One glorious, soul-filled Sunday morning years ago, in the choir loft at the Devoe Street Baptist Church in Brooklyn, I had an epiphany.
While I often found myself worrying if I was playing “real,” valid jazz onstage, the music at Devoe always flowed easily and authentically. I wondered why. Well, it was because in that setting, with everyone open to the spirit, I was feeling it too. I wasn’t taking ownership of the music, or feeling responsible for generating it. Rather, I was trusting my years of preparation to give me the language to be a vessel for it at the moment of its creation.