Lenox — Three-time Grammy-winning jazz drummer and educator Ulysses Owens Jr. will appear with his band Generation Y at Tanglewood’s Linde Center for Music and Learning at 7 p.m. on Friday, November 7. Owens will headline an evening that highlights his genre-spanning career as performer, educator, and cultural catalyst. Hailed by The New York Times for “balancing excitement gracefully” and “shining with innovation,” Owens arrives fresh from international tours, crossover projects, and chart-topping record releases including “A New Beat,” which spent eight weeks at number one on JazzWeek and landed on multiple “Best of 2024” lists.
I spoke with Owens via Zoom this week ahead of his highly anticipated Tanglewood appearance. Our conversation has been edited for clarity and length.
‘A New Beat’ has been celebrated as one of the best jazz albums of 2024. What does this record represent to you in terms of your evolution as an artist?
‘A New Beat’ is exactly what it states in that it’s a new beat. It’s a new sound. It’s a new wave and dimension of my career. I’ll tell you the story of how we came to be an ensemble, and I’ve shared this in different iterations.
Essentially, Myles Weinstein, a former manager, came to me and said around 2018, ‘Ulysses, what do you want to do?’
And at that time, we had spent a few years just trying to create projects to get booked, which is what happens a lot in jazz and classical and even popular music, where you start trying to create these concept projects. And I had done that. I had ‘Songs of Freedom,’ which had done well. I’d had some other things that I’d done.
And finally, he said, ‘Man, I don’t care about concept. What makes you happy?’
And I said, ‘What makes me happy is making music on a really high level.’
He says, ‘OK, that’s a good start.’
It was like a therapy session.
And then he says, ‘Who makes you happy?’
I said, ‘Well, I love playing with Christian McBride, and I love playing with Kurt Elling and all these great people, but I left their bands because I wanted to form my own vision.’
He says, ‘OK, who else makes you happy?’
I said, ‘Young musicians.’
He said, ‘Wow! Why is that?’
I said, ‘Because they are underdeveloped and it resonates with the part of me that’s still not developed,’ because Benny Golson taught me in 2001 at Julliard, and he said to all of us, ‘Hey, I’m 70-something years old, and I never want to get to a place where I felt I’ve mastered my art form.’
And we said, ‘Well, you are a master!’
He said, ‘Well, the day you really feel like you’ve become a master, you have to stop … and I never want to stop … So at this particular juncture, you should see yourself not as a fully evolved master.’
So from that moment on, I said to myself, ‘I need to always stay connected to people that keep me connected to the part of me that needs to thrive and needs to shift to the next level.’
So at that point, Myles and I started building this band.
He said, ‘All right. Well, who are the young musicians that you want to work with?’
So for me, it was a saxophonist by the name of Alexa Tarantino. It was a trumpeter by the name of Anthony Hervey. It was a bassist by the name of Philip Norris. And it was a pianist by the name of Luther Allison.
And so he said, ‘All right.’
At that time, they all were very much in the beginnings of their careers. Many of them had just moved to New York, and I met Philip and Alexa through Julliard. So at that point, I was saying, ‘All right. Here we are. I’ve got this group.’
And then Myles said, ‘Well, what do you want to call them?’
This was the fun moment, because we’re like, ‘The Young Line Collective’ and ‘The Young Line Initiative.’ We started going through all these different names. And I said, ‘What about Generation Y?’
And Myles said, ‘I love it!’
The trumpeter was Drew Ashby Anderson. He was a student at The New School. He subbed at Julliard one day, and I just liked his vibe. So—long story short—we started that band in 2019. We did a gig at Smalls, then we did a gig at the Jazz Standard. And it seemed like the concept was strong, but the band’s sound wasn’t really together, and then the pandemic happened.
Fast-forward: They got a gig for us in the middle of the pandemic, and then we played again. We did some other gigs. We did a tour of Florida. And at that time, Alexa went to play with Wynton Marsalis and Cécile McLorin Salvant. And Sarah Hanahan had joined the band. And that was when I said, ‘OK, we got something now,’ because Sarah came in with a certain kind of direction.
That’s when ‘A New Beat’ came to mind, because I was thinking, ‘Yo! I got to record these—what used to be kids—before they become famous!’
So I talked to Cellar Music. We were actually looking at some other projects, because I was producing some records, and they were saying, ‘Hey, what do you want to do?’
I said, ‘Hey, man! I’ve got this band, Generation Y, and I’ve got all the most talented musicians who are about to break off or break away in their careers and become incredible, and I think we have a chance at documenting them.’
So ‘A New Beat’ essentially documents a band in transition — one group that helped spark the original idea was moving on, while a new ensemble was coming to life … You have Anthony Hervey coming in, who was my Juilliard student, and Tyler Bullock, whose career is growing immensely.
So, to me, ‘A New Beat’ is a really beautiful capture of the onset of an idea and sort of the fulfillment and the actuality of an idea, and I think the audience took to it. It’s been my most successful album to date, and I’m truly grateful for it. It has really sparked a new season and a new element in my life. It also is effervescent for me. It is this thing that can continue to grow, and it’s very much in the spirit of Art Blakey and the Jazz Messengers, Bobby Watson, and Horizon—and all the other great quintets. So that’s a very long-winded way of saying what ‘A New Beat’ is and what it represents and what it has accomplished for me.
‘Songs of Freedom’ and ‘Soul Conversations’ both carry deep social and spiritual undertones. How do you view the relationship between jazz and social consciousness today?
Well, first of all, jazz is social consciousness. It is community. It is social music. It is people music. It came from the gutters, from the trenches, from the juke joints, and it was a space where social consciousness was perpetuated.
So you have places in Paris where the music was played, and you had writers and humanitarians come together. In Harlem, you had rent parties, and you had clubs where people came together, and they built on top of this music and created whole movements. You had the same thing happening around the world. So I don’t see jazz and social consciousness as two different entities. They’re actually a collective. I see them as an organism. One fuels the other, and they continue to re-create within themselves.
What I think you’re speaking to connects particularly to ‘Songs of Freedom.’ When you look at the Black Lives Matter movement—which inspired me at the time I created it—jazz, and the new version of jazz, were fueling a new wave of social awareness.
There was this place we were reaching because a kind of war—a war of minds, a war of races—had come out of hiding again. So, to keep my answer short, I’d say jazz and social consciousness are one breathing organism. And I think—maybe it was Baldwin who said it—that great art is fueled by reality and anger. If you feel nothing, if you’re angry about nothing, if nothing pushes you or unnerves you, then you can’t create anything.
For me, social consciousness starts with awareness—an awareness of society and a consciousness that asks, ‘How are we moving forward? What do we want? How can we make something different?’ I think jazz becomes the soundtrack to that movement, and that’s what ‘Songs of Freedom’ is all about.
For me, ‘Songs of Freedom’ was the first time I became angry. Well, excuse me, but I cannot lie: It was the first time I publicly expressed my anger.
I don’t like to show up in the jazz space as a Black man. I don’t want to have those conversations that start with ‘as an angry Black man.’ I’m a musician. I’m a person. But during that Black Lives Matter era, we were all so tired. And so ‘Songs of Freedom’ was my little way of saying, ‘Hey, world. I’m angry too, but I’m going to paint my anger into a 10- to 12-song presentation and get brilliant singers to sing it and play the hell out of the drums.’ It was my deposit to the movement, if that makes sense.
It sure does! Thank you! You’ve won three Grammy Awards and collaborated with people like Christian McBride and Kurt Elling. What did those experiences teach you about excellence and humility in jazz?
Well, that’s interesting. I’ve never been asked that question. I’ll start with the part that piques my interest: the humility piece. I think both Kurt and Christian have very strong egos and confidence in how they present themselves. But where I think the humility lives with them is in their desire to always reinvent themselves. I’ll give you two or three things they taught me, and hopefully that will feed the discussion you want to have from this question.
Christian McBride taught me how to be myself as a bandleader. He taught me that as a drummer, I don’t have to apologize for playing the drums and wanting to lead the band.
As a bassist, Christian led the band just as strongly as any of his counterparts: Josh Redman, Roy Hargrove, Mark Whitfield. The list goes on and on. He was not any less of a bandleader than any of those just for hiding behind a big instrument. So the first thing I learned from Christian was that I can be a great bandleader even though I don’t play a common band-leading instrument.
The second thing he taught me was to be organic and to let things form musically, organically. I often tell the story about what Christian said when he hired me. I said to myself, ‘Oh my god! I’m getting ready to play with Christian McBride!’ I emailed him every week asking, ‘What music do I need to practice?’
He never sent me anything.
Finally, I show up in Santa Cruz, Calif. We get on the bandstand at soundcheck. I’m nervous. I ask, ‘What are we going to play?’
He says, ‘Hey, man. How you feeling?’
I say, ‘I’m feeling good, Christian.’
‘All right, man. What you been listening to?’
‘Well, I was listening to Josh Redman live at the Village Vanguard.’
‘Oh, man. He plays Blakey on there, right?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Man, let’s play that.’
Christian built his repertoire from what he liked and what moved him, and he found the connective points of what could bring the two of us together, and he built a set list off of what he loved, what I love, and what we could love together. So I learned those things from him.
Kurt Elling taught me about presentation. He taught me that you don’t just get on stage with T-shirts and jeans and sneakers and play a show. He said to me, ‘You’re a jazz musician. You’re an ambassador … Build a show!’ So Kurt taught me how to literally build a moment in time that transcends audiences.
When I went to Kurt Elling shows, it was the first time I saw people cry from jazz. We had this show one time in Kansas City in the Blue Room, and a certain guy was so passionate about seeing Kurt, and something happened with his ticket or something, and his seat wasn’t available. The guy went into a full-blown tantrum and started crying. He was like, ‘You don’t know! I love Kurt! He’s the soundtrack of my life!’
I had never seen anybody react to jazz that way.
And I would see people come to Kurt Elling concerts that don’t normally come to jazz concerts. Audience members would dress up, and I’d say, ‘I’m used to people coming to grunge clubs for jazz!’
So Kurt taught me that his shows were an opportunity to create a presentation and that it was an opportunity to transcend people and that people were paying money to feel different.
It was like church. They need to feel better when they leave than they did when they showed up. Kurt taught me that. He also taught me how to be a good human being. We would literally go on three-week tours, get off the tour, and I’d say, ‘Kurt, I’m going home to bed, and I’m going out tonight to hang out.’
He says, ‘I’m getting out of the cab, and I’m meeting my daughter at the playground.’
And he did that constantly. He would leave the airport and go and take his daughter to school, or he’d go and play makeup with her. And I know we had just spent three weeks of 17 one-nighters zipping across the continent of Europe. But he didn’t care. He’s a family man, completely faithful to his wife. You know that old adage about musicians on the road—the drugs, the drinking? Not Kurt. He’s a family man who sings, and I never saw him compromise himself. I never saw him live outside of any bounds of integrity. He’s just a good human being who happened to be a jazz musician. Those things were super important to me. What these men taught me still lives, not only within me, but in how I choose to be a band leader.
The last thing I’ll say for both of them: They knew when to let people go—which means this: I went to both of them saying, ‘Hey, I got things I want to do. I want to be like you. I want to create you.’ And they both said, ‘We knew this day was going to come. You have our blessing.’ So those are some really key principles for me.
What do you believe is jazz music’s most powerful contribution to today’s cultural conversation?
First of all, I have to say, we’re not having a cultural conversation today. What we’re having today is a separation of culture and a spirit of division that is running rampant throughout this world, and it is so egregious to me. So, to say, ‘Jazz, what is it giving?’ or, ‘What is it contributing to today’s cultural conversation?’ There is no culture. There’s a commitment to the eradication of culture, and that’s very disheartening to me. What I think I can answer is that I think jazz has the ability to contribute if we make space to listen to it. And if we make space to go and experience it, I think it can help us reconnect with the culture within ourselves that we all come to this Earth with.
If I took the next 10 minutes and talked to Mark and talked to you, you all would tell me about the culture and how you were raised and your traditions and the things that were instilled in you and what your grandmother played or what your grandfather played or the music your parents listened to.
And we could have a beautiful conversation around the things that you all came to this world with and what I came to this world with, and we could walk away exploring three different cultures.
That’s not being supported today. So what I can say is, if we were in a space in society where that was being supported, I think jazz could be a constant reminder of what was, what is, and what is to come. If we were in such a space, that would be my answer.
But I think what we now have to do is, we have to go to a space of preservation. We have to go to a space of safeguarding and safekeeping, almost like people are going underground, which has happened in many different movements and wars. And so I think we’re in a space where we’ve got to come together. We got to preserve these manuscripts. I mean, literally the African-American Museum, they’re taking stuff out of it as we speak, right?
So I think somebody has to say, ‘These people that are trying to eradicate culture, let’s take these pieces, these artifacts, these gifts, these things that have stood the test of time in the music, orally and in actuality, and we need to safeguard them.’ And if we can do that over the course of the next few years or decade, then I think what jazz will become can be informed by those things. But right now, if I could just be frank, we got to hold onto our shit, bro.
