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.