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.