Ruth, thank you for agreeing to speak with Occhi Magazine. Looking back at your life as an artist, was there a moment you felt music wasn’t just something you enjoyed—but something you needed? If so, what was happening in your life then, and what did that moment awaken in you?
Thank you for the invitation; it is a joy and honor to speak with Occhi Magazine. I don’t remember much of life without music. My parents loved music; they both sang in the choir, my father played the drums, and my mother played the guitar. They were determined that their three daughters would learn piano, study additional instruments, and sing. Music flooded our home, and my parents made tremendous sacrifices to ensure we received lessons and opportunities to grow as musicians.
Because music has been woven into the fabric of my life for as long as I can remember, I don’t know that there was a single defining moment when I realized its importance. Rather, it was a series of moments, experiences, and discoveries that continually deepened my love for music and revealed its power to shape, inspire, and sustain a life.
Like many African American musicians, I first learned and experienced music in the context of African American church worship. There, I was immersed in a remarkable range of musical traditions–from African American spirituals, hymnody, and gospel music to choral works and the classical repertoire. Later, I studied flute, which expanded both my musical vocabulary and my appreciation for disciplined artistic practice.
Looking back, I realize these experiences were never separate worlds. They became part of how I learned to hear—not only music, but life itself. Music was never simply something I enjoyed; it became one of the ways I understood community, human dignity, history, and ultimately my relationship with God and with others.
I continue to think of music as a gift—one that invites me to pay attention: to God, to people, and to the world we share. It has been both a companion and a teacher, continually reminding me that beauty, truth, hope, and love can be carried through sound.
Your work sits in a rare space—jazz as theology, history, and justice. When did you realise those threads couldn’t be separated in your own voice?
I’m not sure I ever experienced those as separate threads. They were woven together long before I began composing.
My faith shaped how I understood the value and dignity of every human being. My earliest awareness of history and justice came from watching my father, Reverend Melvin Floyd, who served as an urban missionary in Philadelphia during the 1960s and 1970s. He worked to help end gang violence, but he also understood that violence did not emerge in a vacuum. He wanted to understand how communities had arrived at those conditions because he knew they had not always been that way.
His ministry required him to walk alongside people who were living with the consequences of poverty, violence, and neglect while also challenging those in positions of authority to accept responsibility for communities that too often had been denied equal care, opportunity, and investment. As his daughter, I watched him move between those worlds. I’m sure his work helped shape my conviction that history is indispensable if we hope to pursue justice. We cannot honestly address today’s realities without asking how we arrived here.
As author and philosopher Cornel West has said, “Justice is what love looks like in public.” That observation resonates deeply with me because it reminds us that love is not only something we feel; it is something we practice in the world.
As I matured musically, jazz gave me an ever-expanding language for that exploration, and I can hear those concerns throughout my work. For example, on my third recording, Walk and Not Be Faint, I wrote a composition entitled “Responsibility.“ One of its refrains asks:
“History played a part in plagued communities. Who will stand and share the responsibility?”
African American spirituality and gospel are often described as “roots” of jazz, but it appears you treat them as living, breathing foundations. What do you think gets lost when people romanticise those traditions without wrestling with the realities that created them?
African American Spirituals and the Blues are certainly part of the historical roots of jazz, but they are much more than that. They are living traditions that continue to nourish musicians, communities, and our cultural imagination. They remain a profound resource for understanding not only music, but also the history, faith, resilience, creativity, and humanity of the people who created them.
That is one of the reasons education has always been so important to me. The more we understand the history that gave rise to these musical traditions, the more fully we can appreciate what they continue to teach us. We move beyond simply admiring the music to understanding the lives, faith, creativity, resilience, and experiences that shaped it.
Too often, African American Spirituals and the Blues are celebrated for their beauty while the suffering, courage, faith, and resilience that produced them are pushed into the background. This music was born among people living through enslavement, lynchings, Jim Crow, segregation, injustice, and profound uncertainty. Yet they were also people who loved, dreamed, worshipped, practiced defiant joy, and held fast to the belief that their lives possessed dignity, meaning, and worth.
African American Spirituals are not simply beautiful songs; they are prayers, testimonies, acts of resistance, and expressions of hope. Through them, people affirmed the conviction that God was present even when circumstances suggested otherwise. The Blues, in much the same way, was never merely about sorrow. It became a means of telling the truth—that the freedom promised by emancipation, citizenship, and American democracy had not yet been fully delivered. It gave people a way to name oppression, injustice, heartbreak, disappointment, and struggle while still finding the strength to persevere and move forward. The Blues also created space for people to bear witness to one another’s humanity, transforming personal struggle into communal resilience and survival.
You’ve been praised for doing something less common: expressing gospel through the language of jazz. What misunderstandings, if any, have you faced from both jazz audiences and faith audiences—and how have you learned to hold your ground without hardening your heart?
I’m not sure, I think about it in terms of misunderstandings as much as misconceptions about music.
This is where history becomes so important. Over the years, I’ve come to realize that many of us have been educated or socialized to understand music through categories shaped by the marketplace. Those categories influence how we hear before we’ve really listened. They can quietly persuade us that our musical traditions belong apart when history tells us they have always been in conversation with one another.
I don’t hear gospel and jazz as separate worlds. Black music has never developed in isolation. Spirituals, the blues, gospel, and jazz have continually influenced one another, each carrying forward elements of the others while remaining true to its own purposes. They are part of a shared musical heritage.
Was anyone uncertain about what John Coltrane was expressing with A Love Supreme? The title itself is a declaration. The music gives voice to that declaration, and John Coltrane even accompanied the recording with a devotional poem, making his intentions unmistakably clear. The musical language is modern jazz, but the spiritual intention is equally unmistakable.
As a vocalist, I have another gift available to me. I can join words with sound. That allows me to make my intention explicit while embracing the extraordinary expressive freedom that jazz offers. For me, there has never been a contradiction between those things.
Scripture itself offers a much broader vision of music. In Psalm 150:3–6, we read:
“Praise him with the sounding of the trumpet, praise him with the harp and lyre, praise him with timbrel and dancing, praise him with strings and pipe, praise him with the clash of cymbals, praise him with resounding cymbals. Let everything that has breath praise the Lord. Praise the Lord.”
The psalm celebrates a remarkable diversity of musical expression. It doesn’t prescribe a single musical language for praise. It points us toward the One to whom the praise is directed. I have always understood jazz to be one more musical language through which that praise may be expressed.
So, I don’t really think about my work as holding my ground. I’ve simply tried to remain faithful to the music I believe I was called to write.
The only substantive edit I made was changing “their own purposes” to “its own purposes” because the subject is the singular collective phrase “each.” Everything else was punctuation, formatting, or standard biblical quotation styling.
When you’re composing around figures like Frederick Douglass, Octavius Valentine Catto, and Frances Ellen Watkins Harper, how do you avoid turning them into symbols instead of people? Is there a responsibility you feel you hold?
I feel a tremendous responsibility. In many ways, that sense of responsibility is where the work begins.
I have created bodies of work on historical figures such as Frederick Douglass, Octavius Valentine Catto, Frances Ellen Watkins Harper, William Edmondson, Marian Anderson, and the narratives of formerly enslaved Africans. When we view historical figures, there is a tendency to remember them primarily for what they accomplished. We turn them into symbols of courage, freedom, activism, or achievement. While those things are certainly part of their legacy, they can also obscure the fact that these were human beings with joys, fears, hopes, struggles, relationships, and losses.
Before I begin composing, I spend a great deal of time researching their lives and sitting with their stories. I want to understand not only what they did, but who they were. I am interested in the moments that reveal their humanity—what sustained them, what broke their hearts, what gave them courage, and what they loved.
As an artist, I do not see my task as speaking for them. Rather, I try to listen carefully and create music that invites audiences to encounter them more fully. Ultimately, I feel a responsibility to tell the truth as faithfully as I can—to honor both the greatness of their contributions and the fullness of their humanity. I believe that when we fail to tell the truth about history, we not only distort the past, but we also lose the opportunity to witness God’s redemptive beauty at work within it. For me, remembrance is not merely about preserving history; it is about restoring human presence.
For me, remembrance is not merely about preserving the past; it is about telling the truth so that we can recognize both our shared humanity and God’s redemptive beauty within history.
Your music often feels like remembrance with a purpose—“jazz as testimony.” What’s the difference, for you, between performing a set and offering a testimony? And how do you prepare yourself to carry that weight on stage?
I’m not sure I separate those ideas in quite that way.
I think any form of music can bear witness. Music always reveals something about the person creating it. It may bear witness to joy, grief, hope, love, longing, or the search for meaning. The question isn’t whether music communicates something. The question is: What is the artist genuinely trying to communicate?
I don’t really think of myself as carrying a weight when I walk onto the stage. I think of myself as an artist trying to present what I know to be true with as much creativity, honesty, beauty, and artistic excellence as I can. My responsibility is to be authentic in my intention and faithful to the music. I trust the work itself. If people leave having experienced something beautiful, something truthful, something that inspires reflection, deepens understanding, or awakens compassion, then I feel the music has fulfilled its purpose. And if, in some way, the music contributes to transformation—then I am deeply grateful. Ultimately, I hope the music reminds us of our shared humanity and the possibility of becoming more fully who we are called to be.
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You’ve spent decades in advocacy work around incarceration, homelessness, and HIV/AIDS. How has proximity to those realities changed the way you hear music, and changed what you refuse to do with your platform?
Those experiences have changed the way I hear music because they have changed the way I listen to people.
Over the years, I have had the privilege of walking alongside individuals impacted by incarceration, homelessness, poverty, HIV/AIDS, addiction, grief, and profound social isolation. Those experiences taught me that every person carries a story, and that human beings are always more complex, more beautiful, and more worthy of dignity than the labels society often places upon them. They also taught me the importance of bearing witness with those whom the world too often deems “less than”—people whose voices, experiences, and humanity are frequently overlooked or ignored.
As a result, I hear music less as entertainment and more as a form of witness. I am drawn to music that tells the truth about the human condition—music that makes room for lament, struggle, hope, joy, resilience, and transformation. The people I have encountered through advocacy work have continually reminded me that some of the most profound expressions of courage, faith, and love emerge in circumstances the world often overlooks.
That proximity has also shaped what I refuse to do with my platform. I never want to exploit suffering, reduce people to symbols, or use someone else’s pain as artistic material without honoring their humanity. Whether I am creating sacred jazz or composing around historical figures, I feel a responsibility to approach every story with humility, truthfulness, and care.
My faith teaches me that every person bears the image of God. Because of that, I believe art should move beyond awareness and invite deeper understanding. If my music can inspire compassion, foster connection, encourage transformation, and help people recognize the dignity and worth of others, then I feel it has served its purpose.
You were the first African American woman to serve as the Founding Director of a University Jazz Studies Program in the U.S. What were the unspoken barriers you had to navigate, and what lessons did you learn about leadership when you were building something that hadn’t been built for you?
I certainly recognize the historical significance of that appointment, and I remain grateful for the opportunity to have served in that role. At the same time, I don’t think about the experience primarily in terms of barriers. I think more about the responsibility of helping to build an environment where students, artists, and colleagues could flourish.
Leadership begins with listening. It requires humility to recognize that people come from different backgrounds, have different experiences, and bring different perspectives to the learning community. Good leadership isn’t about asking everyone to become the same. It’s about creating an environment where those differences are honored and respected in spirit and in truth, while maintaining a shared commitment to artistic and academic excellence.
Looking back at your early years, who were the mentors—formal or informal—who shaped you most? And what’s one lesson you learned the hard way that you now pass on to younger musicians?
Bill Edgar, theologian and jazz pianist, has been an important mentor in my life because he encouraged me to integrate faith, scholarship, culture, and the arts. He was also the first person to invite me to sing jazz publicly, a moment that helped shape my artistic journey in profound ways. Through his example and encouragement, I learned that artistic excellence, thoughtful engagement, and faithful witness can coexist.
James Weidman, pianist, composer, and educator, has been one of the most significant mentors in my musical life. He taught me music theory and composition, and generously invested in me through intensive one-on-one study in his studio, helping me grow both as a musician and composer. Beyond teaching, he held the piano chair in my quartet for many years and served as the music director for all but one of my sacred jazz recordings. Through his artistry, mentorship, and unwavering commitment to excellence, he helped shape both my musical voice and my understanding of what it means to create music with depth, integrity, and purpose.
James Newton, flutist, composer, and educator, has been a profound mentor in my life and artistic development. He taught me music theory and generously shared his remarkable body of work with me, including his orchestral, solo, chamber, and choral compositions. Through his teaching and example, he expanded my understanding of composition, creativity, and musical expression. Beyond his accomplishments as an artist, James has been an unwavering source of encouragement. His generosity, wisdom, and belief in my work have meant a great deal to me over the years. I have also been deeply inspired by his spiritual life and the integrity with which he lives out his Christian faith. Through his artistry, mentorship, and friendship, he has shown me that it is possible to pursue excellence while remaining grounded in purpose, humility, and calling.
One lesson I learned the hard way is that preparation matters. There is no substitute for doing the work before you step onto the stage. You can have talent, but talent alone is not enough. You must know your craft, know your music, know the tradition, and be prepared for the opportunities that come your way.
That is the lesson I most often share with younger musicians: focus less on recognition and more on becoming the artist you are called to be. Develop your craft. Know the history. Listen deeply. Remain teachable. Most importantly, protect your authentic voice. The world does not need another version of someone else. It needs the unique contribution that only you can make.
Co-founding Contour Records in 1994 was a bold move, especially for work that didn’t fit neatly into industry categories. What problem were you trying to solve by creating your own label, and what did that experience teach you about artistic freedom versus sustainability?
Looking back, I don’t think we were trying to solve a problem. We simply wanted the artistic freedom to create the kind of music we wanted to create. It was really that simple.
When Keith McKinley and I founded Contour Records in 1994, we weren’t trying to build a record company for its own sake. We wanted the freedom to create the music we envisioned. As we looked across the jazz landscape at the time, we couldn’t identify a major label, an independent label, or even a niche jazz label that was interested in recording and developing that kind of work. We couldn’t find an existing home for the music, so we created one.
For me, there has never been a contradiction between jazz and faith. I’ve always understood jazz as music born out of the lived experiences of African Americans, experiences profoundly shaped by the African American Spirituals, the blues, and the Black Church. In jazz, I hear people wrestling with life’s deepest questions, searching for hope, meaning, resilience, and joy. That spiritual dimension has always been part of the music.
I simply wanted to add my voice to a tradition that includes the spirituals, Duke Ellington, Mary Lou Williams, John Coltrane, and so many others whose music explores the deepest questions of human existence. My hope has always been to create music that invites people to listen deeply, reflect, and encounter something true about our shared humanity.
That freedom came with responsibilities. We assumed every part of the process, from financing recordings to production, distribution, and preservation. It wasn’t always easy, but it allowed the music to exist exactly as we believed it should.
Looking back, I’ve come to believe that sustainability isn’t measured only by commercial success. It’s also measured by whether the work continues to speak to people. More than thirty years later, I’m grateful that these recordings are still finding listeners and inviting new conversations. I wouldn’t change that journey for anything.
Your projects often ask a direct question about “the quality of our collective humanity.” In today’s cultural climate, where attention is fragmented and outrage is monetised, how do you keep audiences present long enough to feel what you’re asking them to face?
I don’t begin by asking audiences to agree with me. I simply invite them to listen. Music has a way of slowing us down. It asks us to inhabit a moment rather than rush past it.
The stories I tell through music are deeply human. Whether I am singing about Frederick Douglass, Frances Ellen Watkins Harper, Octavius Catto, Marian Anderson, or drawing from Scripture, I am inviting listeners into lives marked by courage, suffering, hope, and love. Those realities belong to all of us.
I think people are hungrier for depth than we sometimes assume. Beneath all the noise, many are longing for honesty, beauty, and meaning. If the music is truthful, it creates space for reflection instead of reaction. In that space, we may begin to ask better questions about ourselves, about one another, and about the kind of world we are helping to create.
You perform at World Heart Beat on 16 July with ‘Music for the Soul’. What should audiences come ready for? Not just musically, but emotionally and spiritually, what do you hope they leave carrying, and what do you hope they leave behind?
I hope people come ready to experience music that speaks to both the heart and the imagination. The evening will include music from throughout my journey as a composer and vocalist, drawing from sacred jazz alongside my original compositions that reflect history and affirm our shared humanity.
I am especially looking forward to sharing the stage with my dear friend and London’s own, the extraordinary pianist Julian Joseph, who will be joining my quartet for this performance. More than twenty-four years ago, Julian composed the beautiful piece “Faith” for my album Fan Into Flame and performed on the original recording. Although we’ve shared that musical connection for many years, we have never performed the piece together live. World Heart Beat will be the first time audiences hear us perform “Faith” together in concert, and I think that will be a very meaningful moment for both of us.
Whether someone comes because they love jazz, because they are curious, or because they simply want to experience something beautiful, I hope they feel genuinely welcomed. My desire is not to tell people what to think. It is to create a musical space where people can listen deeply, reflect honestly, and perhaps discover something new about themselves and about one another.
Music has always had the power to bring us together, and I hope that is exactly what we experience together on July 16.
For further information on the artist, please visit the following link: The Frederick Douglass Jazz Works
For further information on the World Heart Beat gig, please visit its official website
Images provided, courtesy of the artist -Ruth-Naomi-Floyd- Robert Carter/ Ruth Naomi Floyd – Ashayla Creative Solution/Ruth Naomi Floyd – Calvin Institute of Christian Worship
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