Sam Newsome

Sam Newsome
"The potential for the saxophone is unlimited." - Steve Lacy



Tuesday, February 4, 2025

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


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.



Monday, January 27, 2025

Should Musicians Work a Day Job or Play Uninspiring Gigs?


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.

Monday, January 20, 2025

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







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.

 

Sunday, January 12, 2025

Are You Building a Career or Just Doing Gigs?


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.

Monday, December 23, 2024

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.

Tuesday, December 3, 2024

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!



Monday, December 2, 2024

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.

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

Every year, the music industry gathers for its biggest night—the Grammys. Artists get dressed in their most extravagant outfits, cameras fla...