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.