So, in response to the question "Is Jazz Black?"—and I guess I could also say, in response to the question, "Is Jazz White?"—I want to raise some questions that might be intentionally—but I hope, also, insightfully—provocative. And I want to preface my questions by saying, forthrightly, that Jazz as we know it—and the many music, dance, literary, film practices that have been sports practices spawned and influenced by Jazz—are inconceivable except in the complex context of Black culture in the Americas.

In the same breath, O'Meally's quote continues: "It is the music of the country that its creators, often with little affection, call home. Call it freedom music with a tragicomic Black arc."

Now, our thinking today about Jazz and race is inevitably influenced by the recent Ken Burns documentary. And also about our commonsense notions of what constitutes race or racism, racial equality and, of course, American democracy. It is argued, of course, that Jazz is the United States' most original musical offering to the world. And if we, I suppose, forget about the recent elections, we can say that the United States represents the triumph of democracy in the world. Thus, if Jazz is American music par excellence, it must also be democratic music. So I want to ask, what does it mean to talk about Jazz as democratic music? Do we refer to the form and structure of the music, the dialectical interplay of solo and group collaboration? Are we talking about the creative resolution of the contradiction between the individual and the community? Is Jazz a utopic site for the practice of democracy—racial democracy? Or, I want to ask, should we also consider—apart from the music and in relation to the music—the apparatus through which Jazz is produced for popular consumption?

Now, one of the most poignant moments in Ken Burns' documentary, for me, was the story Dave Brubeck told about the appearance of his picture on the cover of Time magazine, as the first Jazz musician to be so honored, before, of course, Duke Ellington. And the irony was that Duke Ellington brought him the magazine and informed him that he was on the cover of Time.

The notion of democracy we usually take for granted, I want to suggest, is linked to ideologies of capitalism. The individual proves his worth—his worth on the capitalist market and somehow, through individual competition harmony, is created by the invisible hand. Whenever I heard Wynton Marsalis evoking democracy among the great Jazz heroes, I couldn't help thinking about Adam Smith's invisible hand.

But this is, of course, the 21st century, the era of global capitalism, along whose circuits music—Jazz, and many other musics—now travel. So that this obsolete notion of laissez faire capitalism—this notion still informs our ideas about both capitalism and democracy. And it is an obsolete notion.

So, I want to raise questions about the marketing of music and musicians. And again, to be intentionally provocative, I attended the concert here not too long ago, with Dianne Reeves and Jane Monheit. The question I would ask is why a Jane Monheit receives so much media attention when a Dianne Reeves has been making music for decades and has never been featured on the cover of The New York Times magazine. And, of course, there is the issue of Eminem which I won't mention. So I have another question. Is Jazz colorblind? What does it mean to raise questions today about the relation between race and Jazz in the era of the decline of affirmative action and the disenfranchisement of vast numbers of Black people, especially those who have been convicted of felonies?

But, also, what does it mean to raise these questions at a time when the dominant discourse tells us that race is declining in significance but, nevertheless, we see a persistent preoccupation with—and anxiety about—race? Look at the cover—the front page of today's San Francisco Chronicle about Whites now constituting a minority population in California, given the increase in the Latino population.

What does it mean to raise questions about race when we have, supposedly, developed a far too sophisticated appreciation of race to assume that race is always about a Black/White opposition that needs to be resolved in a more harmonious relation? And don't we know that race is not always gender as male? Do we really think that racism is an unfortunate social problem to be solved by developing harmonious race relations—good relations between Black and White men, who know how to get along with each other both within and outside Jazz?

I said I wanted to be a little provocative.

Dominant Jazz historiography—and, certainly, the historiography that framed Ken Burns' Jazz—has a hard time explaining the place of musicians who are neither Black nor White. Consider the important contributions of Cuban, Puerto Rican, Brazilian musicians. And it has a hard time moving away from the assumption that Jazz musicians are quintessentially male. Legitimate women musicians are described almost always as playing as well as a man. And I always wonder, 'Who is this man?', you know? Any man?

So, finally, if we are going to talk about race and Jazz, we need to consider the complicated way race still profoundly structures our economy, our ideologies, including—and especially—our ideas about gender. For Jazz music is always more than the music that moves, inspires, and educates us. And that music in turn is always more than the social terrain on which it is produced. Jazz music does, indeed, suggest the possibility of something like the practice of freedom.