Rico Jones: The Spiritual Sax of BloodLines
Tenor saxophonist Rico Jones explains his concept of creating a 'cinema of sound,' discusses navigating multiple cultural identities in jazz, and reveals how his Indigenous and Hispanic heritage inform his music without constraining it.
Today, the Spotlight shines on tenor saxophonist Rico Jones.
Rico’s new album BloodLines captures something you don’t hear much anymore—a live recording that feels like a complete story. Recorded at Brooklyn’s Ornithology, it’s five original compositions that explore his multicultural heritage, from his Indigenous and Latino roots to his deep connection with Black American musical traditions.
Based in Harlem, Rico’s already performed with Esperanza Spalding at the Blue Note and co-led the first all-Indigenous big band. His approach to jazz honors the past while pushing forward, whether he’s working with veterans like Joe Martin and Nasheet Waits or mentoring students in Jersey City.
(The musical excerpts heard in the interview are from Rico Jones’s album BloodLines)
Dig Deeper
• Visit Rico Jones at ricojonesmusician.com and follow him on Instagram, Facebook, and YouTube
• Rico Jones’ Bloodlines album is out now on Giant Step Arts and can be purchased from Bandcamp or Qobuz, and you can listen on your streaming platform of choice
• Learn about Giant Step Arts’ unique artist-focused mission
• Rico Jones: Tenor Saxophonist Making Waves on the NYC Jazz Scene
Band Members:
• Joe Martin, bassist - One of NYC’s most sought-after bassists
• Nasheet Waits, drummer - Veteran drummer and Giant Step Arts co-curator
• Max Light, guitarist - Rising star in contemporary jazz guitar
Collaborators and Mentors:
• Esperanza Spalding - Grammy-winning bassist/vocalist who mentored Rico
• Bobby Watson - Saxophonist and mentor to Rico
• Bennie Maupin - Jazz multi-instrumentalist and mentor
• Vincent Herring - Saxophonist who endorsed Rico’s work
(This transcript has been lightly edited for clarity.)
Lawrence Peryer: I want to start by asking you about some of the specifics around Bloodlines. One of the things I'm really curious about is the decision to go with a live album rather than studio.
Rico Jones: Well, to be quite frank, that's one of the main focuses that the label, Giant Step Arts, has. All the albums are live. I found it to be a good fit.
This connection with Giant Step Arts—that's run by Jimmy and Dena Katz. I found it to be an especially good fit because I felt that the majority of my work is best suited to live performances. I get in a different state, a different performance mindset, when I'm playing for people versus that feeling of, okay, now let's capture some magic in the studio when nobody's there. In my personal experience as a performer, I have the option, or other members of the band always have the option, as you're recording in the studio, to say, "Oh, wait, wait, wait. Stop, stop. I made a mistake," or "I didn't like what I played." In some ways, that kind of takes that sink-or-swim mentality out of the equation.
Lawrence: It's really interesting. The stakes are so different. As you said, you can start and stop in the studio, but there's also that pressure of finite time for the sessions versus the pressure of you're on stage. (laughter) It's sort of without a net. That's a fascinating different set of constraints, I suppose. Different set of stakes. Tell me a little bit about structuring the work as a suite, these interconnected pieces. What were you going for as opposed to a collection of separate compositions?
Rico: Ultimately, my goal was to tell a cohesive story or to have a cohesive presentation with the music. What I mean is simply taking the listener on an emotional journey. For me, my reference point was some of the great film composers.
I mean, this is maybe a very surface-level one, but John Williams is one of the great compositional masters, I believe, of the last—I don't know—over fifty years, simply because all the work he has done in music is so very iconic. When he writes a melody to a film or story, you're able to identify not only the part of the story but the character, the emotional beat. It can bring you to tears just having that music in the background. So I wanted to translate that sort of idea to the realm of improvised music, to jazz, because so often I feel—whether it be my own work or the work of other people—that there's so much passion and so much integrity and so much technical mastery. But at the end of the day, it becomes basically a lineup of interesting songs. It's not really saying much, or if it is, it's little vignettes, not necessarily one song connected to the other in an overarching theme.
So I wanted to achieve that by creating that suite, having something that, in musical terms, takes on the hero's journey. You have a point of departure, you have an arc, you have a call to action. You have confronting the shadow and then coming out victorious at the end.
Lawrence: Do you have—if it's fair to ask—do you have a Williams score that you return to or that you particularly like?
The reason I'm asking is I had an experience one night; this was decades ago. It was a beautiful summer evening. I was driving in Connecticut with the windows down, and I was by myself listening to, I think, one of the independent radio stations, and they played the Close Encounters soundtrack. We all know sort of the five-note, the five-tone melody line that they used initially. Hearing the entire piece that way, disconnected from the film, it was the first time it struck me—kind of what you were saying—the power of his scores divorced from the film. And that one in particular was really rather atonal and—I don't want to say avant-garde, but it was really quite amazing as a piece of modern composition. I'm wondering if any of his works particularly stand out for you, or is there one you return to?
Rico: It's really hard to say. I guess one of the things that made me fall in love with his film scoring in particular was simply the stories that they were tied to. And there are a lot of iconic stories. I mean, you talk about Indiana Jones—classic adventure. Star Wars—the space opera. Harry Potter—mystical adventure. I mean, all of these also kind of, in some way, shape, or form, follow that hero's journey narrative.
E.T. in particular has some really beautiful stuff. Just the way he can write—it's not even just background sound effects like a lot of film scoring tends to be. It's clear, concise. You can identify it; you can easily remember it. I guess a little-known fact: he was also a jazz musician early on in his career, which I guess makes sense. You have to have some masterful skills in improvisation, harmonic and melodic sensibilities.
But anyway, I guess maybe a thing that hasn't been touched on so much in the music is that more grandiose storytelling scope. It's more about vignettes or more about showing how masterful and beautiful your musicianship is.
Lawrence: On the topic of storytelling, can you tell me a little bit about how the cultural elements in your own personal background either impact the storytelling aspect of your music or more broadly how they manifest in your music?
Rico: I think, on a positive note, I grew up in such a way that I was exposed to a lot of different cultural identities. I grew up in a mixed household, so I had influences with the normal American upbringing that everybody is used to. But I also had Hispanic and Indigenous influences in my family.
It wasn't so overt, to be quite honest with you, because over time, naturally, like many, many families, there was pressure to assimilate into that broader cultural identity—American consumerism or just doing the American thing. Back to those, the iconography: there was lots of Indigenous pottery, Indigenous artwork on the walls, woven blankets, Indigenous Mexican blankets. And of course, members of my family would speak Spanish, or my aunts would get together on the holidays and they'd be making tamales and different things like that. Or seeing a Kokopelli on the wall, like that humped flute player. So there was always symbolism and little hints of it here and there.
But because I had sort of an integrated upbringing, I had all of these different influences—non-Native influences, non-Mexican influences. When I initially was growing up, I went to a predominantly white Baptist school. So I had an early sort of introduction or foundation in Christian philosophy, theology. I think it was a good upbringing—good morals—but certainly of a certain perspective. I mean, I was kind of an outlier because I certainly didn't look like a lot of the other people. That's all right. I'm thankful for that experience. There were a lot of great friends I made there.
Moving forward, I went to an art school starting in the sixth grade. This was a public art school, and it was my mother's idea. I didn't want to leave the school I was used to going to, but it was for the best because there it was much more diverse, not overtly religious in any way, shape, or form.
But around the same time, in sixth grade, I had an aunt who suggested that we attend a church that she goes to, and this was a predominantly Black Catholic church. And upon arriving there, I saw that there was a band—piano, bass and drums and keyboards and a full choir. So every Sunday there was gospel music coming out of the Black church, Black American church tradition.
I took part in that from a very early age. I was mentored by the musicians there, and I was a part of that community until I left for New York. So all that to say is I've just had a lot of different influences. Not any single experience over those years really put me in a single cultural category, if that makes sense.
I guess I have to say, to me, culture—cultural context—is more important than talking about race. We don't have control over our genealogical backgrounds. We're just living here. There were some times when I was younger and less self-confident. I thought, "Geez, well, I don't really look like the rest of these white kids at the school. I guess everybody thinks I'm other than." I had similar feelings growing up with my Hispanic part of my family, the Indigenous part of my family. There would even, at times, be comments about me not being Hispanic enough.
And then, of course, that insecurity when you're entering something like Black American music, a framework like jazz. "Well, geez, I'm not coming from this, but I'm in love with it. I don't—I'm other than." But ultimately, I've just come to terms with—it's a beautiful thing to have a rich collection of influences and to be welcomed in so many different communities. It's a beautiful thing, and I feel that it's a blessing, whether or not people come to predetermined conclusions about who I am or what my motives are. That's okay. I just try to be as sincere as I can be and show as much respect as I can and give credit where it's coming from.
Lawrence: Well, I appreciate you even being willing to indulge that part of the conversation because, as a white man of a certain age, I try to follow my curiosity in these conversations, but I also never want to other someone or tokenize them or make them feel like they're the representative of the entirety of their cultural background. But because we're talking about art and music, I think that's one of the joys of art and music—their pathways into other people's backgrounds and the ideas and the cultures that influenced them. So, like I said, it sparked so much curiosity in me, but I never want to trigger alienation in someone else.
Rico: Certainly. I mean, I guess the hardest thing for me is, like I said, there was that pressure for assimilation that goes back before my time, for better and for worse.
But all that to say is, I guess the positive here is that because I didn't really feel grounded heavily in any certain direction, I had that agency to operate in different circles—maybe not at the depth I wish I had, but I was always able to go back and forth between, and it's given me, I think, maybe perspective that other people who were more tied to one sort of insular community might struggle having—that, for lack of a better term, social fluidity.
Lawrence: I also think that in a lot of cases there's a burden to integrate traditions into the music, whereas—and sometimes that manifests very overtly. Like you have to carry cultural elements in obvious ways, whether it's instrumentation or what have you. But I think another—you keep using the word "positives" that come from these experiences, and something else that struck me as very positive, definitely interesting, in your experience with the church is the education you must have gotten around the role of music in community and in spirituality. That's especially given the length of your involvement with that community. Could you talk a little bit about those elements of your experience and your learning there?
Rico: Well, sure. I think the interesting thing was even with the Baptist school I attended early on—the private school that I mentioned—music was always a part of worship. I mean, of course they were religiously oriented, but it was just kind of a part of activities. And then, of course, we had a music class, so I was part of a choir, I guess, from kindergarten. So there was always that exposure to music.
And then, fast-forward to the time I moved on from that community and into that public art school, which was much more liberal and open-minded, and there are all kinds of different forms of expression and cultures and different types of people. That was beautiful. By the time I had gotten to the beginning of my relationship with the Catholic church I attended from sixth grade up until now—whenever I go back, I take part in that—I already had an idea of music being worshipful. But there's something about getting to play the horn, getting to play the saxophone, and being around people hearing beautiful choir music, being moved to tears, or having people move to tears when you're playing and saying, "Wow, you're really playing; you're really praying through the horn." It meant something to me.
And, honestly, I also have to say around that time, too, I became aware of some of those spiritual movements in jazz, namely what John Coltrane was doing, which is sort of—it feels like a surface-level thing to say because I know that his influences are so outstanding, so far-reaching, for many people in many different ways. But those connections felt strong for me because I had not only the abstract or far-off John Coltrane as my hero with A Love Supreme, but I had a clear application for that kind of mindset or that kind of perceived goal, which was I'm taking part in ceremony at church. We're playing music for people. And it wasn't always mystical, this, that, and the other, but I had a mentor in the church, the music director, Danielle Hilton. I called her Dede. Everyone called her Miss Dede. She was playing piano, and she would help lead the choir. If I was doing something wrong or I wasn't playing enough, or I was playing over the singers in the wrong way, she would turn around real quick and give me a look. And I knew, "Okay, all right." Or if she said, "Play, you need to play," if I was being timid or something like that.
So there are a lot of things in there—communal element, the spirituality element. And I guess if you want to talk about worship or spirituality in a way that's more universal, what I think is important about understanding those cultural contexts is that it's much more about getting into the subconscious mind and getting into emotion when you play, like letting go completely. I think a lot of times—and this is not, everyone has different perspectives—but people who don't subscribe to spiritual belief systems or subscribe to spirituality in any way, shape, or form because maybe they prefer more logical, tried-and-true materialistic viewpoints, it can be harder for people just to completely let go in the music-making process, completely let go and just play with heart, if that makes sense. And I know this is kind of tricky to say; some of these things can be misinterpreted. But I guess the best I can say is spirituality is like attempting to access that subconscious. That's when people say the spirit is moving through you as you play. Well, you're not letting your conscious mind—you're trying to get to a state where the conscious mind is not part of the picture.
Lawrence: Is that where the connection between improvisation and spirituality really lives—in those flow states?
Rico: I would say so. It feels therapeutic, and I think anybody could agree. It feels nice to have at least a feeling of letting go of your ego when you're playing music. I tell a lot of folks when I'm playing a concert for them: the beautiful thing about music is that we're able to access experiences and emotions, maybe tap into memories that we otherwise wouldn't get to. That's why it's important that we are present in the moment when we play it, either as a listener or as a performer. We have to be present. So it is kind of like a form of prayer or meditation.
I believe in some ways that's why it's difficult—it can be difficult for us to really be present, because, at least in today's day and age, our attention is constantly pulled in different ways with the phone, with the emails, with this, that, and the other—food, drinks, socializing. But the meditative practice of focusing in on the music, it can prove difficult for people.
But one thing, if I may go on that I like to compare it to is going back to the cinematography comparisons. I like to call it a cinema of sound, to welcome the audience into my cinema of sound. And what I mean to say is when you buy that ticket to go to the movie, so you buy that ticket to go to a theatrical performance, people don't go there to drink a cocktail and talk to their date or scroll through their phone. And if they do, they very might well be removed from the theater. But most of the time, people go there to experience a story. They go there to maybe let go of all of the things that are weighing them down from one day to the next—that pressure about work, the pressure about paying rent or medical issues or whatever's going on. But they go there to become part of a story that's beyond them.
I feel like it's the same principle even when we're listening to instrumental music, but it's more abstract, and you have to maybe look within: "What does this make me think of? Oh, it makes me think about my grandmother, and that's kind of difficult for me. Or it's actually making me really pay attention, and that doesn't make me feel as comfortable as I would be if the story was telling me what to think."
But it keys into a lot of different things. These are just my perspectives on listening.
Lawrence: Something that comes up for me as you articulate that, especially earlier when you were talking about staying present and attention in performance: Do you have the experience—or can you tell me about your experience of recognizing those moments where, for lack of a better way to say it, you're connecting with the creative spirit—in whatever language you would use for that? And something I find also interesting: when we reach those moments, how to be careful to not focus on them too much so they slip away. It's the kind of thing—you can't grab for it or you lose it. You just have to let it be. And I'm curious: when you're in the moment when you're performing, do you feel it when it happens?
Rico: It's tricky because when that happens, it feels like time—it feels like it's almost like you have a lapse in time because I'm not conscious of it. It happens like that. It just comes and goes: "Oh, what happened? Wow. That was a really quick concert." I can't control when that takes place, but I guess I know what inhibits that sort of thing. And for me, it's lack of preparation. It's not about perfection, but if I'm on the horn or in the music, practicing as much as I possibly can—and I'm not perfect, so this doesn't happen all the time—but if I prepare the music in such a way that I can go on stage and not feel as though I have any questions, any doubts, that is what allows me to maybe get into that state more. Because a lot of times insecurity slips in for me when I feel underprepared. If I feel really prepared and, say, I'm playing with a dream-team band and I'm nervous because I really respect these players and I want to sound good, if I'm prepared, I can just let go of that egotistical stuff much easier than if I'm underprepared and, "Oh, geez, I really have to—I really have to deal. I don't know what I'm doing." And then my mind's on the page, or my mind's on, "Oh, I have to look good. Oh, I have to sound good. Oh, I have to this and that."
But when it happens, it's like dreaming. It's like being in a waking dream because I'm not fully conscious. The music is kind of happening. I mean, it's not completely—there are transcendent moments, I guess—but it's almost like my conscious self is in the backseat, and the music—I'm still making some decisions here and there, but it's like split-second things. It's not—I'm not thinking verbally or this, that, and the other.
Lawrence: I think there's something very Coltrane-esque in that as well—the diligence he put in and the renown he had for practicing. And this idea with all great improvisers that you're so solid on your technique that you then set the technique aside, basically, or you transcend the technique. You don't have those worries about, "Can I hit that note?" You just hit it.
Well, to pivot a little bit and to build on something you were just referencing in terms of dream team: I'm really curious about the collection of musicians on this record, and specifically there's a really interesting age range and experience range and differential, and I'm really curious about—and again, so much of what we've talked about touches on what people bring to the music and teaching and learning and mentorship. Can you talk a little bit about how this band affects these works, or this work?
Rico: Sure. In terms of Joe Martin, I've been aware of his work for a long time, namely through people that I admired growing up—Chris Potter, Mark Turner. He's on a lot of their records. So I grew up listening to Joe Martin's work as part of those different teams. And there was a moment when he came through town with Mark Turner's band, and I spent a while sitting on a couch at Dazzle, this jazz club in Denver, talking to him about life and music. This was way back; I don't even think he remembers, but it left an impact on me. I was able to connect with him then, and then come around 2019, I guess I got this idea from growing up in Colorado. I mean, I knew that there were certain musicians in town—I'm having a roundabout way of getting to the punchline here—but there are certain musicians in town who I greatly admired who were elders, and they had developed skillsets. And I always—when I was growing up, I was still, I guess, in the realm of make-believe with music. In other words, my hero was Charlie Parker, or it was Hank Mobley or Stan Getz or John Coltrane. And I almost make-believe wanted to be them on the bandstand. They were my heroes. They were like my Superman, my Batman, or whatever. I wanted to be like them. Just like when you're a kid, you want to be Luke Skywalker, I wanted to be Hank Mobley.
So I would pick out the older musicians I could around age fourteen. I figured out how to book gigs at certain venues, so I would do that. And if the budget allowed, I would call on these older musicians, and I learned that the music would be at level ten. I might be at level two, but it was at level ten, so it brought me up a little bit.
Well, fast-forward: I just began my time in New York City, and I, by virtue of a friend—believe it or not, a friend of a friend—I was able to get a gig at Birdland. So I thought, "Okay, well, I got to call the dream team. I'm going to call these great musicians." Well, one of them was Joe Martin. So I reached out to him via email, and he was able to do it, and that's when the relationship began, all of that coming from—I knew if I called more experienced players, I would get real-world schooling on the bandstand through osmosis, or he might even give me a tip or two.
It was a similar thing with Nasheet Waits. I had two people kind of reference him to me. The saxophonist Bennie Maupin had been a mentor to me over the years. We would speak frequently on the phone, and we still talk, and he said, "Oh, I have—there's this really, really great drummer I love playing with. We go on tour in Europe. His name is Nasheet Waits. He's amazing."
And fast-forward a couple of years later, I'm in New York, and I called this piano player, David Kikoski. He was giving me a bunch of names: "Hey, you should call this drummer, this drummer, this drummer. Oh, you should call Nasheet Waits. When I played with Nasheet Waits in my band, he sounds incredible." "Okay. Okay. I got to look—I need to check out Nasheet Waits."
And for the longest time, I was playing this kind of back-and-forth with Nasheet: "Hey, can you do this gig?" "No, man, I can't." "Oh, yes, I can." "Oh, sorry. I'm sorry. I'm out on tour with Jason Moran," or this, that, and the other. But finally, the stars aligned, and I was able to arrange for Nasheet to be a part of this album.
Lawrence: And I love the role of the guitar on this record. Can you tell me a little bit about the recruitment of Max Light?
Rico: Well, in a similar fashion, funny enough, Max and I met in Colorado during the pandemic. He's from Washington, D.C., originally. We both are here in New York now, but I had a friend named Julian Archer, a great drummer, and he's a photographer and videographer. He said, "Man, you should come down to this jam session tonight. I will introduce you to this amazing guitarist. You really got to meet him." So I went down; I'm at the jam session, and I meet Max, and that started a relationship where I was calling him for different engagements in Colorado. And he's an astounding musician.
Now, what led me to involve him in the record was a couple of different things, but first and foremost, it was a level of professional trust. Funny thing about the music industry is the professionalism thing—it's generally speaking most lacking in youth, but you can be any age and pull some funny stuff. Max is the complete opposite of pulling funny stuff. He came incredibly prepared to all the gigs I would call him for. The same is true for the recording session. I mean, he was beyond prepared.
Now, in terms of artistic perspective, one big thing was the piano is a mainstay in so many iconic jazz records, in contemporary music more so, yes, you get more guitar, but still, one could argue that it's not as often used as a main comping instrument. It's not the main instrument adding the harmonic color to the palate. And because Max is such a powerful young voice on the scene, I just thought that it would be great contrast to a lot of the music coming out now, and it would add a different texture and perspective that made it harder to compare the music to other great saxophonists' records. If it were piano—a more common instrumentation—I think that comparisons could be a lot more within reach. But Max adds such a cosmic and different—and he's such a player, man. I got to tell you, I mean, even listening back or when I bootleg gigs we do, he does so many intricate and intelligent things with the music. I'm astounded every time. I'm like, "Oh, wow. I didn't even notice all these different textures and layers he adds." He's an outstanding player.
Lawrence: I agree. It added so much to my listening experience. It was really a joy. And I love your observation or your point about that sort of differentiation as opposed to using the piano as the sort of harmonic foil. That's really fascinating. And probably wise, I mean, especially at this phase of your career, to help transcend some of those sort of cliché and hack observations that critics and writers easily reach for. It makes it just a little bit harder to do, and they have to reckon more with you and your compositions and your music. I love that. That's a wise approach.
Something else I wanted to ask you about: It seems you've gained a lot from mentors and mentorship. I'm really curious about what these relationships have taught you about—it's such a big element in jazz and creative music, the learning that happens on the bandstand, but the learning that happens off the bandstand and the fact that for so long it was an oral tradition outside of the conservatory. I'm curious what your thinking is about the responsibility that comes with bringing the tradition forward.
Rico: It's difficult. I find it to be difficult as somebody who wants to advocate for the importance of the integrity of this tradition because ultimately I believe that jazz—American jazz music—is folk music. It's Americana. It's part of that framework, and I think oftentimes it gets separated from country, bluegrass, blues, gospel, but they're part of the same framework.
But what started me on this path and this perspective is really my parents, Chuck and Patricia Jones—Charles and Patricia Jones—and I bring them up because they were the ones to take me out at age ten. They're not musicians at all. They weren't into jazz or anything like that. When I fell in love with the music, for some reason, they were gracious enough to take me out, for example, on a Wednesday night, on a school night at nine o'clock so I could go see saxophonist Laura Newman and her band play at a local club, or my pops would take me out in the summers to the afternoon jam session at the jazz club Dazzle. But every time they would take me out, especially my father, he would say, "Go talk to the musicians. You should go talk to them." And eventually, in talking to these people, of course I would get suggestions: "Hey, you should check out this record by Stan Getz," "Hey, check out Soul Station by Hank Mobley," or "Listen to this, that, and the other. Hey, you should learn this tune."
But eventually, they would be kind enough to say, "Hey, well, bring your alto next time." So I would bring my horn, and I couldn't play—I mean, I'd play just about as good as you would think a ten- or eleven-year-old would play. But I got better and better and better and better and better because these adult musicians were so gracious that they would let me—"Hey, next time learn 'Sugar' by Stanley Turrentine, and we'll play that next week. Okay?" "Okay, cool."
So that started my, unbeknownst to me, relationship in music with that kind of mentor-mentee thing, going to those jam sessions and hanging out with people in their fifties, sixties, seventies, and eighties and getting their perspective. And that's also translated to, later on down the line, artists would come through town, and I would ask for a lesson. People like Javon Jackson would come, and he'd do a performance at the art school and a clinic, and I'd say, "Okay, Mr. Jackson, can I get a lesson?" And my parents were gracious enough to provide those opportunities as well.
But the more I did it, the more confident I would become in just approaching different artists and trying to develop relationships. Some didn't work out—some people were just like, "Hey, man, how you doing?" Other times people would see that I was interested, and they would be very gracious and generous.
But that line of thinking continued as I got to New York City. And I would just reach out to the people I dreamed of playing with or the people I heard on records. And especially with the older musicians, I've found that mentorship really takes hold. In the last couple of years, I've really developed relationships with people that I would never have dreamed of having friendships with and mentorships with. So I'm really grateful.
I find it to be really important because the cultural context, the social context, the historical context is what gives music broader depth and meaning to me. If I didn't have any of that, yes, I could write a song about a breakup, or I could write a song about an experience I had. But there's something about having the perspective of the wise, the elders—it just allows the music to have that much more nuance and depth.
They point out all the potholes for you so you don't have to step in them. And when we're talking about jazz music, it's not just simply technical music that's improvised. And there's nothing wrong with improvised music that's contemporaneous, this, that, and the other. Good music is good music. But when we talk about jazz, there is history. There is a cultural context. There are certain stylistic implications that are involved, and the only way to learn that is from elder people who are part of that legacy and who touched upon that legacy with artists before them.
A great example would be Bobby Watson. He's been a wonderful teacher and mentor, and he graciously—he did a tour with me one time, or I did a tour with him, I should say. And he invited me to play with him in Connecticut once, so I got a rental car and Airbnb, and I went and played the gig with him. And we spent a lot of time on the phone where he's sharing advice and perspective and stories. He talks about playing with Art Blakey. I mean, he's a genuine part of the history. He could be in a history book. He probably is; he's part of documentaries and all of these things. But the main idea I'm trying to point out is that this is somebody who not only has connection to the culture and history but also has practical experience.
"Hey, man, why would you start out the set with three ballads?" I don't know—I'm being ridiculous here. But stuff that some people try out or things that people do, and they just don't know. "Man, when you curate your set list, you just think about doing this." "Hey, man, that composition you wrote is cool and all, but I don't really know where the melody is, and I don't know what those chords are saying. Maybe you should be a little bit more practical. Think about the melody. Think about something that people can remember."
Those sometimes can sting to hear as a young artist, but a lot of times it's coming from experience and truth, and you don't get that when you're only spending time with your peers. You get other positive things from being with your peer group, but mentorship is extremely important.
Lawrence: To go back a little bit about this idea of playing with Joe and Nasheet: it's kind of heavy to be the leader in that context. Like I think about when you're riding a horse—if you're not confident, the horse is going to kick your ass and is going to take over. And I can't help but think there's an element of that when you're leading the band or you're leading the session with some of the elders, or not even the elders, but with some of the people that are a little bit further ahead on the path. They know what they're doing, but they're still looking to you because it's your gig. And I'm curious about—there's so much interesting in what you've had to say today around that your confidence comes through your presence, comes through your preparation, not only musically but sort of like you had a lot of life skills starting young that get you to this moment, but you still got to do it. You get up on the bandstand; you're recording; you're making an album; you got to lead; you got to ride the horse. Tell me about that.
Rico: Oh, I mean, the nerves were still there. Trust me. The nerves were still there. I was a little bit self-conscious. I tried to—I guess the saving grace for me a lot of times is just the passion. I'm blessed to have the love I have for music, is what I mean to say. I love it. And I feel it when I play it. And I think that it helps me because once it gets started, I try to get into the zone when I'm playing, get into that emotional state, so I'm not thinking so consciously.
But it—I mean, talking about social dynamics, yes, it could be tricky. I guess I have to be matter-of-fact in terms of what I want out of the music, what my vision is, and I have to be diplomatic enough to know what to say and what not to say. Give the artists just enough that they know what the right direction is, but not so much that I'm telling them what to do or how to think or how to play. And that's difficult. That is the trick with getting older musicians because sometimes you might not see eye to eye, or they might see a different perspective given their experience and wisdom. But sometimes that can get in the way a little bit—they might not see where you're coming from—whereas with your friends, when you're with your crew, they're all gung-ho. We're all ready to—we're going for the gold. And there's not so much—there are not so many preconceived notions or questions informed by past mistakes.
With Joe and Nasheet, they're consummate professionals, and they came prepared. They're—I mean, what blew me away about Nasheet was I sent him the music ahead of time. I don't know if he spent a lot of time looking at it or not. He's a busy gentleman, but woo! When we did that rehearsal, he just knocked it out. Like that. I set aside three hours for us, and we only needed like, I don't know, an hour and forty-five minutes, two hours. He just knocked that music out. Excellence, musical excellence.
Lawrence: That's beautiful. That's so beautiful. I love it.
Rico: It really—yeah, it put me at ease right away because Max was on his A game. Joe's a badass, and Nasheet just—"Oh, okay. Cool." Maybe one or two times through each tune. Solid. I was very much put at ease.
Lawrence: Something I've been really enjoying asking artists I talk to lately is about the role that their work as teachers plays in informing sort of their own playing and composition. So many working artists have gigs as teachers—sometimes it's private lessons, sometimes you get a lot of people that are at Berklee or other institutions—but I'm really curious about the feedback loop. What do you get out of it other than some compensation to keep the livelihood going?
Rico: In terms of the educational element, I was teaching full-time for the past two years at elementary through middle school. Human beings have a great way of creating patterns all the time. We try to make sense of the world around us. And I say this as a preface because I was writing down my goals regularly, reading them aloud. I was often praying, and one of the main things that I would mention was a desire to give back to the community in a meaningful way because I sure put a hell of a lot of work in on the horn growing up, but it doesn't mean anything without all of the musicians who gave me opportunities.
I had one of my very first teachers, John Romero, who said, "If you learn all of your major scales, you can play in my band." He had me for tens and tens of gigs. There was another—there was a tenor player. He played alto and he sang and played guitar. There was a keyboard player and a conga player and an electric guitar player, a bass player, and a drummer. It was a big ensemble, and I got to be included at age ten in the rehearsals with nothing but adults, professional musicians. I was not at the level, but he was kind enough to include me. I followed through with part of our agreement as student and teacher.
So all that to say is I would be nothing without people offering opportunity and information to me. So it's important for me to do the same where I can and when I can. So I felt that it was very serendipitous that I was asking for this privately, and it came to be that—I mean, I got a call one day. I was in California working at the Stanford Jazz Workshop as a counselor, and I got a phone call. They said, "Hey, this is the principal at the Dr. Lena Edwards Academic Charter School. Is this Rico Jones?" "Yes." "Okay. Well, would you be interested in working as a band director or music director?" I took the job, and I worked there for two years. I stepped away after this year because I wanted more time to be a student myself. It was quite involved—a lot of time—but spending time with these kids, spending time with any kids, you see them for who they are, and you learn to love them, and you want what's best for the kids. It put things in perspective for me.
I can't say every single one of the students I had, these young people, were interested in being professional musicians, but my main goal was to give them the tools necessary to find a passion and find a purpose in their life and have a means to get there. So I often talked about diligence, hard work, positive self-image, planning ahead, and I even would talk to the kids about having the proper perspective in school. School can be a drag. It feels like you're being told what to do all the time, this, that, and the other. But if you look for a larger purpose beyond that, you can use each of these learning opportunities to your advantage. If you aren't great at math but you can get an A, you can teach yourself that subject well—the minute you find that goal you have in life that you want to pursue, that'll be like a cakewalk if you can teach yourself to do things that you aren't necessarily good at.
So anyway, I tried to impart as much positive perspective as I could on the kids. Now, when there was a student who loves the music and really wants to excel—if it's a private lesson—this: "Okay, we'll do an hour." Four hours, four hours later we're just hanging and talking about the music. I'm happy to give as much as possible with people who are interested in the art like that.
I wanted to ask you about your performance with Esperanza Spalding. One is a little bit of a question about just—wow, how cool is that? And tell me a little bit about it. But what I'm more interested in is when you're in an environment like that, what, if anything, gets revealed to you about where you might want to go next with your music? And do you have a sense of what's next? Or are you still living and immersed in Bloodlines?
Rico: Well, I don't—being around a person like Esperanza has definitely showed me where the level's at. (laughter) I mean, I guess that happens a lot in New York. But she's an outstanding artist.
Lawrence: She's a heavy cat.
Rico: Heavy. And I don't even know how that happened, to be honest with you. I mean, like—I keep going back to, and it sounds like a cop-out, but I feel like I don't have any agency over these positive experiences, these blessings that take place, because all I've done is practiced the horn and, at most, mentally visualized, maybe written things down, certainly prayed. But those things are non-tangible things. So for a concrete kind of person, that's maybe an answer that won't suffice.
But I guess the through line for connecting with Esperanza was through the hard work of this female vocalist and bandleader, Julia Keefe. She started an all-Indigenous big band, and she was kind enough to include me as a tenor saxophonist on several tours. Also, in that way, I was able to connect with a lot of people who come from similar backgrounds, and I was able to connect with that Indigenous part of my genealogy there. That was very meaningful for me.
We had a week-long residency at the Kennedy Center with Esperanza. We were rehearsing the big band, and Esperanza was doing some of the pieces with us. I arranged a piece for big band. Esperanza was able to hear my composition skills. She seemed to appreciate that. We shared some moments of conversation, but not extensively. We also connected thereafter through Bennie Maupin, a mentor of mine. And I knew that she was connected with Wayne Shorter and whatnot, but I connected Bennie with her, and they started a dialogue.
I don't know—I just had—I wrote her some emails. We were having some minor conferences, but one day she mentioned, "Oh, hey, well, I'm going to be at the Blue Note in a couple months. Come and play." I said, "Oh, whoa, that's crazy, but okay." It came to that time when she was in town, and I showed up to the Blue Note, and she had me play. She was like, "All right, well, what tune do you want to do?" And she said, "Okay, well, we'll do this Wayne Shorter tune." And I was kind of scared shitless because I'm a preparatory kind of guy. This was like in the moment: "Hey, we're going to do this." And I did my very best. So we did the hit. And afterwards she said, "Okay, cool, well, you want to come later this week?" And I thought, "Oh, my God." I tried to keep it cool, and I said yes. And I was very thankful. Very thankful. I think fourteen-year-old me who grew up with my iPod, listening to her albums, would be jumping up and down. But I kept it cool. I said, "Okay, great." And so I went home and I practiced my ass off.
Next time I got to be at the Blue Note with her—I also had some friends mentioning about that experience that they went to other shows that she did and the kind of person she is. She mentioned—she had other guests. She mentioned my name alongside the list of people that came to perform in her band that week at the Blue Note. Which kind of blew me out of the water. I mean, she did—all things considered, I guess if we want to keep it positive, I'm a rising artist in the scene, but I'm not a person of note. And so for her to be kind enough to mention me alongside people like Joe Lovano and Aaron Burnett and these other great, established—it's very kind and beautiful, and it goes into that mentorship thing. She doesn't need to give it back like that, but she's kind enough to provide opportunities to young artists, and I think that's part of our duty to keep the culture continuing.
The reason you might see it diminished in certain ways is because some people have it and they choose not to share it, or it has to come with money behind it. Unfortunately, for a lot of reasons, the educational system—the collegiate education system—is sanitized. Culturally, it's not necessarily okay to talk about church or the blues or different elements because certain people might not be comfortable with that. It doesn't mean that everybody needs to conform to an identity, culture, or theology, but there are certain realities that are present. But when you're in a corporate environment concerned with legality, you can't get to that, or you're not going to get a lesson from an excellent professor the same way you're going to get a lesson from some old, tired, drunk swing player that's like, "I've been in this business for sixty years, kid. I'm going to tell you what the real shit is and what the bullshit is." It's not appropriate in that setting. So it's a different mindset. You get different things from different perspectives.
To keep the culture intact, you have to be willing to pass it on. And Esperanza did that for me. I hope I did that for the students that I have and have had.
Lawrence: It's great to connect with you. Let's stay in touch. Next time you have something that you want to talk about, please feel free to reach out, and you're welcome back.
Rico: Thank you again for having me. The album that we've been talking about is called Bloodlines, and it features Max Light, Nasheet Waits, and Joe Martin. It was graciously made possible through Jimmy and Dena Katz and co-engineered by James Kogan and Dave Darlington. It's going to be available on all streaming platforms on July 25th. And I'll have some physical copies available for anybody who's interested—you could just drop me a line, and I'm happy to ship them out and sign them if you'd like. Other than that, you could follow me on Instagram at Rico Jones Music.
Rico Jones
Saxophonist, composer, band leader
“Rico is one of the few original voices emerging. His musicianship and passion have forged an original voice we will joyfully be hearing more from in the future.”
— Vincent Herring, Downbeat Magazine
Rico Jones is a rising star and one of the most accomplished saxophonists of his generation. Based in Harlem, New York, he is a prolific performer, composer, and educator dedicated to pushing the boundaries of jazz while honoring its deep-rooted traditions. In 2024, he recorded his debut all-original jazz album under Giant Step Arts, a nonprofit founded by legendary jazz photographer Jimmy Katz, whose catalog includes Mark Turner, Jonathan Blake, Chris Potter, and Eric Alexander.
In February 2025, Rico made his debut at the Blue Note in New York City, performing as a special guest with Esperanza Spalding and her band on February 25 and 28.
In 2022, Rico co-led the first all-Indigenous big band, founded by Julia Keefe, premiering an original composition titled Earth at the Olympia Performing Arts Center in Washington State. The ensemble toured Alaska in 2023, premiering new big band music composed by Rico. In May 2024, the Julia Keefe Indigenous Big Band headlined the Mary Lou Williams Jazz Festival at the Kennedy Center after completing a week-long residency, with Grammy Award winner Esperanza Spalding as a featured guest.
Continuing his international reach, Rico toured Ecuador in 2023 as part of the Joan Sanchez Quartet, bringing his music to audiences across the country.
Throughout his career, Rico has shared the stage with many of the world’s most renow…
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