Maybe You’re Just Not Good Enough

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Imagination Unbound: The Case for Playing Experimental Music

 

(Image by Peter Gannushkin)

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

This brings us to two key ways we learn:

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

So, why do I gravitate toward experimental music?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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!