Embracing the Unscripted: Five Benefits from Playing Improvised Music

Live at Freddy's Backroom with Eric Mandat, Brittney Karlson, and Nick Neuburg. Photo by Peter Gannushkin.

In recent years, I’ve found myself increasingly drawn to the world of improvised music—a realm where traditional boundaries dissolve and spontaneity takes on new meaning. While my background is rooted in straight-ahead jazz, where rhythm and harmony serve as the foundation, the freedom afforded by improvised music offers an entirely different creative landscape. It’s a place where the absence of preset rhythmic, harmonic, or melodic structures challenges me to invent on the spot and engage with the music in fresh, unexpected ways. This openness is a privilege, and although I hesitate to label myself an “improviser” in the purest sense, I have immense respect for those who inhabit this space daily.

Improvised music can be intimidating to musicians accustomed to the well-defined forms of traditional genres. For many, the transition may seem daunting because, unlike hard bop or other structured styles, improvised music does not rely on stringent harmonic or rhythmic frameworks. Yet, beyond its inherent unpredictability lies a host of benefits that can enrich any musician’s approach to improvisation and ensemble playing. Here are five significant advantages that improvised music offers to players of all styles and calibers:

1. Learning to Play More Spontaneously

One of the most liberating aspects of improvised music is its demand for spontaneity. Without a predetermined blueprint, every performance becomes a journey into the unknown. Musicians are encouraged to trust their instincts and allow ideas to evolve naturally in the moment. This skill—of performing with no fixed agenda—transcends genre boundaries, cultivating a flexibility that enhances creativity in any musical context. Whether you’re engaging in a structured solo or a collective improvisation, embracing spontaneity can open new pathways to expression.

2. Heightened Listening and Communication

In conventional musical settings, each musician often occupies a well-defined role. This can sometimes lead to a situation where individual players perform their parts without fully engaging with one another. In improvised music, however, every sound and gesture matters. With no score or set roles to rely on, players must listen intently to capture the direction and emotion of the moment. This heightened awareness fosters a deeper connection between musicians, enabling a more responsive and interactive performance. The result is a dynamic conversation where every instrument contributes to a constantly evolving narrative.

3. A Focus on Texture and Dynamics

Traditional forms often emphasize melodic lines and rhythmic patterns, but improvised music shifts the focus to the creation of soundscapes. In this context, texture and dynamics become essential tools for shaping the musical narrative. The static nature of some improvised passages invites musicians to explore subtle changes in timbre and volume, thereby cultivating moods that go beyond the typical constructs of melody and rhythm. This approach allows players to experiment with silence, space, and the interplay between different sonic elements, enriching the overall palette of the performance.

4. A Platform for Extended Techniques

Improvised music is renowned for its embrace of extended techniques—those unconventional methods that expand an instrument’s expressive range. Whether it’s producing two-fisted chordal clusters, experimenting with multi-phonics, or even incorporating everyday objects as percussive elements (imagine hitting a drumset with a fork or spoon), improvised music provides a fertile ground for innovation. These techniques challenge the traditional limits of instrument performance, inviting musicians to think outside the box and express their individuality in truly unique ways. This experimental spirit not only broadens one’s technical abilities but also pushes the boundaries of what is considered musically possible.

5. Rethinking Solo Architecture and Pacing

In a conventional song form, solos often follow a predictable arc. In improvised music, however, the absence of a preset structure forces musicians to consider the architecture of their solos more deliberately. Without the safety net of a defined chord progression or rhythm section, players must carefully craft the beginning, development, and conclusion of their improvisation. This self-awareness leads to a more deliberate pacing and a heightened sensitivity to the overall flow of the performance. The challenge lies in balancing spontaneity with structure—finding the right moments to push forward or pull back, building tension, and ultimately creating a coherent musical statement from seemingly disparate ideas.

Conclusion

While improvised music may not be for every musician, its benefits are undeniable. By embracing spontaneity, listening more intently, focusing on texture and dynamics, exploring extended techniques, and rethinking solo architecture, players can cultivate a deeper, more intuitive approach to music-making. These skills not only enrich improvised performances but also bring a fresh perspective to more conventional styles. Whether you’re a seasoned improviser or someone looking to expand your sonic vocabulary, improvised music offers invaluable lessons in creativity, expression, and collaboration.

The Lizard Brain and the Fear of the Unknown: How Survival Instincts Kill Creativity

Deep in the core of our brain lies the amygdala, often called the “lizard brain.” One might say it’s a relic of our evolutionary past, designed to keep us alive. When faced with danger, it triggers the fight-or-flight response—an automatic reaction meant to protect us from threats. But in the modern world—filled with iPhones and social media, where survival is rarely about outrunning four-legged predators, this same mechanism sabotages creativity by making us fear the unknown.

Creativity demands risk. This is non-negotiable. It requires stepping into uncharted territory, making connections others don’t see, running towards the darkness, not the light, embracing the possibility of failure. Easier said than done, mind you. The lizard brain sees all of this as a threat. It whispers:

What if this idea doesn’t work? 

What if people laugh at you? 

What if you waste your time? 

These fears, rooted in our biology, can manifest as perfectionism, procrastination, self-doubt, or clinging to familiar formulas instead of pushing boundaries.

Great artists, musicians, and thinkers have all had to wrestle with this resistance. The difference between those who create and those who don’t isn’t talent alone—it’s the ability to push past the fear. The jazz musician who dares to improvise beyond the comfort of familiar licks, the writer who puts controversial ideas to paper, the composer who experiments with dissonance—each of them has learned to override the lizard brain’s instinct to retreat.

 David Bowie said it best: “If you feel safe in the area that you’re working in, you’re not working in the right area.”

Personally, I’m in constant battle with the lizard brain. But I have to remind myself that even though the lizard brain thinks it’s keeping me safe, the reality is that it’s keeping me stagnant.

One of the best ways to counteract this resistance is to recognize it for what it is: a biological reflex, not reality. Fear of failure isn’t an actual threat; it’s a signal that you’re on the edge of something new, something daring. By reframing fear as a necessary companion to creativity rather than an obstacle, we can learn to move forward in spite of it.

The lizard brain is never going away. And once you learn to use it to your advantage, you’ll see it as a signaling of new and exciting things to come. It will always try to pull you back into the blanket of the familiar. This is just the lizard brain being the lizard brain. But creativity lives in the unknown, and the only way to reach it is to override the part of your brain that tells you to stay safe. Or in the creative realm, to play safe. 

Wayne Shorter, one of jazz’s most forward-thinking musicians, famously said, “You’ve got to go into the unknown. The unknown is where all the music is.” 

I wouldn’t say that it’s where all of the music is. But it’s certainly the place where the most daring music lives.  

As someone who plays a lot improvised music, I have trained myself to embrace uncertainty by making it a habit—reacting in real time, trusting instincts, and accepting mistakes as part of the process. Over time, repeated exposure to this rewires the brain, making uncertainty less intimidating and more inviting. Whether in music or life, improvisation provides a framework for stepping beyond fear and into discovery, proving that mastery is not about control but about embracing the unpredictable.

The unknown isn’t the enemy. It’s where the real magic happens.

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.

Should Musicians Work a Day Job or Play Uninspiring Gigs?

I'd like to begin by saying that making a living solely from performing seemed like a pipe dream for much of my early musical career. Finding ways to supplement my income has always been something I’ve had to consider. When I decided to play the soprano exclusively, the challenge of achieving financial stability reached new heights.

I still remember many years ago sitting at a table at Bradley’s, a then-popular after-hours jazz club, listening to musicians complain about not making enough money from their gigs. Realizing it was getting late, I excused myself, mentioning that I had to wake up early the next morning. One of the musicians asked if I had a flight to catch—back then, that usually meant Europe or Japan. Feeling a bit embarrassed, I revealed that I needed to get up for my temp job, probably working in an office or mailroom. I’ll never forget the looks on their faces, as if one of their colleagues worked a typical 9-to-5 job. Back then, there was an industry that enabled many musicians to make a decent living—a scenario that seems almost elusive today. I mention this to show that I understand this situation well.

But back to the original question: Is it better to work a day job or play uninspiring gigs?

As a musician, balancing passion and practicality is a recurring dilemma. Unless you’re one of the select few, when it comes to earning a living as a musician, two common paths often emerge: working a non-music-related day job or playing gigs that don’t ignite your creativity. Mind you, I know plenty of musicians who make a good living playing only the music they love. But for many, this is not the case. This is not always a refoection on a player’s abilities. I know some amazing players who simply grew tired of the rat race, and found happiness doing other things. 

The Case for a Non-Music Day Job

A steady, non-music-related job, as uninspiring as it may be, offers financial stability, sometimes health benefits, and more importantly, a clear boundary between work and creative pursuits. Many musicians find this approach liberating, as it allows them to reserve their artistic energy for projects they truly care about. However, a five-day workweek, 9-to-5, can be time-consuming and leave little room for practicing, networking, and sometimes actual gigging, especially if it involves traveling.

As someone with a full-time teaching job, I'm well aware of the musical sacrifices made by having to report to work several days a week. In fact, I feel a little guilty about some of the gigs I've had to cancel for others, simply because I did not have time to properly practice the charts. When you have full days of teaching, grading papers, and endless administrative duties, working on a young musician’s charts with a different time signature every other measure takes a back burner. Nowadays, I make sure to assess the time commitment before accepting most gigs. Otherwise, it's unfair to me and to the person looking to have their music properly performed.

The Case for Uninspiring Gigs

Performing even at uninspiring gigs keeps you in the music world, hones your skills, and provides a direct income from your craft—which is a good thing. It can lead to networking opportunities and, many times, rewarding experiences. Contrary to popular belief, not all wedding gigs are dreadful; sometimes you get to play really cool music with great musicians. On the downside, playing for money alone can eventually sap your passion, making playing music feel like a chore rather than an art form. However, this will only happen if you allow it. I'm a firm believer that if you want it bad enough, you’ll find a way to make it work. And besides, a horn on the stage, is worth two in the case. You get what I'm saying!

Which Path Is Right for You?

The decision depends on your long-term goals. A day job may offer peace of mind and financial security, while uninspiring gigs allow you to remain active in music, even if they challenge your artistic integrity. 

Ultimately, a hybrid approach—doing as many inspiring gigs as possible while maintaining a flexible day job—might strike the best balance. Either way, your path should align with both your financial needs and your creative aspirations.

We’re living in an age where many musicians don’t automatically assume that only performing will be their norm. Some of my favorite players didn’t even major in music in college. As times become more challenging, musicians are having to become equally creative off the bandstand when it comes to diversifying their hustle. This doesn’t have to tarnish the joy and beauty of being a musician. If anything, it makes that much more enjoyable.

I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments! Which path have you taken, and how has it shaped your journey? Maybe you have some tips for relieving the financial burden of being an artist that might help some up-and-coming players. Whether we know it or not, we’re all in this fight together.

Civil Rights Era Envy: Are We Marching Forward or Standing Still?

On this Martin Luther King Jr. Day, I'm reflecting on his enduring influence much like a jazz musician listens closely to a familiar melody—attentive to every subtle shift and pause. Dr. King's approach to change was thoughtful and nuanced, blending deep moral insight with practical steps toward justice. His legacy reminds us that effective activism is not about loud declarations alone, but about listening, adapting, and finding the right notes to move society forward. As I consider today's challenges, his example encourages a careful, measured approach to pursuing lasting change.

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During my sophomore year at Berklee, the spring semester began under a cloud of uncertainty. Word spread quickly that the teachers, frustrated with their contracts, had officially decided to go on strike. Their demands likely revolved around the usual grievances in academia: better pay, manageable teaching hours, and job security. For us students, however, the strike wasn’t about labor negotiations; it was about our education and our dreams. The idea that our path to success might be stalled indefinitely felt almost existential.

Tensions escalated when a group of Black professors crossed the picket line to continue teaching. Their decision, though practical—they had bills to pay—drew sharp criticism. The picketing teachers, mostly white, called them “scabs," a term deeply entrenched in labor disputes. However, in the heated context of race relations, some professors interpreted “scab” as a code for the N-word.

This moment of racial tension sparked a reaction. Black students rallied to act as escorts for the strikebreaking professors, framing their actions as a stand against racial injustice. From where I stood, their efforts seemed to overinflate the stakes, equating these professors’ choice to cross a picket line with monumental civil rights struggles. No one was denied a job, brutalized by the police, or living under systemic segregation. Yet, the protesters carried themselves as though this was the next chapter in the fight against racial oppression.

I watched my peers assemble on Massachusetts Avenue, shoulders squared, exuding self-congratulation. "Rebels without a cause," as I like to put it. They were ready to escort the professors across the street like heroes emerging from the pages of history. While their intentions were noble, their actions felt misplaced. They weren’t rallying because these professors had been singled out for racial discrimination—they were upset because the professors weren’t being coddled. In that moment, they weren’t seen as Black professors breaking a strike; they were simply strikebreakers. In other words, they were treated like equals.

What’s ironic about the Berklee strike is that, years later, many of the same students who had marched to escort the professors benefited from the increased wages and improved conditions that the strikers fought to achieve. So did the scabs whom they were protecting. This is often the case: when we fail to take a more nuanced view of situations involving race relations, we run the risk of protesting against our own best interests—or at least being willing to protest without seeing the bigger picture.

Looking at today’s political climate, I see parallels everywhere. Over the past several years, activism has surged, particularly in response to racial injustice. Movements like Black Lives Matter have inspired massive protests, both in the U.S. and abroad. In 2020, the murder of George Floyd set off a cascade of changes, many of them impressive: Minneapolis banned the use of chokeholds. New Jersey updated its use-of-force guidelines for the first time in decades. Confederate monuments were toppled across the South. The street in front of the White House was renamed “Black Lives Matter Plaza.” These were tangible shifts sparked by collective action.

But amid these victories, I noticed something missing. In the rush to demand accountability from institutions, police forces, and white America, little was said about what changes Black America might need to make. Conversations about personal accountability, community responsibility, or the alarming rates of violence within Black communities were drowned out.

We seem to suffer from what I call Civil Rights Era envy. How can we not? It was during that period that Black America had a unified sense of purpose. Blacks from all walks of life were united in their effort to overthrow white supremacy. We finally had center stage, not only in the mainstream media but in the consciousness of mainstream America. Lady Liberty was reinventing herself, and we were leading the way.

It was a time of immense pride and strength. The shell of white supremacy was cracked open, and the world watched as we collectively mopped away the yolk of racial oppression. But in our yearning to replicate that feeling, we sometimes misdirect our energy, rallying around causes that don’t always serve our long-term interests.

Blacks in America are in an awkward position. We're the only group who fears being expelled from our race—at least in the court of public opinion. Unfortunately, the extreme left has also borrowed from this playbook of ideological manipulation. And it doesn’t take much. Bill Cosby spent years and millions of dollars in support of Black America, particularly HBCUs. He gave one speech pushing Black America to step up to the plate, and he was forever demonized. Pretty harsh stuff.

This fear keeps us tethered to a dangerous kind of collectivism. Standing out as an individual—or expressing views that deviate from the dominant narrative—can quickly result in being labeled a “sellout,” “Oreo,” or worse. This fear stifles meaningful dialogue within our communities and holds us back from embracing the diversity of thought that could empower us to solve our most pressing issues.

If there’s one lesson I’ve carried from Berklee to today, it’s this: Activism without nuance is activism without progress. As a developing musician, imagine if your teacher just said, “Your playing sucks!” That’s far different from a more nuanced assessment where tangible weaknesses are identified: poor intonation, inconsistent instrumental facility, or limited jazz vocabulary. Taking a measured and detailed assessment allows you to work toward meaningful progress.

Protests are no different. Modern movements, like musicians, risk stalling their progress when they refuse to identify specific, tangible goals and address inconvenient truths. A musician who ignores critique and simply practices louder or faster will only amplify their weaknesses. Similarly, movements that rely on symbolic victories without substantive follow-through—like renaming a street or tearing down a statue—may feel triumphant in the moment but fail to address systemic problems at their roots.

Great music, like great activism, isn’t just about volume. It’s about clarity, intention, and precision. A powerful solo is built on honesty—the willingness to confront flaws and embrace growth. Movements need to embrace that same spirit of intentionality, seeking to harmonize their passion with concrete strategies for systemic change.

The Civil Rights Era was powerful because it had clear goals and a unified sense of purpose. Like a well-composed piece of music, it had structure, vision, and a relentless pursuit of excellence. Modern movements risk losing that power if they devolve into performative gestures or avoid engaging with uncomfortable realities.

True progress isn’t about being loud. It’s about being honest—with each other and with ourselves.

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As we honor Martin Luther King Jr., his legacy calls us to approach our work with the calm precision of a seasoned jazz musician. True progress requires us to tune into the complexities around us, to engage with honesty and intention much like a musician crafts a delicate solo. By grounding our activism in thoughtful critique and clear goals, we echo Dr. King's spirit. In doing so, we not only pay homage to his memory but also ensure that our modern movements move forward with measured purpose, crafting a future of meaningful and lasting change.