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.

Substance Over Symbolism: An Honest Look at What Went Wrong

After such a turbulent election, there’s a collective sigh of relief—it’s finally over. This was as tense as they come, marked by insults, relentless propaganda, and a surprising outcome. Yet for some, the result wasn’t a shock.

Obviously, this isn’t about taking sides; it’s about reflecting on accountability. I come from the creative community, so many of my friends lean left, some passionately so, and I understand the shared disappointment. To say this election didn’t go well for Democrats is an understatement—they lost the electoral vote, the popular vote, the House, and the Senate. It’s a hard blow.

I expected people to be upset, but I didn’t expect such a lack of introspection. No one seems to be asking, “What went wrong?” Instead, we’re caught in the usual blame game.

Some public figures have voiced deep disappointment with the country’s direction, others vow to leave, and accusations of sexism, racism, and fascism fly. But few are asking the harder question: was the candidate truly electable?

Despite the groundswell of support Kamala Harris received—nearly a billion dollars in backing, endorsements from major celebrities and influential figures like the Obamas and Clintons, even Oprah reportedly received a million dollars for her support—her message failed to connect. The media, arguably, went beyond supportive to outright biased, heralding her as democracy’s savior before she had shared a single policy. This wasn’t a scrappy, underdog campaign; it was structured to win by a landslide. In fact, many would argue that Trump wasn’t even running against Harris. His real opponent was the democratic machine.

So what happened?

The answer is simple: without a clear message, even the best communicator falters. Even a skilled musician can’t make a poorly composed melody sound beautiful. Similarly, Harris’s campaign lacked a message that spoke to voters' real concerns. Her political song lacked a resonating verse and a memorable chorus. 

Instead of addressing the daily struggles of inflation, job insecurity, and rising costs, her message focused on abstract ideals like “defending democracy,” “protecting freedoms,” and “turning the page.” Noble concepts, but without tangible solutions, they felt distant and ungrounded. While the campaign highlighted important ideals like democracy and freedom, many voters were looking for solutions tied more closely to their immediate challenges.

To be fair, Harris faced an uphill battle out of the gate. She inherited a struggling administration and was expected to lead it with little support from Biden. Once she accepted the nomination, she took on all its challenges: an uncontrolled border, record-high prices, and two active wars. No wonder she avoided the press early on—what could she say?

Her strategy—however flawed—may have been her only choice: avoid the tough questions, rely on supportive media, and stick to the script like a well-rehearsed actor.

At first, this worked. But eventually, people began to ask: Who are you? How will you make life better for us? That was the beginning of the end.

On the campaign trail, she scrambled to piece together a last-minute strategy, all while reinventing herself as a moderate—a leap off a cliff, hoping to grow wings on the way down. I can relate; when I transitioned from hard bop on tenor sax to cross-cultural soprano, it felt like diving headlong into the unknown. But Harris’s challenge was greater: if she revealed her true self—the Kamala before the vice presidency—many would see her as Bernie Sanders in a pantsuit, or as Senator John Kennedy joked, "AOC without the bartending experience."

In the end, she faced a nearly impossible task. 

Like him or not, Donald Trump is a formidable opponent on the campaign trail, bringing a style of “WWF politics” that even Hulk Hogan endorsed. With Biden’s record anchoring her campaign, the Democratic Party put Harris in a cage match she couldn’t win.

After the debates, it was clear she wasn’t resonating with voters. Why would she? Most of the policies she inherited weren’t her own, aside from abortion rights—which got overshadowed by larger economic concerns. She was dealt a weak hand—a pair of twos in a game of political poker.

When polling showed she wasn’t resonating with young Black men, Obama was brought in to rally them. But rather than understanding their concerns, he proclaimed it was their duty as “brithuz,” to throw their support behind Harris, reducing them to a monolithic voting bloc rather than individuals who also wanted pay their bills and feed their families. In truth, they were more concerned with economic stability than identity politics.

If we conclude this election simply proves “America is sexist and racist,” we miss the deeper lesson. These issues matter, but they don’t explain everything. This election suggests a need to move beyond identity politics and address people’s day-to-day concerns. In challenging times, the pressing demands of everyday life—paying bills, securing jobs—can overshadow broader social issues.

Accountability isn’t about blame; it’s about understanding what resonated and what didn’t. Democrats, for example, could ask why certain groups—like Black and Hispanic men—drifted away. Was it the message, the policies, or something else? Building true support requires listening to people as individuals, not demographics.

This election underscores the importance of substance over symbolism. The issues that weighed most heavily were economic: inflation, job security, housing, food costs. These tangible concerns demand real solutions—policies that directly address rising costs and create jobs—not lofty appeals to “save democracy.” Instead, the Harris campaign focused on symbolic battles, leaving the struggles of working-class Americans largely unaddressed.

Many of Harris’s critics, largely from the right, called her an unskilled politician. I see it differently: she is skilled, perhaps too much so. This was her problem. You can’t dance and sidestep your way to the Oval Office, dodging the inevitable blows. That she rose as far as she did was a feat, her artful evasions more frustrating than flawed. But as the election results revealed, her “word-salads” alone could not seal the deal. The American people wanted substance—a message of meat and potatoes, something to sink their teeth into.

The bottom line: without accountability, there can be no progress. If leaders, parties, and the media aren’t willing to question themselves, they’ll keep alienating voters and failing to meet real challenges. Those who see the results as solely a reflection of sexism or racism are missing the bigger picture. This narrow view helped put Trump in office and will prevent candidates like Kamala Harris from ever reaching the White House.

Real progress comes from understanding what resonates with voters and responding to their immediate concerns. Without that accountability, we’re destined to repeat the same mistakes. True reflection and accountability aren’t signs of weakness; they’re strengths that make genuine progress possible.

It’s understandable to feel frustration toward Trump, and even those who voted for him. But what should perhaps stir even deeper anger is this: you were given a candidate who seemed unlikely to win, and then pressured to push aside your reservations, to fall in line, and keep quiet.

The Lesson of Authenticity: What Artists and Politicians Alike Can Learn

Life is full of lessons—some subtle, some stark—each with the potential to deepen our understanding of who we are as artists and as people. Our most recent election, for instance, reminded us of the importance of authenticity. Authenticity, as I understand it, isn’t about who you claim to be; it’s about who you consistently show yourself to be. And in this case, Donald Trump understood how to project a consistent persona, regardless of public opinion—something Kamala Harris struggled to match, for better or worse.

Throughout the campaign, we saw a bright, capable woman often struggle to answer even basic questions—unless she was given them ahead of time, with a carefully prepared response. Former presidential candidate Andrew Yang pointed out that Harris tended to “overthink” her answers, which made her appear less authentic and hindered her ability to connect with voters. To compensate, she sometimes engaged in what’s known as code-switching—changing her speech patterns and vernacular to match the group she was addressing. The most memorable moment came when, speaking at a Black church in Detroit, she suddenly switched to a style of speaking like a Deep South pastor. It was so forced that it came across as scripted and comical.

This kind of inauthenticity is troubling for any public figure. It stifles connection. It’s something we, as artists, have all struggled with at one point or another. That’s why one of the first lessons music teachers often instill is: When you get on stage, be yourself. Or, as Oscar Wilde put it, “Be yourself; everyone else is already taken.”

On a certain level, I felt for Harris. As artists, we know what it’s like to feel unable to reveal who we really are. Sometimes, the struggle to appear as someone we’re not is so consuming, it can feel like losing a part of ourselves.

Politically, Harris leans far to the left. This is her background and pedigree. Her father, Donald Harris, was a progressive economist focused on inequality, while her mother, Shyamala Gopalan, was an active member of the Afro-American Association, a group that inspired the Black Panther Party and included figures like Bobby Seale and Huey Newton. This activist upbringing deeply influenced Kamala Harris’s worldview, even as she sought to portray herself as a moderate to gain broader appeal. During one of their debates, President Trump taunted her, saying her “Marxist father taught her well”—a comment that likely highlighted for some the divide between her upbringing and the more centrist image she was now trying to present.

When I think of that famous footage of her leaving the Washington, DC record store carrying Charles Mingus albums, it says it all. I’m only speculating, but I wouldn’t be surprised if she was drawn to Mingus as much for his outspoken politics as for his music.

In jazz, authenticity isn’t just valued—it’s essential. The “fake it till you make it” mentality doesn’t work here; in fact, being inauthentic will ensure you don’t succeed. For example, many musicians who tried to follow Kenny G’s smooth jazz formula quickly discovered it did not work for them. This sort of artistic dishonesty is difficult to sustain when it doesn’t align with your true voice. Whether you enjoy his music or not, Kenny G remains true to himself. Had Steve Lacy tried to make a smooth jazz record, it likely would have felt forced, both musically and commercially. Lacy was an uncompromising artist, at heart. Which is why he had such a devoted following. 

The lesson is simple: whether on a debate stage or a concert stage, you must embrace who you are—the good, the bad, and even the parts that may make you unpopular in some circles. It’s always better for your supporters to discover your authenticity sooner rather than later. Your job is not to make them follow, but to help them see clearly who they’re following.

It's fair to say that I appeal to a niche demographic. That’s fine with me. When people click on one of my videos, they know exactly what they’re getting. Over time, this builds trust—and hopefully, a following. I believe that if you try to make music for everyone, you end up making it for no one.

In closing, I'll just say this: In an age where AI offers technical perfection, what we truly crave is the raw, the real, and the unmistakably human. Let’s strive to bring that authenticity into every stage we step onto—be it a concert or a campaign trail.

Legacy Over Spotlight: The Artist's True Measure

One of the mistakes we make as artists is thinking like folks in the pop world—believing that success comes from a single recording. It’s hard not to fall into that trap. And if your recording isn’t successful, you’re left wondering: are people just not hearing it, or maybe you haven’t given them much to hear?

Having dealt with my fair share of record labels, I understand the pressure to create something that makes money, even at the expense of your artistic fulfillment. Trust me, just writing about this is triggering.

The truth is, there’s rarely anything in a record contract that speaks to the quality of the music—only the quantity. Specifically, the quantity of music sold. I’ve never heard of someone losing a record deal because the music wasn’t swinging or because the writing wasn’t great. So, I get why we sometimes think this way.

But this mindset is the opposite of what it means to be an artist. An artist’s focus should be on building a body of work, not just one or two recordings. I’ve never been to a gallery opening where they displayed only one painting. It sounds almost laughable. Even more absurd, imagine an artist spending thousands on renting a gallery and promoting a single piece. Yet, that’s exactly what musicians do when they go into debt for a record release gig. I’ve heard of musicians spending ten grand on publicists just to get a few reviews in mid-tier magazines. Don’t even get me started on the Grammy campaigns musicians pay for. That’s money that could go into producing another recording.

I’ve been guilty of using publicists myself, more than once. Almost twenty years ago, I got a tenure-track university position. For those who know the world of academia, you understand how important it is to have an impressive dossier when applying for reappointment every year during your six-year probationary period. I quickly learned that critical reviews are one of the most tangible metrics administrators use to assess the value of your work.

Because I was teaching full-time and racing against the clock of everyday life, I didn’t have time to take the traditional route—spending two years trying to get a record deal and hoping it would generate some reviews and gigs. So, I went straight to the publicist. Since solo saxophone recordings were easier and cheaper to produce, I released something every year and a half. I wasn’t trying to build a career or promote myself. I just needed the reviews for my dossier. But to my surprise, people started to notice the work. I began appearing on critics’ polls, in Facebook groups, and on blogs. I was building a career from my basement.

In hindsight, one reason this approach worked—quality of work aside—was because I was patient with the solo saxophone medium. I didn’t release a solo record, then a big band album, and then a quartet project. Not that this would have been wrong, but in the eyes of the public, I was building a vision-specific body of work, maybe even a legacy. A publicist once told me that most musicians’ mistake is releasing just one recording. I get it—a single recording doesn’t hold much weight. It’s like a visual artist trying to make a name with only one painting. There are always exceptions, of course.

I understand that time, money, and access to resources play significant roles in building a body of work. But today, it’s easier than ever before. If you have the drive and determination, it’s possible. You don’t need to wait around for someone to pick you—you can pick yourself.

Ultimately, we have to be patient with the process. Not everyone can win a contest and be hailed as the second coming. Not everyone will have a viral TikTok video. You have to look at your career as an artist through the lens of building long-term artistic wealth. You can either waste your money chasing metaphorical lottery tickets or strategically build wealth over a lifetime.

So don’t focus on being a one-hit wonder. Keep them wondering what you’re going to do next.

In the end, a single recording may fade, but a body of work lasts. The artists who endure are those who continually create, shaping not just a career, but a legacy.

Extended Techniques for Saxophone: Reed Straw Improvisation

 

Sam Newsome/Dave Liebman: The Art of Duo Improvisation

The recorded performance on July 21, 2023, at IBEAM in Brooklyn, New York, stands as a testament the rich tradition and evolution of improvised music that continues to thrive in New York and across the globe. This concert was part of the 2023 WOW Summer Festival, curated by drummer Rob Garcia.

The duo comprised soprano master Dave Liebman and myself, represents a fusion of diverse musical backgrounds and influences, converging to create an unparalleled sonic experience. Our collaboration, honed through numerous previous performances, reached its zenith on this memorable occasion.

Central to the dynamic interplay between Dave and me is our contrasting artistic approaches, each rooted in a deep understanding of the improvisational craft. My approach is more experimental, employing a myriad of extended techniques, from multi-phonics to horn preparations, often pushing the sonic boundaries of the soprano with a bold and experimental flair.

In stark contrast, Dave's approach is steeped in the rich tradition of modern jazz, drawing upon a vast vocabulary of melodic motifs and rhythmic intricacies. While eschewing extended techniques, Dave's virtuosity lies in his ability to weave intricate melodies and harmonies, captivating the listener with his emotive phrasing and lyrical storytelling. His penchant for prolonged melodic exploration adds a sense of continuity and depth to the improvisational dialogue, providing a counterbalance to my avant-garde sensibilities. Yet, it is precisely the juxtaposition of these divergent styles and approaches that lends the performance its captivating allure. 

Throughout our performance, Dave and I navigate a newly constructed sonic landscape together, creating music transcending the conventional boundaries of genre and form, guiding the listener on a journey of discovery and exploration. From moments of ethereal beauty to bursts of frenetic energy, our duo creates a musical tapestry that is unpredictable and deeply resonant.

At its core, our collaboration embodies the essence of improvised music – a fearless exploration of sound, texture, and emotion, unfettered by preconceived notions or conventions. Our performance stands as a testament to the enduring power of creativity and collaboration, reminding us of the boundless potential inherent in the art of spontaneous expression.

Please enjoy!