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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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