent thinking taps into imagination, allowing us to explore new possibilities and uncharted paths.
Convergent thinking emphasizes judgment, critique, and arriving at a single correct answer—skills vital for acing exams but often stifling creativity.

So, why do I gravitate toward experimental music?

You might say that I’m striving to reconnect with the imaginative genius I likely possessed as a five-year-old. And the only way to do this is to undo the regressive effects of an educational system that valued correctness over creativity. As a budding young player, I definitely learned that there was a correct and incorrect way to play jazz. Two and four, or hit the door! While I admittedly left Berklee College of Music with a better sound, more instrumental technique, and a more vast knowledge of the language of jazz. I was probably more imaginative in high school—before years of convergent thinking dulled that instinct. In fact, the biggest critique that people had of my playing was that I needed to loosen up. Nowadays, they probably think that I need to play by the rules a little more.

Several years ago, I recall touring the West Coast with drummer Leon Parker and giving a clinic at a college along the way. Leon made it known that he was unimpressed with the older students who performed for us, but when a 12-year-old stepped up, despite his limited skills and knowledge, Leon was captivated. What stood out was the kid's imagination. His ability to take the music to unexpected places—something missing in the more skilled but rigid older students.

This phenomenon is common. Many music students, like myself, leave college more skilled but less creative than they were in high school and probably junior high. They’ve been groomed to "play it right," with creativity often taking a backseat to technical proficiency. This is why many young jazz stars play in linear, predictable ways—they’ve been trained to reach a musical destination rather than to explore the journey. Sadly, many don't seem to break out of this, even as they become older and more experienced.

I do understand the importance of discipline, technique, and knowledge. But only focusing on these things, keeps us in the weeds. To arrive at new and unexplored creative outcomes we need to see a much broader creative terrain.

When teaching my music appreciation class at LIU-Brooklyn, I use an improvisation exercise where students collectively create a story on the spot. The rules are simple:

Connect each statement to the one before it.
Keep it brief.
Don’t overthink.

College students, ages 18–21, often struggle with this. They hesitate, saying things like:

"I don’t know what to say."
"Nothing’s coming to me."
"This is too hard."

By contrast, younger children I've tried this with, excel at this activity. They’re spontaneous, silly, and unafraid, focusing on fun and imagination. This aligns perfectly with Land and Jarman’s findings.

Similarly, experimental music appeals to me because it fosters this kind of divergent thinking, keeping my creativity alive and my spirit youthful. I feel as inspired today as I did in high school--a stark contrast to many of my peers who struggle to keep music fresh after decades of treading the same paths. I guess when you know how a movie is going to end, how many times can you watch it and still get excited. For me, experimental music isn’t about sounding "correct" but about being free—spreading sonic hope and reminding us that possibilities are endless. It’s like gazing at the sky instead of the ground: one inspires boundlessness, the other containment.

As Picasso famously said, "It took me four years to learn to paint like Raphael, but a lifetime to paint like a child." Like Picasso, I’m simply trying to return to that five-year-old version of myself who was bursting with creative genius.

And to further illustrate my point, here's a fun clip from a performance with Brandon Lopez on bass and Nick Neuburg on drums. We're definitely channeling our inner five-year-old!

Is Improvised Music the Last Refuge from Identity Politics?

2024-11-21T16:40:00.000-08:00

If I had to choose one word to exemplify improvised music, it would be freedom. A close second would be defiance. But as I’ve become more immersed in the scene, I’ve come to see it as something else: a political safe haven.

Improvised music offers a space where creative minds can come together without being defined by race, gender, or political affiliations. It also rejects rigid genre boundaries. I’ve played unforgettable gigs with musicians whose backgrounds span classical music, indie rock, electronica, and East Asian folk traditions. Somehow, despite—or perhaps because of—these differences, the music works.

In this world, what matters most is your voice, your creativity, and your ability to collaborate. It reminds me of the meritocracy jazz once represented, where the music itself was the ultimate test. However, in recent years, jazz has become increasingly entangled with identity politics and the pressures of diversity, equity, and inclusion (DEI) initiatives.

This entanglement doesn’t exist in a vacuum. It’s rooted in a history of systemic exclusion in the United States, which understandably leaves many with a burning desire to correct past wrongs. Fighting for equal opportunity can bring us together. But when the focus shifts to enforcing equal outcomes, it risks pushing us into our neutral corners, emphasizing division over collaboration.

In traditional jazz settings, it’s hard to escape labels: the female bass player, the white drummer, the Black cellist, or the Asian pianist. Ironically, many musicians don’t resist these labels—they embrace them, turning them into calling cards. This strategy can provide a career boost, giving artists an edge in an increasingly competitive market. And I get it—sometimes, you have to use what you’ve got to get what you can.

However, when granting organizations, bandleaders, and music festivals prioritize DEI metrics over artistic merit, it puts musicians in a difficult position. Many feel forced to filter their music through the lens of race, gender, and sexuality as their primary mechanism for career survival. While these initiatives aim to expand representation, they can inadvertently shift focus away from the music itself. I firmly believe that when you perform and create and think about anything other than “How does this sound?” you do yourself, the listener, and the music a disservice.

That said, there are exceptions. Organizations like Arts for Art, which presents the Vision Festival and many other improvised music events, balance political activism with cutting-edge music. Their mission is more aligned with the activist tendencies of the ’60s free jazz movement, which is deeply rooted in Black culture and the and the sometimes contentious relationship between European classical traditions and jazz. However, these organizations are rare.

Back to my original point, this kind of identity-based thinking feels like a precarious long-term strategy. Audiences might buy a recording or attend a concert for identity-based reasons, but they won’t keep coming back unless the music itself is compelling. Reducing an artist to their demographic identity diminishes their artistry. Imagine framing John Coltrane as merely an African American saxophonist or Mary Lou Williams as simply a female pianist. Such labels do a disservice to their legacies, overshadowing the universal brilliance of their music.

Among younger improvisers, there’s a noticeable tendency to move beyond these preoccupations, focusing instead on the art itself. This generational shift offers hope that future discussions about music will center more on creativity and less on categories.

By contrast, in improvised music, these labels seem to hold less weight. When you see someone on stage in this setting, the assumption is that they’re there because they have something original to say.

Take my own experience, for instance. More often than not, I’m the only Black musician in the group—sometimes even the only Black person in the venue that week. And yet, I’ve never felt I was there for any reason other than the uniqueness of what I do. Few people do what I do. I just happen to be Black. And I'm not atypical. Most players I've encountered have carved out a similar niche for themselves.

Perhaps this is why improvised music feels like the last refuge from identity politics. It prioritizes individuality and collaboration over predefined categories. It thrives on risk-taking, experimentation, and personal expression—all of which transcend labels.

As other musical genres still grapple with identity politics, improvised music offers a powerful reminder: true artistry is about what’s in your heart, not your demographic identity. By keeping freedom and defiance at its core, this music proves that creativity flourishes when we let go of rigid categories and embrace the limitless potential of the human spirit.

Why I’m OK at the Bottom of the Polls

2024-11-17T19:46:00.000-08:00

Recently, I shared that I was included in this year’s DownBeat readers’ poll. While my ranking wasn’t particularly high, I’m honored to be included at all—especially given the idiosyncratic nature of my music.

Posts like this tend to spark mixed reactions—many positive, but some dismissing such polls as exclusionary or meaningless.

I’d like to offer a more nuanced perspective. First, let me say that being part of a poll like this is not some grand referendum on an artist’s work. There’s no elite panel of experts gathered around a mahogany table debating who’s “worthy” and who isn’t. The process is much simpler. DownBeat sends its subscribers a link with numerous categories, each featuring at least 30 names—maybe more—and asks them to vote for their favorites. There’s even an option to write in a nominee. The whole process probably takes 10 to 15 minutes, tops. Clearly, it’s not designed for deep deliberation, so it’s hard to take it too seriously.

Name recognition plays a huge role. If Bill Clinton appeared in the “Tenor Saxophone” category, he might outpoll Hank Mobley—just as Jeff Goldblum might outrank Sonny Criss on piano. You see what I mean.

I’ve never expected to appeal to DownBeat readers—and that’s not a slight against them. I welcome them all. But their tastes reflect the artists they’re most exposed to. My music, however, exists outside those boundaries—not tied to the mainstream festivals or label backing. I’d like to think that what I create exists in a realm where art isn’t constrained by expectation or commercial appeal. Simply: me being the change I'd like to see. Or in this case, the sonic change I'd like to hear.

In fact, the magazine has been very kind to me. They’ve featured me in a multi-page article, invited me to take the Blindfold Test, and awarded two of my solo recordings 5-star reviews. DownBeat has shown me more love than any other jazz publication. Their readers are passionate music fans who genuinely love the art form.

But let’s face it—DownBeat readers are typically exposed to artists who get booked at mainstream festivals, played on commercial jazz radio, or signed to labels committed to the established status quo. Which often means having a budget to take our ads in magazines. Then there are those players heavily involved with the high school festivals. This is why members of the JALC crowd might consistently outpoll artists from scenes like Arts for Art or High Zero Festival—let alone more experimental spaces like iBeam or Downtown Music Gallery (DMG).

And that’s okay. I’m happy to be included because it’s proof that there’s still room for unconventional voices in this broader conversation. These moments might seem small, but they signal something bigger: a willingness—however tentative—to look beyond the familiar and engage with music that challenges the norm. In a field as dynamic as jazz, even a glimmer of recognition for the unexpected is meaningful.

These polls aren’t designed for artists like me. Again, I mean this in the most positive of lights. They cater to musicians who reinforce the status quo—what jazz “should” sound like and where it’s expected to go, which often means looking backward or staying stuck in place. It’s comfort food for the ears. After all, no one goes to McDonald’s expecting a groundbreaking sandwich. Though, I've heard the new Chicken Big Mac is pretty good!

But here’s the thing: every vote matters, even just one. That single vote is a spark—a quiet but clear signal that someone out there is listening differently, thinking differently, and ready to embrace something new. Where there’s one, there are more—people waiting, watching, and eager for change when the time feels right. It reminds me why I play the music I do: to reach those ears, challenge those expectations, and keep the possibility of something different alive.

My One and Only Roy Haynes Story

2024-11-12T17:49:00.000-08:00

When I first moved to New York, Roy Haynes was one of the first drummers I played with—not on a gig, but at his place out in Long Island.

Back then, I was fresh blood, and I was fortunate to have many generous hands extended to help me find my way. One of those was from saxophonist Donald Harrison. I’d met Donald while I was a student at Berklee, probably at a jam session at Walky’s or Connely’s. He was encouraging and told me to give him a call when I got to New York. So I did. I think I arrived on a Tuesday, called him on Wednesday, and by Saturday, I was in a car with Donald, James Genus, Mark Whitfield, and Dave Kikowski, headed to jam at Roy’s place.

Roy’s longtime saxophonist, Ralph Moore, was leaving, and word was spreading fast that his chair was open. Donald was trying to help me step in.

After we played, Roy was complimentary and said he’d like to play together again. A couple of months later, though, I was hit with a brutal flu, likely from lack of sleep, poor eating habits, and a pack-a-day cigarette habit. After four days of being sick, not touching my horn, and questioning my life choices, Roy called.

He told me a European promoter had asked him to bring a band and said he’d been thinking about having me play. He had his doubts but wanted to give me another shot.

With a little coaxing, I took the train out to Long Island, and we spent the entire afternoon playing sax-and-drum duets. It was pure heaven. I didn’t get the gig in the end, and while the experience, exposure, and money would have been welcome, I was just grateful to have had those precious moments with him.

To this day, it’s still one of my most cherished musical memories.

Thank you, Mr. Haynes, for a lifetime of music, memories, and swing.

Extended Techniques for Saxophone: Reed Straw Improvisation

2024-06-11T20:49:00.000-07:00