Maybe You’re Just Not Good Enough

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

 

(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:

1. Connect each statement to the one before it.
2. Keep it brief.
3. 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!

From Swing to Swipe: Was Jazz the Social Media of Its Time?

Imagine a smoke-filled jazz club in 1940s Harlem. Musicians trade improvised riffs as writers, painters, and even gangsters mingle in the crowd. It’s not just music—it’s a gathering place, a cultural hub where ideas are exchanged and the status quo is challenged. In many ways, these jazz clubs were the hashtags of their time.

Today, we think of social media platforms like Facebook, TikTok, and Instagram as spaces for sharing ideas, engaging in discourse, or simply passing the time. Despite their flaws, they offer something essential: a sense of community—a virtual gathering place for people with shared values. In this way, they echo the role jazz played in American culture when it first emerged.

Beyond the genius musicians and swinging melodies, jazz thrived on the fringes of American entertainment, attracting those seeking something different—especially with the advent of bebop and free jazz. Much like how today’s audiences turn to charismatic YouTubers instead of mainstream anchors like Rachel Maddow or Anderson Cooper, jazz created a network for people dissatisfied with the status quo. It became a social hub for the intelligentsia of its time—a space for writers, philosophers, and marginalized voices to connect. For many, jazz was more than entertainment; it was a source of hope and innovation.

Let’s explore how jazz and social media overlap:

Community and Connectivity

Jazz brought together diverse groups of people in clubs and venues, creating a sense of belonging among musicians, artists, and fans. When mainstream venues shut their doors at night, jazz clubs were just warming up—often staying open until dawn. These spaces offered more than music; they were sanctuaries for cultural outsiders. And insiders, looking to flirt with the outside.

Similarly, social media creates virtual spaces where people with shared interests can connect, regardless of geography or time zones. Personally, I’ve met countless like-minded musicians and listeners through Instagram and Facebook. Hashtags streamline the process of finding your tribe, much like a Minton’s Playhouse jam session once did.

Expression and Innovation

Improvisation is the lifeblood of jazz. It demanded self-expression and pushed artistic boundaries. While much of society nudged people toward conformity, jazz compelled its community to break the mold. Charlie Parker’s groundbreaking solos or Ornette Coleman’s experiments with sound and form are testaments to this.

Social media, too, allows for self-expression and creativity on a global scale. Content creators use platforms to showcase individuality without the gatekeeping of mainstream systems. Whether it’s a viral dance on TikTok or an Instagram artist reshaping visual culture, social media fosters the same spirit of boundary-pushing innovation.

Challenging the Status Quo

Jazz didn’t just entertain; it defied norms. During the Harlem Renaissance, it became a voice for marginalized communities, offering a counter-narrative to mainstream culture. By the 1960s, musicians like John Coltrane and Charles Mingus used their music to directly address racism and social injustice. Coltrane’s “Alabama” and Mingus’s “Fables of Faubus” remain powerful social commentaries to this day.

Social media similarly gives underserved individuals a platform, challenging traditional media. Voices that would otherwise go unheard now dispute legacy power structures. For example, independent podcasters like Joe Rogan often draw larger audiences than mainstream networks like CNN or ABC, echoing how jazz once pulled audiences away from the rigidity of classical music.

From Fringe to Mainstream

Jazz began as an underground genre, resonating with cultural outsiders before evolving into a global phenomenon. By the mid-20th century, it became an ambassador of democracy, embraced worldwide as a symbol of freedom and individuality. Its rise wasn’t without resistance—jazz was banned in Nazi Germany, even as it became a propaganda tool for American ideals during WWII.

Social media has undergone a similar trajectory. Initially dismissed as a niche pastime, it is now a dominant force in communication and culture, shaping everything from political discourse to global trends. Many politicians have even challenged the First Amendment in efforts to curb influencers’ control over hot-button topics in American discourse. Elon Musk’s purchase of Twitter (now X) is a direct result of these tensions, framed as a bid to preserve free speech.

Cultural Influence

Jazz shaped fashion, language, art, and social dynamics—sometimes controversially. Musicians defined what was “hip” both on and off the bandstand. Think of Lester Young’s porkpie hat or Dizzy Gillespie’s beret—symbols of individuality that inspired generations.

Social media wields similar power, driving global trends and defining modern aesthetics in real time. Influencers shape what we wear, what we eat, and even how we talk. Brands now rely on these digital trendsetters, just as 20th-century fashion looked to jazz icons for inspiration.

Collaboration and Interaction

Jazz thrived on collaboration. Jam sessions often sparked innovations that redefined the genre. Think of Coleman Hawkins and Lester Young engaging in “friendly battles” on the bandstand, pushing each other to new heights and, in the process, elevating the art form.

Social media fosters a digital version of this collaborative spirit. Comments, likes, and shared content create a dynamic exchange of ideas. While it may not replicate a Hawkins-Young showdown, the spirit of interaction and mutual inspiration persists.

Criticism and Controversy

Jazz faced harsh criticism in its early days. It was dismissed as rebellious, immoral, and even dangerous. Yet these critiques often reflected fear of its liberating potential and its association with marginalized communities.

Social media, too, is under constant scrutiny—for spreading misinformation, fostering polarization, and promoting superficiality. Like jazz, its moral compass is debated, but its transformative impact is undeniable.

Conclusion: A Universal Desire

Both jazz and social media reflect humanity’s shared desire for connection, self-expression, and the courage to challenge societal norms. While their differences are undeniable, their parallels remain striking. Like a late-night jam session or a trending hashtag, both have created new ways for people to connect, innovate, and challenge the world around them.

So, could social media be the jazz of our time? One thing is certain: both remind us of a universal truth—we all want to be heard.

Louis Armstrong: The Quiet Revolutionary

Louis Armstrong is widely celebrated as a musical genius who shaped jazz into what we know today. However, Armstrong wasn’t just a musical innovator—he was also a masterful political strategist who subtly transformed societal perceptions of race in America.

Armstrong’s genius went far beyond his music. Despite living in an era defined by systemic racism and segregation, he was able to navigate the complexities of American society with remarkable skill. Armstrong rarely addressed issues of race directly—one notable exception being his public criticism of President Eisenhower during the Little Rock crisis—but he consistently used his artistry to challenge stereotypes and break barriers.

Armstrong’s meteoric rise was not just national but global, achieving a level of success that seemed, at times, almost Faustian. It was as though Armstrong had made a “deal with the devil,” the devil being white America’s willingness to embrace his artistry so long as he did not directly challenge their racial biases. Yet this unspoken agreement gave Armstrong access to spaces few Black Americans of his time could enter.

In his book A Bound Man: Why We Are Excited About Obama and Why He Can’t Win, Shelby Steele provides a framework that helps explain Armstrong’s approach. Steele describes two archetypes of how Blacks in America navigate systemic racism: the “bargainer” and the “challenger.”

The “challenger,” exemplified by figures like Miles Davis, refuses to conform to societal norms or accept subordination. Davis famously refused to smile on stage, often turned his back on audiences, and was unapologetically confrontational.

The “bargainer,” by contrast, operates on an unspoken agreement: Let me share my art, and I won’t confront you about race. Armstrong fits this archetype. His genial persona and ever-present smile signaled that he would not make white audiences uncomfortable by addressing racial injustices. In return, Armstrong was granted a level of access and acclaim that was rare for a Black artist during segregation.

Yet this bargain was far from simple. Armstrong’s charm and talent were not mere appeasement; they were deliberate, calculated tools of navigation. By playing his role with precision, Armstrong gained entry into spaces from which Black Americans had been historically excluded. Once inside, he became a quiet but powerful agent of change, reshaping perceptions of Black excellence through his artistry.

Some believe Armstrong’s genial persona was a compromise, but it can also be seen as a deliberate strategy. By using his extraordinary talent and charm, Armstrong was able to transform the narrative of what Black excellence could look like. His artistry, though subtle in its social commentary, helped shift America’s cultural and social attitudes toward race.

Armstrong’s role as a cultural ambassador during the Cold War further highlights the complexity of his strategy. Sent abroad by the U.S. State Department to showcase American culture, Armstrong became an emblem of democracy and freedom. However, his presence also exposed the racial hypocrisy of a nation still grappling with segregation.

During tours in Africa, Europe, and Asia, Armstrong’s performances drew international audiences who were mesmerized by his artistry. His image as a successful Black American quietly challenged narratives of white supremacy and colonialism. In Ghana, for instance, Armstrong was warmly received by President Kwame Nkrumah, and his visit underscored the cultural connections between Black Americans and newly independent African nations. Yet, at the same time, his participation in these tours revealed the contradictions of the United States’ global image—a country promoting democracy abroad while failing to provide equality at home.

Armstrong’s presence created a kind of cognitive dissonance in white America. Here was a man representing a group routinely marginalized, yet he was universally loved and respected. His success challenged stereotypes simply by existing at such an extraordinary level of excellence.

This illustrates a belief I’ve always held: excellence is the best assault against prejudice. Even in the most racially exclusionary contexts, exceptional talent has the power to transcend prejudice, forcing a reevaluation of biases. For example, even at a school as racially exclusionary as one might imagine—let’s call it “KKK University”—if a Black athlete could lead them to a championship, they would likely not only welcome them onto the team but even treat them better than their white teammates. Such is the transcendent power of human achievement.

Armstrong, however, faced criticism from within the Black community for his approach. Some viewed his ever-present smile and geniality as perpetuating racial stereotypes. Malcolm X famously referred to him as an “Uncle Tom.” But Armstrong defended his strategy, insisting that his music and success were his forms of resistance. As he once wrote to a friend, “I don’t have time to be mad… I got my horn.” This sentiment captures the essence of his philosophy: excellence and persistence were his tools for dismantling prejudice.

In many ways, I believe Louis Armstrong paved the way for Barack Obama to become president. Like Armstrong, Obama often employed the “bargainer” strategy to navigate America’s racial terrain. By distancing himself from narratives centered on Black victimhood and avoiding overtly confrontational critiques of systemic racism, Obama ensured broader acceptance among a racially diverse electorate.

Obama’s brilliance lay in his ability to articulate an uplifting and unifying message—much like the notes that soared from Armstrong's horn--with a flair that spoke to people across divides. His calculated choice to embody optimism and diplomacy enabled him to navigate spaces few Black Americans had ever reached before. One of those spaces, of course, was the Oval Office.

Like Armstrong, Obama’s approach demonstrated the transformative power of navigating systemic barriers strategically. Both men redefined what was possible for Black Americans, transforming societal perceptions through strategy, excellence, and grace. Armstrong’s story reminds us that change can come in many forms—sometimes with a trumpet, sometimes with a campaign—but always with a clear understanding of the terrain.

Louis Armstrong’s legacy extends far beyond jazz. As a cultural icon, he paved the way for countless Black artists to succeed on their own terms, proving that brilliance and resilience could dismantle even the most entrenched barriers.

Armstrong’s role also inspires my own work as a Black jazz musician and soprano saxophonist, where I strive to challenge deeply ingrained stereotypes—not only about my instrument but societal expectations of Black men, in general. Like Armstrong, I aim to expand the narrative, using innovation, artistry, and grace to reshape perceptions of my race and redefine excellence in music.

Armstrong’s life demonstrates the complexity of navigating a world rife with prejudice. Whether through quiet diplomacy or bold confrontation, the ultimate lesson is this: excellence, when wielded with intention, can change the world.

Is Improvised Music the Last Refuge from Identity Politics?

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

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

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.