Does Jazz Journalism Still Matter? A Look at Its Past, Present, and Uncertain Future

For much of jazz history, journalists and critics shaped how the music was understood, celebrated, and, at times, dismissed. From the swing era to the avant-garde movements of the 1960s, they defined the narrative of jazz—for better or worse. But that power dynamic has shifted. In an era where musicians engage directly with audiences through social media and streaming platforms, one has to ask: does jazz journalism still serve a purpose?

Criticism has always been a double-edged sword. On one side, it has elevated artists and provided historical context. Writers like Nat Hentoff and Leonard Feather were instrumental in documenting and championing bebop when mainstream audiences still clung to swing. Publications like DownBeat gave space to discussions of race, culture, and jazz’s legitimacy as an art form.

But jazz journalism has also been a gatekeeper, often shaping public perception in ways that didn’t align with musicians themselves. Critics dismissed John Coltrane’s later work as “anti-jazz.” They failed to fully acknowledge the contributions of Black musicians in early jazz history. They drew rigid genre lines that sometimes alienated innovators. Nowadays, it may be just the opposite. They're probably to quick hail a developing musician still finding their way, as the future of the music. Which is dark on many levels. 

Now, the intermediary role of the critic is vanishing. Musicians don’t need journalists to tell their stories. More importantly, neither do fans. Social media allows for direct engagement, and platforms like Bandcamp, Facebook, and YouTube let listeners discover music without waiting for a magazine’s approval. Personally, I get more engagement from Instagram than I ever would from a jazz publication. I can share ideas, get immediate feedback, and—best of all—not spend loads of cash on a publicist.

So, who is jazz journalism really serving now? Are they properly informing the public? Or just talking among themselves? With shrinking readerships, struggling legacy publications, and younger audiences consuming music differently, one has to wonder whether traditional jazz journalism has a future at all.

That said, there’s still value in informed, thoughtful writing about jazz. Not every musician has the time or skill to articulate their artistic vision through the written word. And while there’s novelty in a musician penning their own memoir or book of poetry, the literary quality often falls short. Of course, a poorly written book filled with truth and wisdom is still better than a well-written book that’s biased and misinformed. Musicians have an insight that resonates with other musicians—and with fans. I've self-published a couple of books of personal essays that most jazz writers would not consider to be noteworthy writing. But I guess it doesn't have to be, because my writing resonates with musicians. In fact, I doubt a single DownBeat writer has written anything as compelling as the pieces I’ve published on Soprano Sax Talk. And I say this humbly speaking. I'm free to be free in a way that they're not.

But if jazz journalism is to survive, it must evolve. Writers don’t all need to take piano lessons, but they do need to get out and hear the music in the trenches. They'll go to the Village Vanguard, or some show at the Winter Jazz Festival. But you won't see these folks at iBeam, Record Shop, P.I:T., Freddy's Backroom, or the Downtown Music Gallery, where new sounds, and players are emerging. Instead, they cling to establishment figures, recycling the same safe names. Meanwhile, the possible innovators of tomorrow go unnoticed while they continue to write yet another piece on A Love Supreme or Kind of Blue. It’s not that those records aren’t important, but the constant recycling of the same stories signals a lack of engagement with what’s happening now.

And then there’s the issue of forced narratives—where we’re told someone is “the future of jazz” based on little more than checked boxes--age, gender, ethnicity, sexual orientation. Take your pick. The industry’s push for representation sometimes prioritizes optics over substance, and calling that out isn’t about dismissing diversity—it’s about demanding that all artists, regardless of identity, be judged on the strength of their music, not their demographic profile. If jazz writers want to stay relevant, they should take risks, embrace unpredictability, and let the music—not industry politics—lead the conversation.

I’m not speaking from the sidelines here. I’m writing from the trenches—as a musician, as someone who has been on the receiving end of criticism, and as someone actively shaping the conversation through my blog. I know firsthand what’s being ignored, what’s being misunderstood, and what narratives are being pushed. The public no longer needs jazz journalists as intermediaries. So if they want to matter, they’d better start proving why they should.

At this point, what do they have to lose?

The Creative Power of Mess: Why Tidy Isn’t Always Better

We’re constantly told that a clean, organized space leads to a clear, productive mind. Productivity gurus, minimalists, and self-help books all preach the same message: order equals efficiency. And while there’s some truth to that, I’d argue that too much tidiness can stifle creativity. Sometimes, a mess isn’t a distraction—it’s a catalyst.

I first realized this while preparing for a performance. If you’ve seen my work, you know what’s in front of me: wooden chimes, plastic tubes, balloons, machine hoses, bottles, mixing bowls—whatever I happen to bring that night. It looks like chaos, but that disorder is part of my process.

Early on, I tried to keep everything organized at the start of my set. But I quickly saw that neatness was working against me. Disorder became my creative freedom. My performances are entirely improvised, and my best ideas come when I stumble upon a new combination or repurpose an object in an unexpected way. The mess itself invites discovery.

Can a mess be a catalyst?

Creativity, like most of life, is rarely linear. It’s trial and error, chaos and breakthroughs, accidents and revelations. Some of history’s greatest minds thrived in disorder. Jazz drummer Art Blakey was once quoted as saying that “jazz started because somebody fucked up.”

A few examples: 

• Beethoven composed in a whirlwind of scattered papers and jumbled notes. His desk was a mess, but from it came some of the most profound music ever written.

• Picasso’s studio was a chaotic mix of half-finished canvases and erratic brushstrokes. That creative disorder allowed him to challenge artistic norms.

• Einstein’s desk was famously cluttered with stacks of papers and books. His workspace mirrored his thought process—fluid, evolving, and unrestricted.

And I’ve known a few copyists who’ve had the misfortune of trying to interpret Wynton Marsalis’ musical score noodling.  Of course, once put in front of capable musicians they became Grammy and Pulitzer Prize winning works.

What do all of these great thinkers have in common? None of them prioritized order over creation. 

Their genius thrived in spaces where ideas could collide, shift, and transform. 

And I guess this is my bigger point: a messy environment can offer freedom—the freedom to experiment, to fail, to rethink, and to stumble upon the unexpected. During my performances, I’m often working within the messiness of sound. Without this unstructured sonic environment, I would not feel inspired to push the sonic boundaries in the way that I do. The chaos gives me permission to reach for that which is not quite within my grasps. In this instance, creativity isn’t about control; it’s about exploration.

And please don’t think that I’m advocating that we all become environmental slobs, or forgo musical refinement. I’m just simply saying that a mess, as I see it, is not chaos without purpose. It’s a reflection of a mind in motion, a space where ideas are constantly forming, breaking apart, and reshaping. You just have to trust the process. Easier said than done. 

A few words about perfectionism.

Perfectionism is a great motivator in terms of having high standards and pushing yourself and others around you to new heights. However, it can be creativity’s greatest barrier. The fear of making mistakes, of things being “out of place,” limits one’s ability to take risks. But creativity, on the other hand, thrives  on imperfection. It requires us to willing to make a mess, to fail, and to discover something unexpected in the process.

So, don’t be afraid of the clutter. Whether it’s on your desk, in your head, or on the bandstand. Let it happen. Let that space reflect the creative energy at work. The next great idea might be hiding in the very mess you’ve been trying to clean up.

If you're interested in reading more of my ideas and thoughts on music, please check out my new book, Be Inspired, Stay Focused: Creativity, Learning and the Business of Music. CLICK HERE

Winning Isn’t Everything: Why the Grammys Don’t Define Great Music

Every year, the music industry gathers for its biggest night—the Grammys. Artists get dressed in their most extravagant outfits, cameras flash, speeches are rehearsed, and someone inevitably gets “snubbed.” For decades, the Grammys have been positioned as the pinnacle of musical achievement. But here’s the thing: they don’t really matter. At least not the way we think.

Now, don’t get me wrong—I’m not one of those vocal Facebook warriors ranting about how the Grammys are a complete waste. In fact, I actually attended one year when my wife Meg Okura was nominated, and we had an amazing time. If you ever get the chance to go, you absolutely should. It’s an unforgettable experience—one for the scrapbook.

But my point is this: music is not about trophies, industry politics, or validation from a panel of voters. It’s about something far deeper—connection. That’s what keeps people coming back, not a gold-plated statue.

The Grammys is perceived as the ultimate authority on musical excellence. And for more commercial music, maybe it is. But for jazz, history tells a different story. Duke Ellington, one of America’s greatest composers, never won a competitive Grammy. John Coltrane, the architect of modern jazz saxophone, only won one—and it was posthumous. And we’ve all seen Grammy winners whose careers fade into obscurity just a few years later.

Whether or not you know this, the Grammy voting process is notoriously flawed. The awards are decided by industry insiders, many of whom have little understanding of non-commercial or independent music. It’s a system that rewards marketability and industry relationships over risk-taking and artistic substance. And let’s be real—geography plays a role, too.

Los Angeles isn’t just where the Grammys are held most years—it’s where the Recording Academy is headquartered, where major record labels are based, and, more importantly, where industry politics are strongest.

Musicians who live and work in L.A. have an undeniable advantage. They have more opportunities to network with Grammy voters, attend industry events, and get their music in front of the right people. Grammy campaigning is real—labels and management teams lobby for nominations through private listening sessions, marketing pushes, and behind-the-scenes deals. If you’re an artist working outside that system, you’re already at a disadvantage.

That doesn’t mean East Coast or international artists can’t win—many do. But the industry machinery favors those who are plugged into the L.A. ecosystem. The awards aren’t just about musical excellence—they’re about who’s connected and who plays the game.

So when did jazz musicians start caring about the Grammys?

For most of jazz history, the Grammys barely registered as a concern for serious musicians. Thelonious Monk, Charles Mingus, and Sun Ra weren’t waiting around for this kind of industry approval. They built their own paths, made their own music, and let time determine their legacy. The Grammys were an afterthought, at best—an event designed for pop stars, not artists who viewed music as an evolving conversation rather than a competition.

But in recent years, the Grammys have somehow become a career milestone for many jazz musicians, viewed as the pinnacle measure of success. Why? Because in an era where grants, festival bookings, and institutional recognition hold more weight than album sales, the phrase “Grammy-winning artist” opens doors. It’s a nice sound bite, a marketable credential that looks good on a press release.

But let’s be honest—winning a Grammy isn’t just about making great music. It’s about having the right people behind you, pulling the right strings. In all honesty, this is probably the case with most forms of recognition. 

The ones who benefit most from the Grammys aren’t the indie musicians—it’s the consultants, publicists, and industry insiders who make a living lobbying Grammy voters on an artist’s behalf. Grammy lobbying is good business. Labels and management teams invest in Grammy campaigns, hiring specialists whose job is to ensure that the right people hear the right records at the right time.

Historically, independent artists were rarely part of that machine. But today, many jazz musicians have bought into the idea that the Grammys is the ultimate validation.

The problem with the Grammys is that it has become as race to determine who’s “the best.” But real music doesn’t work that way. When you listen to a Coltrane solo, a Monk composition, or a raw Robert Johnson recording from the Mississippi Delta, you’re not thinking about awards. You’re feeling something. That feeling—of connection, of recognition, of transcendence—is what makes music powerful.

A lack of a Grammy doesn’t make an artist irrelevant. What matters is the one's ability to move people—to stir something in the soul, to inspire, to challenge, to heal.

For all the hardworking folks who have won Grammys, congratulations. For those who haven’t—that’s okay too. I’m sure you have other sound bites you can use.

Because at the end of the day, it’s not about the trophy. It’s about the music. And no award can measure that.