From Piracy to Obscurity: The Shift in the Artist’s Greatest Fear

Not long ago, the primary concern for working musicians, particularly those in jazz, was the unauthorized use of their work. Piracy, bootlegging, and exploitative recording contracts that demanded portions of an artist’s publishing were seen as the greatest threats to creative ownership. Artists operated with a defensive posture. Sharing ideas too freely meant risking the loss of control over one’s own music.

I recall a performance years ago; a trio gig. Midway through a tune, the bassist noticed someone in the audience filming. Without hesitation, he stopped playing and insisted I ask the man to put the camera away. Besides from being unprofessional, that moment captured the anxiety of the time. Even rehearsal tapes came with firm instructions: “Don’t let anyone hear this.” Ideas were treated as intellectual property in the strictest sense—something to be protected, even hoarded, until they could be officially released.

Today, that fear has largely disappeared. And it has been replaced by something far more corrosive: the fear of being ignored.

We have shifted from an era of scarcity to one of saturation. The central problem facing many artists is not theft but indifference. In the past, the idea that someone might steal your music was alarming. Now, for many, it would almost be a compliment—an indication that the work was at least valuable enough to copy.

Where artists once protected their ideas with near-paranoia, today they flood the internet with content—live-streaming rehearsals, posting snippets of unfinished compositions, uploading fragments of gigs in the hope that something will catch fire. What was once guarded with secrecy is now offered up for free, often in real time.

I frequently perform with younger musicians: primarily members of Gen Z. One striking difference I’ve observed is how naturally they document and share performances. After certain gigs, I’ll receive notifications linking to several video clips, all posted to Instagram within hours.

Far from being a nuisance, this has proven beneficial. It allows me to revisit moments from the performance, and in many ways, it functions as post-concert promotion. Because the music is improvised, I have no concern over copyright. What matters more is that someone attending the gig found the moment compelling enough to record and share. That sense of value, of something being worth capturing, is not insignificant.

The other side of this shift, however, is worth considering. Does constant visibility risk diminishing an artist’s impact? Oversaturation may not only lead to audience fatigue, but also erode the sense of mystique that once surrounded public figures.

There was a time when musicians existed at a distance. They appeared in limited, curated contexts—on stage, film, television, or a crafted magazine interviews. Outside of those formats, they were largely inaccessible. That distance itself created a kind of reverence. You rarely saw them, and when you did, you paid for the privilege.

In the age of social media, that separation has vanished. Musicians and artists alike, now present themselves daily—via tweets, livestreams, TikTok videos, and casual behind-the-scenes clips. What was once extraordinary becomes routine. The mystique that comes with scarcity has been replaced by the banality of constant exposure.

Of course, one could reject this trend and choose to remain offline. But in doing so, the risk is not mystery—it’s irrelevance. The platform economy moves quickly, and opting out often means being left behind. So the artist today must navigate an impossible contradiction: be visible, but not overly familiar; be present, but not predictable.

Still, the broader trend is clear. Musicians today feel compelled to remain visible at all times. There is an unspoken belief that if you are not constantly producing content, you will disappear from public consciousness. As Art Blakey once said, “In this business, you’re either appearing or disappearing.” That used to be a commentary on the need for artistic urgency. Today, it feels more like a sentence handed down by the culture of digital media.

The fear isn’t being copied.

It’s being forgotten.

Have we traded artistic integrity for attention?

Or have we just shifted the spotlight—from excellence to engagement, from soul to scroll?

In a world ruled by algorithms, perhaps the real art is learning how to be seen without disappearing.

The DownBeat Critics Poll: Recognition, Incentives, and the Reality of the Game

Each year, the DownBeat Critics Poll is released to much fanfare in the jazz world. Critics cast their votes on the musicians they believe have done exemplary work over the past year. For some, it brings joy—a tangible nod to years of effort. For others, it brings disappointment or even bitterness. But if we step back and examine the incentives and mechanics behind this recognition, it becomes clear: this isn’t a meritocracy in any meaningful sense. It’s a popularity contest filtered through a specific, narrow lens.

The question isn’t who’s best. The real question is whose name came up most often when a group of critics—who, like all of us, operate under constraints of time, taste, and visibility—filled out a ballot. It is not a rigorous process of comparison, nor is it grounded in some objective ranking of artistry. It’s about presence in the discourse, not necessarily excellence in the music.

This is not an indictment of the winners. Many of them are excellent musicians. But their recognition is the outcome of an ecosystem structured around attention—not necessarily innovation, depth, or longevity.

Unlike a grant process where work is reviewed, scored, and debated, the Critics Poll operates on something much simpler: memory and visibility. Critics submit names under predefined categories—Tenor Saxophonist, Pianist, Rising Star Trumpeter, and so on. The ballots are counted, and whoever gets the most votes wins. No debates. No deliberation. No quality control. Just numbers.

So when someone says, “How did they win?” the answer isn’t always found in the music—it’s in the mechanisms.

If your work didn’t receive a critical spotlight, you’re at a disadvantage. If your release didn’t appear on a major label, or wasn’t reviewed in the “right” places, or didn’t feature collaborators with high visibility, it likely never entered the critics’ field of vision. That’s not injustice. That’s just how the system is structured.

I play the soprano saxophone exclusively. I could release an album that breaks ground sonically and artistically, and yet if it doesn’t circulate among the critical class, it won’t matter. Meanwhile, a well-known tenor player who plays soprano on one track of a widely praised album will place higher in the soprano category. Perhaps even win it. Not because their soprano work is better—but because the album got attention. That’s not personal. That’s structural.

People often confuse desires with incentives. Many musicians desire recognition. But if they ignore the incentives of the system they’re in, they shouldn’t be surprised when recognition doesn’t come. The system rewards visibility, association, and presentation—not necessarily excellence in a vacuum.

And I get it. For the winners, it can feel like a long-awaited validation—especially in a field as isolating and underpaid as jazz often is. You start thinking maybe the sacrifices were worth it. For others, the absence stings. Not because they believe awards define their worth, but because they’ve invested decades, sometimes quietly, in a craft that rarely makes headlines. It’s not about ego—it’s about wanting to know your work reached someone. And when it doesn’t show up in these results, it can feel like you’re invisible.

And just as visibility shapes who gets noticed, format shapes how your work is interpreted. The same music can be perceived entirely differently depending on how it’s packaged.

Want to be known as a serious composer? A piano trio won’t cut it. Critics associate composition with large ensembles—seven, eight, or nine instruments. Whether the music is through-composed or freely improvised hardly matters. The ensemble size alone signals “serious writing” to many critics. That perception often carries more weight than the actual structure or process behind the music.

If you want to climb the polls, you have to operate within the system’s logic. That might mean collaborating with higher-profile musicians, performing in high-visibility settings, or tailoring your work to formats that critics recognize as legitimate. That’s not selling out. That’s understanding the rules of the game.

This isn’t a moral critique—it’s an economic one. Recognition is a scarce good, and critics allocate it with limited information. That leads to predictable outcomes.

So if your name didn’t make the list this year, don’t despair—and certainly don’t take it personally. Just be clear-eyed about what the system rewards. And then make a choice: either engage those incentives, or focus on building your own path outside of them.

Either is valid. But confusing the poll for a referendum on your value? That’s a category error.

As it’s often said in the world of economics: there are no solutions, only trade-offs. And understanding that is the first step toward sanity in this business.

The Double-Edged Sword of Technical Proficiency in Jazz: A Hard Look at Art in the Age of AI

In an era increasingly obsessed with measurable outcomes and flawless execution, it’s no surprise that the world of jazz—once a sanctuary for raw expression and individual voice—has not escaped this trend. Over the past decade, there has been a noticeable rise in the technical abilities of young jazz musicians. Social media clips and conservatory recitals overflow with lightning-fast runs, impossible intervallic leaps, and harmonic sophistication far beyond what was typical even twenty years ago.

At first glance, this appears to be an unequivocal victory for the art form. After all, what teacher wouldn’t want their students to play in tune, in time, and with a deep understanding of harmony? But progress, like everything else in life, comes with tradeoffs. And the tradeoff we now face is subtle but significant: as technique rises, meaning seems to diminish.

We are witnessing, in real time, a shift from the expressive to the mechanical.

I remember my own time at Berklee College of Music. It was a crucible of talent, competition, and relentless ambition. Among the many gifted players was Scottish saxophonist Tommy Smith—already a prodigy when he walked through the doors at sixteen, with only four years of playing under his belt. His command of the instrument was stunning, and his rapid ascent only confirmed the depth of his abilities. Being surrounded by such musicians was both inspiring and, at times, paralyzing. It made me question my own place in the music, and more deeply, what I hoped to contribute.

What I eventually discovered—and what so often gets lost in today’s race for technical mastery and jazz vocabulary display—is that fast fingers and encyclopedic regurgitation alone cannot carry the emotional freight of great art. Technique is a tool to create language. And like any language, it’s not what you say that matters most, but what you mean. The greatest players—those who endure—aren’t always the most technically advanced, but the ones who play with conviction, clarity of identity, and a willingness to be vulnerable.

In my own creative practice, especially through prepared saxophone and extended techniques, I’ve chosen a path that falls outside traditional measures of proficiency. It’s not always understood. And it’s certainly not for everyone. But that’s precisely the point. If your work resonates with everyone, chances are it doesn’t go deep enough to truly move anyone.

This brings us to a broader cultural moment: the growing presence of artificial intelligence–like values in art.

AI, by its very nature, thrives on patterns, probability, and imitation. It can write sonatas, generate paintings, and even mimic the cadence of a jazz solo with stunning fidelity. But fidelity is not the same as soul. AI does not long. It does not mourn. It does not celebrate. It merely aggregates the longings, losses, and triumphs of others—and rearranges them into a new format.

To the uncritical eye, this may seem like creativity. But it is creativity without cost. And art without cost is, at best, decoration.

Young musicians growing up in this climate face a dilemma that previous generations did not. They’re pulled between the seductive ease of digital-like precision and the messy, unpredictable terrain of authentic expression. It’s easier to quantify speed than sincerity. Easier to teach harmony than humility. Easier to program a performance than to cultivate a voice.

But jazz—at its best—was never about ease. It was born out of struggle, shaped by improvisation, and carried forward by those brave enough to sound like themselves, even when doing so went against prevailing norms. It wasn’t about being polished. It was about being personal.

If we’re not careful, we may end up with a generation of musicians who can dazzle but not move us. Who can impress but not inspire. Who, despite having everything—sound, speed, and skill—somehow still leave us cold.

The purpose of art is not to prove how much we know. It is to remind others—and ourselves—that we feel. When someone walks away from a performance not thinking, “I could never do that,” but instead, “That made me want to try,” then something profound has taken place. That’s the moment when technique bows to meaning—when the intellect yields to the heart.

And in that moment, we are no longer simply musicians. We are human beings in conversation with other human beings.

That’s something no machine can replicate.

And it’s something we should never stop defending.