Brent, thank you for agreeing to speak with Occhi Magazine. When you think back to the very first moment music felt like a calling, what was happening in your life, and what did it awaken in you that you couldn’t ignore?
Growing up, music was part of the air. My father always had something playing in the car — Earth Wind & Fire, James Brown, Parliament Funkadelic — and even then, whatever was playing, my ears would find the horns and lock in. The first jazz album I remember hearing was Kind of Blue, and something about it hit me differently. Two of my favorite saxophonists were on that record — Cannonball and Trane — and even as a kid, my ears went straight to the horns. When I joined the jazz band at 13 and discovered I could improvise, everything shifted. As a shy kid, improvisation gave me a freedom I hadn’t found anywhere else — a way to express what I couldn’t put into words. But it also humbled me immediately. Hearing my heroes and then hearing myself made it very clear that I had a lot of work to do. That combination — freedom and hunger —is really what set everything in motion.
Who were the mentors (formal or informal) that truly shaped your musical character, and what was the hardest lesson they gave you that you’re still grateful for?
My first mentor was right at home. Watching my older brother practice, perform, and produce made music feel normal — not extraordinary, something you just did. That foundation matters more than people realize. By the time I was a junior, my high school had shifted its focus primarily to marching band, and playing with movement became a big part of my musical education. At the time, I didn’t fully understand how much I’d use that later. My band director James Gough took things further by sending us out into the city for our first paid gigs — learning songs, managing a group, building set lists, showing up and delivering. Then in 11th grade, Louis Tibbs introduced me to transcribing Charlie Parker, reading chord changes, and expanding my jazz vocabulary in a serious way. That was the moment the music became a language I could study, not just feel.
At Howard, Charlie Young made me think about the saxophone differently — even tone through the full range, alternate fingerings, different genres. We spent most of our lessons on classical saxophone, which taught me the value of studying music I wouldn’t normally play and holding myself to a standard of excellence in whatever I touched. Fred Irby pushed me to get into as many ensembles as possible, and when the lead alto chair opened up my sophomore year, I had nowhere to hide. All the pressure was on me. That taught me to show up to the moment and go for it — to prepare so thoroughly that I could be an example for everyone around me.
The lesson that ties all of it together came from an unexpected place. My flute instructor called me into a meeting, put me in front of the flute class, and asked me to play anything. Then he looked at me and asked when I was going to start taking flute lessons. That was it. No long speech. Just an invitation to be fearless. I joined the flute ensemble shortly after, playing bass flute — completely out of my comfort zone. Every mentor I’ve had has found a different way to teach me the same thing: don’t wait until you’re ready. Go for it, and get ready on the way.
Howard University clearly sharpened your craft. What did that environment demand from you musically, and what did it reveal about you personally that surprised you?
Howard was the first time everyone around me had the same goal — to be a musician. Unlike high school, where band was just a school activity, at Howard, it was a calling we all shared. That was less intimidating than it was inspirational. I felt at home for the first time. I dug in, spent late nights in the practice rooms, and even as someone still battling shyness, I found my tribe there. What Howard demanded musically was a standard of excellence I had to grow into quickly.
Charlie Young would play recordings by Marcel Mule that sounded completely impossible, then look at me and ask if I thought I could play that. In my head, the answer was absolutely not — but I always said yes. Then we’d break it down piece by piece, and I’d realize that the things we perceive as impossibly complex are really just a series of simple processes stacked on top of each other. That lesson changed how I approach everything. Howard also revealed gaps I didn’t know I had. There were things expected of me — like sight-transposing music — that I had no prior experience with at all. I had to confront those deficiencies in real time, in front of serious musicians. Fred Irby put me in the lead alto chair my sophomore year before I felt ready, and the flute instructor walked me into a room and essentially dared me to be fearless. What Howard revealed personally is that I could rise to a moment if I committed to it. Shyness and all — I just had to show up and go for it.
You’ve been recognized for virtuosity and impact, from Downbeat accolades to being called “one of the most riveting young improvisers” by the New York Times. When praise like that lands, what pressure does it create, and how do you keep it from steering the art?
The first recognition I remember came in college — a Downbeat award that my band director called to tell me about. It felt surreal. At that point, I didn’t really know how I stacked up against the rest of the world, so it was less about ego and more about validation — confirmation that I was on the right path. That meant everything at that stage.
As I’ve grown, I’ve come to understand that in jazz, virtuosity is often a prerequisite — you have to develop the technical command so that when it’s time to perform, nothing gets in the way of what you’re trying to say. The instrument has to be transparent. So recognition for that side of the work is meaningful, but it’s not the destination.
My goal through music has always been to spread love, truth, and positive energy through my horn and my compositions. That’s the real measure. Positive reviews are always appreciated, but the true test is whether I’m able to get through to the people — whether something I play lands in the room and moves somebody. That’s the standard I hold myself to. When I’m connected to that purpose, outside praise doesn’t steer the heart. It just reminds me to keep going.
Your career moves across worlds—jazz spaces and stages with artists like Lauryn Hill, SWV, Nas, and George Duke. What did those collaborations teach you about groove, storytelling, and audience connection that the jazz tradition alone couldn’t?
Stepping into those worlds felt surprisingly natural. Just like in college, I had to figure out how to best service the gig — and that mindset translated immediately. In jazz, the focus is often on what you can bring as an individual to elevate the group. But playing with artists like Lauryn Hill or Nas, you might go an entire tour without playing a single solo. You’re playing parts, functioning as a section — a gear in a machine, figuring out how to make everything run smoothly. That was a profound shift, and I brought that sentiment back to my own group. It deepened my understanding of ensemble playing in a way that purely jazz settings hadn’t.
Beyond the music, those experiences put me on stages in front of audiences of 40,000 people or more. That changes how you think about performance. It gave me a clear insight that as musicians, we are entertainers and directors of energy — and that truth can sometimes get lost in the post-swing era, when the focus shifts heavily toward the academic side of the music. But the great ones have always understood it. You develop the craft so that when you step on stage, nothing is in the way of your message. The technique is the vehicle. The people are the destination.
Your self-titled debut album carried activism, introspection, and sonic experimentation. What personal experiences or observations made you feel you had to speak through that record, and what did you risk by being that direct?
My debut album was my introduction to the world — a piece of every musical experience I had accumulated up to that point, distilled into one statement. I was also growing into my manhood at the time, figuring out who I was as a man and as an artist simultaneously, and those two processes informed each other deeply. Part of my purpose in music has always been to speak the truth. The origins of this music are steeped in freedom — that’s not incidental, it’s foundational. That tradition speaks to me clearly, and it felt not just natural but necessary to put something personal and direct into the world. The music permitted me to say things I might not have found another way to express.
As for what I risked — I think the greater risk would have been saying nothing. Playing it safe on a debut album is a kind of artistic dishonesty. I wasn’t interested in that. I wanted people to know exactly who they were dealing with from the very first note.
Between your first album and Cacao, what changed most in your inner life as an artist—your discipline, your confidence, your fears, or your definition of success?
Cacao was written during the pandemic, and that context shaped everything about it. When the world stopped, I had a decision to make — fall into a depressive spiral or use the time to re-discipline myself completely. I chose the latter, and I recognized quickly that I might never get a moment like that again. A window to concentrate, dig in, and work without distraction.
So I rebuilt from the inside out. I established a new practice regimen across all my instruments, learned new software to produce my own tracks, and dedicated time every day to writing music. But it went beyond the music. I refined my diet, my exercise, and my meditation practice. Every part of my life came under examination.
What emerged from that period wasn’t just an album — it was a transformed version of myself as an artist. A sharper sensibility, a deeper compositional voice, and a level of discipline I hadn’t reached before. Between the first album and Cacao, what changed most was my relationship with the work itself. The first album was about announcing who I was. Cacao was about becoming who I needed to be. The pandemic forced that reckoning, and I’m grateful for it.
Cacao has been described as something you can live with forever, like comfort with depth. How do you design music to have that kind of replayable intimacy without sanding down the edges that make it challenging?
One of the best feelings as a performer is when you play a song, and the audience sings it back to you afterward. That was the goal with every track on Cacao. I wanted the melodies to be so clear and so present that they stayed with you long after the music stopped — that kind of immediacy was the foundation.
Once I had that, I started layering. Around those accessible, singable melodies, I began adding elements with more complex and dense characteristics — a measure of odd meter here, a chord that a non-jazz listener isn’t used to hearing there. The idea was that the melody pulls you in and makes you feel at home, and then the deeper elements reward you on repeated listens. You might not consciously register them the first time through, but they’re there, adding texture and tension beneath the surface.
That’s the balance I was chasing — music that feels immediately familiar but reveals itself slowly. Comfort on the surface, depth underneath. The edges are still there. They’re just woven in carefully enough that they don’t push you away before you’ve had a chance to fall in love with the song.
As an educator at Baltimore School for the Arts and Morgan State University, what do you notice young musicians are most afraid to confront in themselves, and how do you teach them to turn that fear into sound?
What I notice most in young musicians is the reluctance to sit down and deal with themselves honestly. To evaluate what they do well, what they don’t, and then build a deliberate plan to work those things out. That kind of self-confrontation is uncomfortable, and most students will avoid it if you let them.So I don’t let them. I teach the elements of a strong practice routine directly in our lessons — not just what to practice, but how to practice — so they leave with a methodology they can apply on their own. One of the most powerful tools I use is having them record their practice sessions and evaluate them piece by piece. That’s where the real confrontation happens. You can’t hide from a recording. It shows you exactly where you are, not where you imagine yourself to be.It’s challenging every time, but once a student learns to hear themselves clearly and without ego, something shifts. They stop waiting for me to tell them what’s wrong and start discovering it themselves. At that point, my role changes — I stop being the authority and become a guide. That’s the goal. A musician who can teach themselves will never stop growing. And that’s the kind of artist the music needs.
Exchange is a live document with a first-class assembly of musicians. I thoroughly enjoyed the sense of togetherness, companionship and fun. What did you want the band to exchange beyond notes—trust, tension, vulnerability, leadership—and how did you cultivate that in rehearsal or on the bandstand?
Beyond the notes, my goal was to build community — to make sure everyone in that room felt fulfilled by the experience. The musicians, the audience, everyone. That’s what Exchange means to me at its core. The core band has been building chemistry for years, so bringing in special guests — friends, really — was a natural extension of something already in motion. Warren Wolf, Sean Jones, Imani-Grace Cooper, Dr.
Chelsey Green, Brandon Woody — these aren’t just collaborators; they are co-authors of the album’s thesis. Each one brought a gift, and my job as a leader was to put every person in the best position to share that gift fully.
What I wanted the band to exchange beyond notes was joy. Energy. A sense of play and adventure that the audience could feel from the moment Todd Barkan introduced the evening. Jazz can sometimes feel like a museum experience — something to observe reverently from a distance. I wanted the opposite of that. I wanted people in that room to feel like they were part of something being built in real time, right in front of them. Art Blakey talked about split-second timing — from the Creator, through the musicians, directly to the audience. That transmission only works when everyone in the room is fully present and fully alive to the moment. That was the assignment. I think we delivered.
Looking at the full ensemble on exchange—keys, multiple bass voices, drums, auxiliary percussion, and special guests like trumpet, violin, and vocals—what did each voice unlock in your writing, and where did you deliberately leave space for the unexpected to take over?
Every voice in this ensemble was chosen deliberately — and part of what I was selecting for was fearlessness. I work with people who are not afraid of the unexpected. That quality is non-negotiable for me, because the music I want to make requires everyone to be fully present and fully willing to go somewhere unplanned.
The way I approach it is this: every song has a standard form that we follow, a shared architecture that gives everyone a foundation to stand on. But within that structure, I deliberately create one or two spaces where we step outside the map entirely and just create. In those moments my job as a leader is to let go — to trust the musicians, trust the room, and allow the magic to happen without trying to control it.
The clearest example of that on the album is “CACAO.” If you compare the studio version to the live recording, it’s still the same song — same melody, same harmonic foundation — but it ends up in a whole different universe. The core band unlocked one version of it in the studio, and then on the night at Keystone Korner, with Imani-Grace Cooper’s voice and Dr. Chelsey Green’s violin threading through the arrangement,it became something else entirely. That’s the magic of live music. You can’t manufacture it. You can only create the conditions for it and then get out of its way.
What projects are you currently working on?
Right now I’m focused on Exchange — getting this music to as many ears as possible and enjoying the conversation it’s starting. But I’m also already working on the next studio album, which I’m planning to announce in 2027. I can say that this one is going to dig into my travels around the world — the sounds, the cultures, the experiences that have shaped me as a person and as an artist beyond the bandstand. It’s still early, but I’m excited about the direction. The world has given me a lot. This record is my way of giving some of it back.
Where can our readers find out more about you?
You can find everything at www.brentbirckhead.com. I’m active on Instagram, Facebook, TikTok, and YouTube — and if you want to catch something truly special, follow me for a segment I do called “New 2nes,” where I go live and present brand new tracks I’ve recently composed, often before they even have names. It’s as raw and real as it gets — music in its earliest form, straight from the creative process to your screen. You can also check out the Exchange playlist on YouTube for a deeper dive into the album. Come find me — the door is always open.
https://www.instagram.com/brentbirckhead/
https://www.facebook.com/brentbirckhead
https://bit.ly/EXCHANGEplaylist
https://www.tiktok.com/@birckhead
Photography by Hiromitsu Ogata
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