The Tradition is Evolution: A Conversation with Ambrose Akinmusire
Updated: Aug 31
“Miles Davis could easily have stopped after Kind of Blue in 1958. But he didn’t.”
Last night, American jazz trumpeter Ambrose Akinmusire joined conductor Miho Hazama and the BBC Concert Orchestra as trumpet soloist for a Proms concert marking the centenary of Miles Davis. It was one of the most popular concerts of this year’s Proms, with even the standing areas completely full. Just minutes before the performance, a long queue had formed outside the Royal Albert Hall among those still hoping to get hold of returned tickets.
The programme included several Gershwin classics suited to the Royal Albert Hall’s all-ages atmosphere, alongside Blue in Green, one of the defining pieces from Kind of Blue. It also brought together classical works such as Falla’s El amor brujo and Rodrigo’s Concierto de Aranjuez, newly arranged for big band. Several of the arrangements drew on those by Gil Evans, one of the most influential orchestral arrangers in the history of jazz. Yet whenever the solos and improvisations emerged, their sharp, forward-looking edge seemed to pierce through the gentle, nostalgic sound of the orchestra.
Akinmusire’s own quartet also joined him on stage. Though this was, after all, a tribute to Miles, he made no attempt to imitate Miles’s trumpet playing. Instead, one could hear an improvisational language deeply rooted in spirit and inner expression, unmistakably pointing towards the present moment we are living in.
I first encountered Akinmusire’s music through A Rift in Decorum: Live at the Village Vanguard, the double live album he recorded with his long-standing quartet at the legendary New York jazz club in 2017. The recording was widely regarded by jazz critics that year as one of the best live recordings of the year. The bassist on that album, Harish Raghavan, was also on stage last night.
Earlier this year, Akinmusire appeared with Sullivan Fortner in a duo performance at Wigmore Hall. It was a deeply thoughtful and illuminating encounter, one that stayed with me for a long time. This November, he will return to London with his new quartet for the London Jazz Festival, performing music from an album they had just finished recording in June 2026.
In Conversation with Ambrose Akinmusire: The Tradition of Jazz Lies in Constant Evolution
LC = Lucy Cheung
AA = Ambrose Akinmusire
LC: I wanted to start with the duo, actually—the collaboration between you and the pianist. I had never heard Sullivan Fortner live before, and what really struck me was the amount of space you leave for each other, and especially the trust you seem to place in each other. You’ve obviously collaborated with different pianists. How does each of these people bring out a different voice in you?
AA: I’ve been really lucky to collaborate with a lot of great young pianists. You mentioned Gerald Clayton. There’s also Aaron Parks—we’ve played a lot of duo together. The pianist in my band, Sam Harris, is another one. I’ve even had the chance to play with Kenny Barron. But for me, the process isn’t so different from when I play with my quartet. It’s really just submitting, and hopefully collaborating with people who believe in something higher than us as humans. I’ve been really lucky to be around people like that. Sullivan is definitely one of those people, as is Gerald.
LC: I suppose it’s quite difficult to put that into words, because music is already so abstract, especially jazz. But could you try to describe that process a little more? When you talk about something “higher”, what does that mean to you? And how do you inspire each other? Where does it start?
AA: It starts—I would love to just say it starts in trust, but I think it starts even before that. Maybe it starts in learning each other, and creating a space where both people feel comfortable enough to be vulnerable. It’s a space where right and wrong don’t really exist. I think the act of letting go, and the act of being vulnerable, is actually the music. Once you get into that space, the notes don’t really matter.
LC: I guess the obvious question here is about the jazz tradition. What does the tradition mean to you today? And how do you differentiate jazz from improvised music?
AA: That’s a great question. I think when people—when most people—refer to jazz tradition, they’re speaking specifically of the bebop era. They think of Charlie Parker, Dizzy Gillespie; they don’t even think about Dixieland music or the blues, or things that came before that. But for me, jazz started in Africa, as clichéd as that is. I don’t know if the question is “What is jazz?”, but it sounds like it’s hinting towards that. For me, jazz is really music that is about community and improvisation. Let me just say the obvious: I think jazz is about expressing African American history sonically. It started off as a way of expressing African American history through sound, with the blues, and so on.
Now, is there a difference between jazz and improvised music? For me, no. When I hear music from Nigeria or Mali, that could also be considered jazz to me. When I hear hip-hop and somebody is freestyling, that’s also jazz. So for me, no, there isn’t a difference. Even when I listen to Bach sometimes, it still sounds like jazz.
LC: In what way?
AA: Just knowing and understanding that most of it was improvised—with chord changes, figured bass, things like that.
LC: What about the new generation—or perhaps not so new anymore—of European jazz musicians who are very aware of the tradition but don’t feel bound by it? How do you hear what’s happening in European jazz today? Sometimes it feels as if musicians are trying to move away from that African sound, towards something very minimal or something else.
AA: I think that here, in parts of Europe—or really all over Europe—there are very valid jazz scenes now. And that’s been the case since I’ve been a part of it. You go to Spain, Italy, France, Germany, you come here, and there are great players everywhere.
I think it’s very natural to evolve. This notion of moving away from tradition is also hard, because I think there’s something about Blackness that is always about evolving. I think it’s very natural to evolve. It’s the most natural thing for humans to do. So moving away from tradition just is what it is. Recreating tradition.
I think when people talk about jazz, that part is forgotten. No one talks about Sonny Rollins living in the past, everything one’s been talking about Miles Davis changing every year. A lot of the masters died young, so we didn’t get to see what they would have done. Coltrane died at 40, Clifford Brown at 25, Booker Little at 23. But the ones who stayed alive, most of them continued to evolve—Herbie Hancock, Wayne Shorter, even Roy Haynes, Charles Mingus, Dizzy Gillespie. Dizzy wasn’t playing the way he was playing in the ’30s and ’40s. So I think it’s very natural to evolve. It’s just that most people don’t do it.
LC: One of the people I was thinking about is Miles Davis, especially because tonight you’re leading a Proms tribute to him. You’ve already mentioned his commitment to evolution. He kept reinventing himself. Do you think that continuous reinvention is also at the core of what jazz is?
AA: For sure.
LC: But when you keep pushing yourself against something—a voice you’ve established before, or a sound that you admire—do you ever feel conflicted by that? Is there ever a feeling of betraying tradition?, I mean, is there ever a sentiment that you might be moving too far away from something that came before you?
AA: No. The tradition is evolution. You know, a record is a snapshot. It’s just like a photograph. That’s all it is. But in real time, it’s evolving. There’s no way to capture that, right? (laugh) So, no, I don’t feel like I’m betraying it. I’m always going back and checking it out and stuff, but I’m hyper-aware that these people kept evolving. I don’t think they would sound the way they did if they weren’t reaching towards the future.
I just like things that are not about self.
LC: It is intangible, but can we talk about where some of these ideas come from? Could you tell me a little about your upbringing and your influences? What was that first sound that you remember, and that you’ve carried with you all these years?
AA: To be honest with you, the first thing I remember as a child was not sound. It was colour. I can remember sitting in a closet, and there was this sort of stained-glass window in the closet. I remember just looking up at it and watching all these beautiful lights come down on me. Somehow, that is my first musical memory—it’s actually a visual image.
Then the next thing was going to my grandmother’s church. It was a Black Baptist church, and I remember, as a kid, seeing and experiencing the power of community sonically. I was always impressed that individually, the singers weren’t necessarily so amazing, but when they came together, even with the dissonances and the wrong notes, there was something beyond that. I learned that at a very young age, when I was four or five years old.
I played gospel music, and then when I heard Art Blakey in seventh or eighth grade, it just sounded like the stuff I had been hearing in church, but played on instruments, with Lee Morgan and the others. So it was a very natural progression. Those are some of the early sounds I remember.
LC: Did you start reading music at a young age?
AA: Yeah. I started at a very young age—reading music when I was five years old.
LC: I was wondering about your relationship with the score and improvisation.
AA: The score is just for suggestions. It depends on the context, of course. At best, it gets 95 percent, for me. In the music that I play, like when I’m writing for my band, it really is just a suggestion.
LC: I know you also listen to classical music. What do you like to listen to?
AA: Oh, man. I go through phases. The last thing I was really into was Kurtág.
LC: He’s already a hundred years old now, isn’t he? The same age as Miles Davis.
AA: Yeah. I really love the stuff with his wife. (Játékok) You know, it’s so easy to call it “simple”, but it’s not. Like the Arvo Pärt stuff. There’s something about pure beauty. That’s what I’ve been into for the last six or seven years. When I released a solo record called Beauty Is Enough, I’d been trying to get inside, to centre the centre of everything. That’s what I hear when I hear Kurtág, and that’s what I feel.
What else? All the normal stuff, right? Ravel, Bach, Glenn Gould playing Bach, all that stuff. But I go through phases.
LC: What do you hear in classical music that you don’t hear in jazz?
AA: Nothing.
LC: So when you talk about Beauty Is Enough, and you listen to Kurtág a lot, is there a relationship there?
AA: I was listening to other stuff too. Music from Mali, music from Iceland, jazz, a lot of blues. I don’t think it’s specific to genre. I think there are purveyors in each genre who are committing to beauty.
LC: Tell me about that.
AA: My favourite—there was this touring choir from Bulgaria, a very large women’s choir. When I was younger, I went to a performance in Berkeley. It was in ’93 or ’94—I was very young. And that reminded me of the gospel, the Baptist church. Then, when I learned more about it and understood that they picked women from different areas of Bulgaria who came together and rehearsed, I just thought that was really beautiful.
And music from Mali—one of my favourite singers is Oumou Sangaré. I got to do a project with her two years ago. That was amazing. All for the same reason. Joni Mitchell, too.
But you see, there’s a single thread there. These people are amazing technically and musically, but they’re connected to something higher. They’re making sounds, and they’re... I don’t know. It’s otherworldly, I think.
LC: Is that also connected to a sense of community? You mentioned that quite a few times. Does it perhaps remind you of your roots?
AA: I just like things that are not about self. When you start talking about community, you’re only as strong as the whole. I really love that. You can practise and become technically really great, but there’s something about when you join together with somebody and you point towards this thing that is really beautiful for me.
I never thought I would have a career. I was interested, again, in playing whatever the source told me to play. I was interested in creative music from a very young age. I wasn’t thinking about having a career. I was just interested in the music and in committing to it. I can stay home and practise because that’s all I ever wanted to do—to commit to the music. Not become famous. So I kind of do what I want.
LC: Is that one of the reasons for you to leave Blue Note Records a few years ago? It, as a label, is perhaps more associated with that kind of jazz-star identity.
AA: look, Blue Note is a jazz label. No matter how you bend it, even when you see somebody who’s not from jazz on Blue Note, they become a jazz musician. And there’s nothing wrong with that. It’s just not something I’ve ever felt completely comfortable with.
Yeah. I play jazz, but I also write string quartets. I write film scores. I do hip-hop. I do so much. I’ve always done so much, and I just wanted to have room to do those things if I wanted to.
LC: Is it that you don’t want to be restricted by the term “jazz”?
AA: Almost. I’m not restricted by it because I don’t care about it. It’s more about how I’m seen and how that affects the opportunities that I have—the projects that I can release.
On Miles: “It’s really his effect on the future.”
LC: Let’s talk a little more about Miles Davis. Tonight you’re the leader and the trumpeter, so you’re taking on a role that people may naturally associate with him. What is your relationship with his music? Is there a particular period of his career that you feel closest to?
AA: No. It’s him as an artist. Like we said earlier, it’s his commitment to evolution. Just even realising that Miles Davis started with Charlie Parker, and we all know those recordings, and then to think that he ended in the ’80s with Tutu and Marcus Miller, and everything in between—it’s just like, wow. This guy was totally committed to evolving, continuously.
It’s the same thing I love about Joni Mitchell. There’s something about an artist who continues going forward, who continues searching when they’re successful. Miles Davis could have stopped in ’58. He could have done Kind of Blue for the rest of his career and been very, very famous—maybe even more famous. But he kept evolving and bringing young musicians into the scene. I think that’s also something I want to do.
If you think about all the people who have been associated with Miles Davis—Chick Corea, Herbie Hancock—it would take forever. They’re all A-list jazz musicians. That’s also part of his legacy.
Those are the things I’m really impressed by and influenced by with Miles Davis. It’s not the trumpet playing or the improvisation, which is really amazing. It’s really his effect on the future.
LC: What was the first Miles Davis record you heard?
AA: It was actually a compilation. I had it on vinyl, and it was all his recordings from Prestige Records. I remember listening to “If I Were a Bell”, just listening to how beautiful it was—the arrangements, the articulation. I didn’t hear Kind of Blue until later.
LC: My first was Kind of Blue.
AA: Yeah. That’s the first Miles Davis record for a lot of people.
LC: And how are you going to approach tonight’s performance?
AA: The same. My approach to improvisation doesn’t change. It’s to try to be selfless and connect to source. That’s it. I’m here to do what the music says to do in every context, and that’s that. It doesn’t matter if it’s the Proms or the Village Vanguard. It’s kind of the same for me.
LC: It is a rather unique format—a tribute to a late musician at the Proms. Did you choose the programme yourself?
AA: Miho and I got together a while ago and talked about what we would play. We thought about the context, and there are a lot of boxes to check, right? It’s the BBC Proms, so there’s a lot of stuff that a lot of people know, the popular songs. But I’m an improviser, so we’ll see.
LC: Speaking of the Village Vanguard, I really enjoyed the live album A Rift in Decorum: Live at the Village Vanguard, and I think a lot of people do. Do you feel that period is something you’ve grown out of?
AA: Great question. No. That’s just the band. We are getting older, and so we have families. Justin (Justin Brown) plays with Thundercat, Harish (Harish Raghavan) is now playing with Charles Lloyd, I’m teaching at Stanford and doing a bunch of stuff. It’s just hard to get us together.
But we did record a CD in June, and we’re going to release it next year. So I’m going back to playing more quartet. I’m looking forward to that. These are my guys.
We’ve been a band for—wow, I don’t even know where to start—but over 16 or 17 years. Justin and I grew up together. Justin and I have been playing together for 30 years. It’s crazy to say that. Harish and I have been playing together for over 20 years, and the same thing with Sam. So that’s what you’re hearing on those records, and it’s hard to recreate that. It’s hard to get that to come together just because of life.
LC: You’re coming back to London in November. Is that going to be with the quartet?
AA: Yeah, that’ll be a different one.
LC: Will you be playing material from the new album?
AA: It’ll be a mix. I’m thinking a lot about introducing young players into the scene, just taking that role of giving opportunities—mentorship, kind of like Miles Davis. So I think I’m going to have a younger band for that.
LC: You’ve worked in many different formats—your quartet, duos, solo projects, collaborations with other musicians. Do these different forms feel fundamentally different to you when you’re making music?
AA: No. For me, again, my role is the same. It’s the same. Of course, different people bring out different things sonically because the conversation changes. But my role is the same. I have to think of it like that, or else I think I would get very stressed out, because I’m doing so many different things all the time.
Academia as the New Jazz Club
LC: Can we talk a little about your teaching at Stanford?
AA: Yeah. I took on the position last year, and I’m starting my second year as director of jazz at Stanford University. I’m trying to build a programme there, but I’m looking more to have Stanford feel like a hub—a place where a community can grow, where discussions can happen, and where students who are interested in other things can also explore the power of connecting creativity and improvisation with whatever it is they’re interested in. It could be computer science and improvisation. I’m trying to create a place for those kinds of discussions.
LC: What do you actually teach?
AA: Whatever I want at the beginning of the year. I get to pick. But I’m overseeing the whole programme. Last year I taught theory and improvisation, and this year I’m teaching composition, theory and improvisation. I’m also creating a history course that covers the whole spectrum of Black music.
LC: Stanford didn’t have a jazz programme for a long time, though?
AA: That’s what a lot of people think, but they’ve had a jazz department since the late ’70s.
LC: Really! We’ve been talking about this intangible side of jazz, and how difficult it can be to pin down or analyse what jazz actually is. In a higher-education setting, do you think that makes it particularly difficult to teach?
AA: I think it’s becoming less difficult, because what you’re doing is getting players to run institutions now, and I think that’s great. As you said, it’s hard to teach that, so a lot of it you have to show. It’s just like the music was passed down—you learned back in the day by being next to somebody, through apprenticeship. I think now academia is starting to become the place where that happens.
LC: Do you see yourself as part of academia?
AA: Yes. Yeah. It’s funny to say, yes.
LC: Jazz originally developed far away from academia, and now the two seem to stand shoulder to shoulder.
AA: Well, the institution—the jazz institution, academia—has taken the place of what the clubs used to be. There are a lot of clubs that have closed down. Just as meeting places, places where young people can come and sit down next to each other. Bradley’s and all these other clubs used to be that. They don’t exist anymore. So that’s the way I look at jazz academia: it’s just a place for like-minded people to meet, young musicians.
LC: So perhaps it’s not so much that jazz itself has to change, but that the university has to change its understanding of what jazz education can be. Otherwise, institutionalised jazz can sound quite intimidating.
AA: I think, again, it is changing. You have Sean Jones leading at a school, Walter Smith III leading a woodwind department, Rudresh Mahanthappa at Princeton. I could go on and on—Terell Stafford, Ingrid Jensen at Manhattan School of Music. People who can actually play, people who really love this music, are now the heads of departments. It’s not just an administrative role anymore. These are actual artists heading schools. I think that’s really beautiful.
LC: Your albums often seem to have very different moods. What mood are you in at the moment when you’re creating music? Do you consciously think about it?
AA: No. I don’t consciously think about it. It’s whatever life throws me in. Recently, both of my parents passed away. So now I’m in this recovery. That’s what this era of my life is about: recovery. How do I recover? How do I endure? So that’s what the music is going to sound like. It’s just what it is.
I don’t know that until I’m looking back. I only look back after I’ve already recorded the music. I sit down and ask myself, What does all of this mean? What is the CD? What is the music? What was this era of my life? So I’m not really in control. I’m not forcing myself. I’m not doing it. Life does what it does. I’m just dancing with it.
LC: I guess what I was asking was what's happening to you recently is already becoming part of the music.
AA: Yeah. I think it’s grief.
LC: I’m sorry.
AA: No, it’s okay. It’s part of life. It’s part of the dance.
LC: Do you go back to old places—to places from your childhood, where you grew up?
AA: Yeah, a lot of the time. I live where I grew up. I moved back. I see people that I’ve known since I was a kid.
LC: Is that Oakland?
AA: I live in Berkeley. I moved back to Oakland, and then I moved to Berkeley when it was time for my son to go to school. So it’s just one city over.
LC: Does he play music?
AA: Yes, he plays piano, but it’s Suzuki method. He’s not doing jazz.
LC: I also wanted to ask about Herbie Hancock. Did you work with him before? Did he influence you in any way?
AA: Nice. Yeah. I met Herbie and Wayne when I was 22, 23, at the Thelonious Monk Institute. We went on a few tours with them. And then later on—I don’t know how it happened; life is crazy—but I would go to Wayne’s house and meditate. I also became close with Bennie Maupin. So I’ve known them for now 20-something years.
LC: And you also taught at the Herbie Hancock Institute?
AA: Yeah. I was an artistic director. I’ve done a lot of teaching there.
LC: What did you teach?
AA: Life. I mean, the same way that I just try to continue what Herbie and Wayne were doing. They weren’t teaching music theory. They were teaching about how to become a better human being and citizen of the world. So I try to impart those lessons to the students—not because I’m special, just because I’ve been around them, and I’m trying to continue that.
Ambrose Akinmusire Quartet performs at Kings Place on Sunday 15th November 2026. For more info, please visit: https://www.kingsplace.co.uk/whats-on/jazz/ambrose-akinmusire-quartet/
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