Miki Yamanaka tried to play music in her own home. She found her front door knob covered in peanut butter.

The year was 2020, and the pianist and her drummer husband were deep into lockdown. Despite numerous attempts at transparency and compromise with their Harlem neighbors, she says, they opted for harassment and hate mail — including the threatening application of the lunch spread. For Yamanaka, this felt like death by a thousand cuts.

With no gigs or recording dates to speak of — nor assurance she'd ever work again — it was destabilizing to be unable to hone the craft that made her a living. "My visa was about to end," Yamanaka tells GRAMMY.com. "My bachelor's degree is in earth science in Japan. [I thought I'd] have to go back and restart my career or some s—."

When all hope seemed lost, something magical transpired. Realizing her colleagues, the revered saxophonist Mark Turner and top-flight bassist Orlando le Fleming, were also busy doing nothing, she invited them to take COVID tests and record in her living room. 

Turner and le Fleming accepted, and the three made resplendent music together, as heard on 2021's Stairway to the Stars. "It was such a wake-up call for me that this is absolutely what I love. This is why I am alive," Yamanaka tells GRAMMY.com. "I got to remind myself that I love playing music."

Yamanaka's expressions speak to how this cataclysm defined the current crop of emerging jazz talent. While the pandemic was a universal experience, it can't be overstated how much it throttled this musical community. (There's a reason it still pops up in numberless press releases.)

A livewire, interconnective artform contingent on human beings gathering in close proximity, jazz was practically first on the list to go. By the time it returned, some talented practitioners had abandoned that dream — often for understandable reasons. But due to sheer gumption, a confluence of life circumstances, or both, others felt galvanized to charge through it.

In this reshaped jazz landscape, here are 10 artists who are currently perforating the scene — and the conversation.

*Miki Yamanaka. Photo: Martina DaSilva*

Miki Yamanaka

During a recent album release show for the trombonist Nick Finzer at Birdland in New York City, Yamanaka's pianistic touch was ear-turning. Comping, or accompanying, behind a soloist isn't arbitrary or automatic; it's an artform all its own; Yamanaka brings this musical truth into stark relief.

"I have such a huge passion for comping. If I don't play, that creates one vibe. If I play a lot, that creates another vibe," she says. "I could play super inside the chord changes, rhythmically, like Horace Silver would do, or I could play a lot of different re-harms like Herbie [Hancock] would do."

But, to transcend one-to-one comparisons: "The music is not supposed to be a muscular technique, per se. It's about the emotions," Yamanaka says. "It's about the colors and textures, but also rooted[ness] to the tradition."

Yamanaka comes from a big-band background: the foundational works of Count Basie, Buddy Rich and Duke Ellington moved her early on. And artists more associated with small groups, from Oscar Peterson to Cedar Walton to Sonny Clark, filled out her early influences.

These days, contemporary giants like the late Geri Allen and Paul Bley pique Yamanaka's interest: "For now, my interest is moving forward in a different direction."

To date, Yamanaka has released four albums as a leader: 2012's Songs Without Lyrics, 2018's Miki, 2020's Human Dust Suite, and Stairway to the Stars. While the lion's share of her work is as an accompanist, the latter proves she's rapidly coming into her own as a leader.

"For my future, I want to step up more — and even travel more — to bring my music, the excitement, and work with other people that I admire," she says. "To make their music even more interesting — that I could partake, and make it special."

*Simon Moullier. Photo: Shervin Lainez*

Simon Moullier

Vibraphonist Simon Moullier dazzled at the Jazz Gallery in Manhattan last winter, supporting his latest album, Isla. Accompanied by pianist Lex Korten, bassist Alex Claffy and drummer Jongkuk Kim, Moullier's capacity for impressionistic effect beautifully counterweighted his technical acumen.

One might walk away thinking Moullier was born for the vibraphone. Not the case, he says.

"It's never really been much about the instrument itself," Moullier admits to GRAMMY.com. "The vibraphone is just something I chose because I was a percussionist, and it was an immediate way for me to get to the expression I [desired]."

To be clear, "I love the instrument," he adds. "But my love for it is not even close, compared to composing, playing or improvising. I don't really think about the instrument as much as I think about what I'm trying to express on it."

Moullier's concept for this quartet hinges on the timbral marriage between the piano and vibes. "We play a lot of things together in the same register," he explains, "which means both instruments kind of blend together and almost create this third, invisible instrument."

Aesthetically, Isla is something of a rapprochement between his first two albums: 2020's electronic-tinged Spirit Song and 2021's Countdown, a raw, acoustic trio album of standards.

"Even though I love electronics, I think learning how to treat acoustic instruments and combine them is really fun to do," Moullier says. "Sometimes, from limitations comes a lot of possibilities."

While classical impressionism looms large in Moullier's musical DNA, he connects it to modern-jazz giants like Horace Silver and Wayne Shorter. ("There are a lot of similarities between Horace Silver and Ravel, harmonically speaking," he notes.)

And judging by the luminescent Isla, the future is boundless as to how he can straddle these worlds. He has a trio album with bassist Luca Alemanno and Kim in the can — the same trio featured on Countdown. He's checking out West African and Brazilian music. He's eyeing film scoring. 

All in all, whether you're a fan of the vibes or forward-thinking composition writ large, you'd be remiss not to keep tabs on Moullier.

*Chien Chien Lu. Photo: Stephen Pyo*

Chien Chien Lu

Fellow vibraphonist Chien Chien Lu initially cut her teeth in her native Taiwan's  contemporary classical scene. To put it lightly, it wasn't for her.

"I didn't really like the culture that much," Lu tells GRAMMY.com, adding that she was rankled by the stiff, contrived nature of the performances. "We were all playing written music, and you need to be pretty and smile onstage and that kind of stuff."

This, coupled with its hard-drinking, politically freighted nightlife, compelled her to shift gears professionally.

When Lu heard vibraphone royalty Roy Ayers and Milt Jackson on the radio in Taiwan, she was enamored. "I was like, 'My god, they are also doing percussion, but they do it with so much soul," she recalls.

Lu fled overseas to Philadelphia to study jazz, but initially hit a wall. "I found out that it's almost impossible to start to play jazz with a classical mindset," she admits. "I had to train a new skill muscle."

While spending "eight to 10" hours in a practice room building that muscle, Lu shifted her mindset and struck gold. The skeleton key was to access that casual precision, that personality-forward approach — that soul — that Ayers and Jackson embodied.

"I can just be myself on the stage and do my improvisation," she remembers realizing.

One thing led to another: just as she relocated to New York, esteemed trumpeter Jeremy Pelt took her under his wing as an accompanist on three of his records. Her debut album, The Path, arrived in 2020.

Her working relationship with the exceptional jazz-funk-rock bassist Richie Goods — who appeared on The Path — has reached new heights in recent years: their co-billed album, Connected, arrived at the top of 2023.

Despite being recorded remotely due to pandemic concerns, tunes like "Water," "Embrace the Now" and "Someday We'll All Be Free" are suffused with camaraderie and love.

Being that Lu's of Asian descent and Goods is Black, they came to commiserate about the traumas that plague their communities.

As the pair considered issues as thorny as racial violence, they conceived Connected as something of a tranquil counterweight — complete with shimmering textures and sinuous R&B grooves.

In all her expressions about her artistry and career, Lu's gratitude to have a foothold in the New York scene shines through. "I feel like, with this rise, I'm confident to say what I want to say," she says, and corrects herself immediately: "To say what I need to say."

*Jeremy Dutton. Photo: Jason Rostkowski*

Jeremy Dutton

Germane to an era where matters of mental health and capitalistic workaholism are front of mind, a theme has popped up in young jazz artists' PR narratives: the grind.

Uprooting from a faraway home country, being laughed out of jam sessions, scuffling for gigs 24/7: artists are talking about it, reassessing it, making music about it. And it's at the essence of drummer extraordinaire Jeremy Dutton's debut album, Anyone is Better Than Here, out June 16.

"It's a call-out to this idea that once we get to a certain place, we'll be happy in life," he tells GRAMMY.com. "If I get these gigs, if I get these opportunities, I'll be fulfilled; I'll be happy… obviously, they can bring you some amount of joy, but I think the ultimate amount of satisfaction and joy comes from accepting yourself and allowing yourself to be who you are."

Indeed, the supple, cerebral Anyone is Better Than Here is permeated with Dutton's personality; he labored over these tunes for years before they finally emerged. Dutton wrote every tune on the album, from "Waves" to "Shifts" to "The Mother."

"I tend to think visually a lot," he says of his process as a composer. "I think cinematically, which I think relates closely to the drums, because the drums can be a very cinematic instrument." (As another exemplar of the drums-composition relationship, Dutton cites Kendrick Scott, who produced Anyone is Better Than Here and is out with his own superlative album on Blue Note, Corridors.)

The album is augmented by new and old compatriots, who happen to be cats of the highest order: vibraphonist Joel Ross, saxophonist Ben Wendel, trumpeter Ambrose Akinmusire, and others, who all appear in various configurations.

"The musicians on this record are all people that I've met at different points in my musical journey," Dutton explains. "We're all like-minded in the sense that we're all very committed and serious about the music… through exploring the music, exploring our lives and identities, and honoring the tradition of the musicians that have come before us."

Anyone is Better Than Here represents the culmination of Dutton's legacy as a sideman: he's worked with artists who rightly, and often, occupy the center of their sphere, like trumpeters Marquis Hill and Keyon Harrold, saxophonists Melissa Aldana and Immanuel Wilkins and pianists Vijay Iyer Iyer and Gerald Clayton.

Wherever Dutton goes from here, it'll bear the marks of his finely-attuned musical philosophy. "I think of a melody being memorable being memorable in the sense that, can you remember the shape of it? Is there a clear shape that's running through it?" 

With this auspicious debut, Dutton himself has an arc: one trending skyward.

*Mali Obomsawin. Photo: Abby Lank and Jared Lank*

Mali Obomsawin

As declared in press stretching all the way up to the Gray Lady, Mali Obomsawin — who hails from the Odanak First Nation — is part of a new wave of Indigenous jazz artists. From trumpeter Delbert Anderson to pianist Renata Yazzie to singer Julia Keefe, these artists are changing the conversation about the confluence between Native American and American musics.

Is that true? Is there a "there" there?

Obomsawin laughs at the question, just prior to her drive from Maine to her rez in Canada.

"I think we're still trying to get there to be a 'there' there," she admits to GRAMMY.com. "The New York Times did that piece on Delbert. But when it comes to meat and potatoes… in addition to doing a land acknowledgment, why don't you hire an Indigenous big band to play there?"

This debate and others like it will rage on; it's probably aflame right now on Indigenous Instagram. But when considering Obomsawin's art — as captured on her critically acclaimed 2022 debut, Sweet Tooth — one thing is clear: Obomsawin is an exceptional and eminently tasteful composer, bassist and bandleader.

While finding a balance between bassist and bandleader can be tricky, Obomsawin is the central pillar, the heartbeat, a steward of her accompanists — as exemplified on Sweet Tooth.

"I think there are moments to shine, but a lot of times, bassists feel like they haven't had their moment because they're doing their job," Obomsawin says. "So, when they're in the writer's seat, they write themselves all the solos that they wish they had been offered in the past."

Billed as "a suite for Indigenous resistance," tunes like "Fractions," "Lineage" and "Blood Quantum," showcase cornetist and flugelhornist Taylor Ho Bynum, saxophonist Noah Campbell, clarinetist and alto saxophonist Allison Burik, guitarist Miriam Elhajli, and drummer Savannah Harris. (Sweet Tooth is an exceptional showing from Elhajli, who picked up the electric guitar for the first time on this record and plays with McLaughlin-esque fire: watch out for her, too.)

Obomsawin is working toward another jazz album, but notes "I think I hit my threshold with being too much in one place, or too much in one framework." Instead, she's just recorded — of all things — a shoegaze album.

"We're thinking of calling it Greatest Hits," she says with a smirk. "I feel like I'm going to make myself a perpetual outsider by getting people to pay attention to me in jazz and then, 'You know what, though? I'm going to put out a shoegaze record." (It's not that much of a stretch; after all, Obomsawin and her group recently opened for Yo La Tengo.)

Perhaps there is a "there" there. It's just that "there" isn't going to define her.

*Jonathan Suazo. Photo: Gina Principe*

Jonathan Suazo

When it comes to creative inspiration, many artists experience a big-bang event: music bios and docs are so riddled with them, it's almost a cliché. 

But there's nothing trifling or trite about Jonathan Suazo's eureka moment: a single note on saxophonist Kenny Garrett's "May Peace Be Upon Them," from his 2006 album Beyond the Wall.  Seeming to reach the limit of what he can express with his horn, Garrett screams into the mouthpiece. Listen to it at 5:47; try not to get goosepimples.

"That's the life-changing note," the Puerto Rican saxophonist tells GRAMMY.com, still audibly flabbergasted. "I wanted to play that note, or the equivalent of that note, one day."

That note may have sent Suazo on a journey, but it was never a given it'd be successful. When he started at the Conservatorio de Música de Puerto Rico, he found that his feet weren't touching the bottom.

"I sucked," he says. (He admits he may be exaggerating, but the answer is a jolt anyway.) "I wasn't on par like I thought I was."

Suazo's father was the one who turned him on to Beyond the Wall; on his deathbed, Suazo had promised him he would make something of the saxophone. So he set aside a year — stretching from 2008 to 2009 — that would form an ultimatum: Either you do this, or you don't.

The year of doing nothing but woodshedding paid off: first via a big break by way of gigs with percussionist Paoli Mejias, then tutelage at the Global Jazz Institute in Boston — often by way of masters of this music, like bassist John Patitucci and saxophonist Joe Lovano.

Things ramped up in 2019, when Puerto Rican saxophone titan Miguel Zenón invited Suazo to perform at a concert series. Right then, Suazo found himself making regular trips to New York, immersing himself in its jazz firmament.

Suazo entered a period of "reawakening" and "reevaluating" during the pandemic years: "Things were so rough, that I was contemplating not doing the music thing for a second," he admits.

But Suazo emerged from the mire, first slowly — via a Kennedy Center remote series — and then rapidly. He's gearing up to release his formal debut, RICANO, in August — a celebration of his dual roots in Puerto Rico and the Dominican Republic.

"I started doing a deep dive into my roots as an important exercise to find something in the source of your identity that can carry the rest of your career forward," Suazo explains of his time at Global Jazz Institute. "Something that you personally identify with that can be translated into your music."

Each tune on RICANO highlights a specific musical tradition — Dominican salve on "Héroes," Puerto Rican yubá on "Don't Take Kindly," so on and so forth. Taken as a compositional cycle, it acts as both a loving tribute to his origins and lodestar as to his future evolution.

Speaking of that evolution, we've left out one crucial part. 

"In one of those practice sessions, I figured out how to convey emotion like Garrett in my own way," he says. "I figured out how to play that thing." That thing being: Garrett's growl, and how he managed that galactic caterwaul, which seemed to shake the concept of music to its foundations. It may have been the skeleton key to Suazo's destiny.

*Anthony Hervey. Photo: EBAR*

Anthony Hervey

Whenever Anthony Hervey picks up his trumpet, he does so donning a charm reading a simple phrase: "When words fail, music speaks." 

"That's a big part of my concept and sound," he tells GRAMMY.com, connecting the axiom to the title of his upcoming debut album, Words From My Horn, out in June 2023. "It's about the power of sound to reach people in a place beyond words." (None other than Wynton Marsalis has sure offered some words about him: he called him "beautiful trumpet player of the first magnitude.")

In an effort to "transcend the barrier between my soul and my music," he finds clever ways to communicate without words: flipping the rhythms of poems he's written into tunes, and even transmuting sung verses into phrases. ("I'm a singer," he says. "Well, kind of.")

It doesn't hurt that Hervey is steeped in some of the greatest trumpet communicators of the past — Louis Armstrong, Freddie Hubbard, Lee Morgan — and present, like Sean Jones and Ambrose Akinmusire. 

He also finds inspiration in his cohort of young trumpeters, among them Giveton Gelin, Noah Halpern and Summer Camargo. "Each one has a distinct voice," Hervey says says. "I would say I'm another voice in addition to that."

Marsalis played a tremendous role in paving Hervey's path; he spent time with the nine-time GRAMMY winner while studying at Julliard. From there, the associations spiderwebbed; he came to perform with Christian McBride, Ulysses Owens Jr., Jon Batiste, and other leaders in this field.

Now, his time as a sideman has led him to step out with Words From My Horn — his own statement of purpose as a leading trumpeter in the straight-ahead scene. 

"On one hand, you're trying to deal with changes and vocabulary and all that stuff, but once you get past that, what is your sound saying?" Hervey says, outlining his creative philosophy. "Behind all the notes you play, it's your sound, and that's what people hear."

Indeed, as soon as Hervey raises the horn to his lips, a connection is established — from your mind and heart to his.

*Bokani Dyer. Photo: Raees Hassan*

Bokani Dyer

South African pianist, composer and producer Bokani Dyer describes his new album, Radio Sechaba, as "a roundabout journey back into my earliest inspirations in music-making." But that statement belies that these incentives are beamed from all directions — not just his home country.

When discussing his musical history and interests, Dyer's citations reach far and wide: alternative hip-hop, salsa, soul, R&B, house, D'Angelo. While channels to study newer music are scarce in South Africa, that was just as well: "Jazz influenced more heavily these types of music, that I was more interested in," Dyer tells GRAMMY.com. 

If the pantheon of Black music is a sprawling tree, just about every branch seems to offer ripe fruitage for Dyer's pianistic inspiration. (He even prepares his piano to give it an African timbre.) This omnivorousness led him to play in all manner of styles and idioms in college.

"To fast forward today and to this album," Dyer says, "I was looking at collaborators who either shared the same ideas when it was time for me to let them do their thing, or people who are just great musicians."

The glue that coheres this multitude of concepts is the notion of nation-building — hence Radio Sechaba's title. (Sechaba meets "nation" in Setswana.) Part of that came from his recent completion of his master's degree, where he was prompted to contemplate the role that music can play in social justice.

Still, a society can only be healed from the inside out; accordingly, Dyer is firm that Radio Sechaba is, at its core, individual-forward. "A lot of the music is actually about internal reflection and personal challenges," he says. "Trying to liberate oneself to become a stronger member of the community and nation."

Featuring guests from rapper Damani Nkosi to Botswanan folkies Sereetsi and the Natives to pianist and singer Tonela Mnana, Radio Sechaba is packed with so many ideas that it can provide hours of entertainment: turn it like a prism, and you'll find something new every time.

And when the album arrives on May 12, expect Dyer to step onto a similar level as other South African leading lights, like fellow pianist Nduduzo Makhathini.

"We've done a few shows," Dyer says of him and his ensemble, "and hopefully a lot more will come as a result of the album. I'm looking for some high-energy, kind of Afrobeat, socially conscious, beautiful music — an unbridled expression of positivity."

*Julieta Eugenio. Photo: Anna Yatskevich*

Julieta Eugenio

If you're a fan of tenor saxophonists in that Goldilocks zone — neither too harsh nor too mellow; tuneful, but with a subtle edge — seek out Julieta Eugenio immediately. Indeed, few younger musicians can access that satisfying Ben Webster or Lester Young frequency like her.

"She doesn't need to play extremely aggressively to say what she's trying to say through her instrument," bassist Matt Dwonszyk, who accompanied on her 2022 debut, Jump, told JazzTimes that year. "She writes the melodies [to her compositions] first, then puts chords to [them], which is very interesting. And, of course, the melodies are beautiful."

The Jump tunes are occasionally tinged with influence from her native Argentina. But these days, Eugenio is pulling them from many other parts of the world, and sometimes from sources far afield from jazz.

"I don't listen to much Argentine music," she admits to GRAMMY.com. Instead, she points to the Malian kora master Toumani Diabaté and Nina Simone ("I've been obsessed with her lately") as providing a well of communion.

Eugenio has a slew of new music written for the chordless trio on Jump — herself, Dwonszyk and drummer Jonathan Barber — and is preparing to debut it at the legendary New York club Smalls later in the month. (She's also eyeing a recording date later this year.)

"It hasn't been easy, and it's not easy still," Eugenio admitted to JazzTimes, "but I keep pushing." But with such a mature, self-assured debut out in the world, and its follow-up on the way, that door may soon swing wide open.

*Hailey Brinnel. Photo: Emilie Krause*

Hailey Brinnel

As a singer and trombonist who interprets the Great American Songbook, Hailey Brinnel has two potential associations to dodge: the novelty factor and the imitator factor. 

Luckily, she has the perceptiveness and facility to avoid both snares — and her inviting, accessible music resists any reduction anyone might want to impose on her.

"People say trombone and cello are the two instruments closest to the human voice, so it's a really natural connection between the two," she says. "I was always drawn to earlier eras in jazz — swing, New Orleans trad jazz, the Great American Songbook."

Speaking of the latter: how did Brinnel find a livable space within that very well-trodden catalog — and learn to interpret it without falling into been-there-done-that territory?

"A lot of that had to do with my repertoire choice," she explains. "When I started out and had my first quintet gigs, I was trying really hard to do what I thought was cool at the time and would appeal [to the largest number of people]."

Early on, Brinnel thought she could accomplish this through feats of technical bravado and derring-do, like playing the intentionally difficult arrangements in knotty time signatures.

But eventually, Brinnel had the realization that most all great jazz traditionalists do — including Samara Joy, who won the GRAMMY for Best New Artist in 2023. Which is: carving out her niche in the jazz space isn't contingent on reinventing the wheel, but being herself.

That's the energy that fed into Brinnel's charming and companionable new album, Beautiful Tomorrow, which dropped in March and cemented her status as a Philadelphia it girl. In equal parts sweet and swinging, classics like "Tea For Two" and "There's a Great Big Beautiful Tomorrow" swim alongside originals "I Might Be Evil" and "The Sound."

An inspired version of Donald Fagen's solo The Nightfly tune "Walk Between Raindrops" shows she's got big ears and a big record collection: in conversation, her enthusiastic shout-outs to the Beatles and Harry Nilsson show she's a classicist in more ways than one.

"All of the selections in the album are so me, and from different points in my life, and reflect a lot of things about my personal past," she says. "I was picking the songs during the pandemic lockdowns, wanting that feeling of optimism: the acceptance of today might not be wonderful, but there's a promise of a beautiful tomorrow."

Because these 10 artists kept the flame burning, what could have ended the music altogether spurred them to write, sing and play like they never had before.

We Pass The Ball To Other Ages: Inside Blue Note's Creative Resurgence In The 2020s

A festival promoter told Delbert Anderson he didn't present as Indigenous enough. The trumpeter and his group, DDAT, showed up to the State Fair of Texas in what he calls "the Native American section" — filled with dancers in traditional garb, among other signifiers. DDAT, for their part, donned suits. 

"They immediately assumed that we had some type of traditional feather show," Anderson, who is of Diné and Navajo descent, tells GRAMMY.com. "They probably thought we were going to show up in regalia or something."

The promoter asked Anderson whether or not DDAT played traditional music. "No, we don't," he responded. "But there are a lot of melodies that are inspired from that." The promoter didn't comprehend this — so much so that she went up to Anderson mid-set and shoved a turquoise necklace around his neck. 

Anderson was shocked. "I kind of stopped and said, 'Excuse me,'" he recalls. "And she just sort of said, 'You don't look Native enough.'"

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Read More: Meet Delbert Anderson, A Native American Trumpet Master Interweaving Navajo Melodies With Jazz

Ever good-humored, Anderson brushed off the harassment and tossed the necklace around his white bass player's neck. Still, he can't get the incident out of his head. "That's one of the first times anything like that has happened to me," he says. "They expect that kind of back-to-the-roots, traditional type of music from anyone who uses the words 'Native,' 'Indigenous' or 'tribal.'"

He's not alone: Many musicians of Indigenous ancestry in his circle — and outside of it — have felt the micro- and macroaggressions come fast and hard. And othering those who identify and market themselves as Indigenous isn't exclusive to jazz.

Even though Indigenous peoples have been here longer than anyone, they face tension, discomfort and/or unadulterated racism in a slew of genres understood to be American — from country to blues to gospel to hip-hop.

This is despite the fact that all these genres have deep Indigenous roots. Jazz household names Charlie Parker and Thelonious Monk had Native American ancestry. Same with blues musicians like Howlin' Wolf, Charley Patton and Martha Redbone. In classic rock, you've got Jimi Hendrix and Robbie Robertson. The list goes on.

Renata Yazzie. Photo: Darklisted Photography​

Despite this, Diné classical pianist Renata Yazzie says moving through her world is a "scabrous" experience. "The greatest difficulty is not only teaching ignorant people, but willfully ignorant people who refuse to recognize how the elitism of classical music has affected historically underrepresented groups," she tells GRAMMY.com.

Why do musicians who identify as Indigenous, like Anderson, Yazzie, Mali Obomsawin, Adrian Wall, JJ Otero, James Pakootas, Julia Keefe, Warren Realrider and Raven Chacon — all of whom spoke to GRAMMY.com for this story — experience such tension, both from within their communities and in the wider world?

The answers are manifold, varying wildly between artists and their tribal affiliations. Here are some of the ways that artists of Indigenous descent have experienced unease in the American music landscape — and how they overcame it.

Howlin' Wolf. Photo: Gilles Petard/Redferns​ via Getty Images

Considering The Course Of History

Since time immemorial, Indigenous peoples have developed an impossibly broad array of musical traditions. And with the arrival — or invasion, depending on who you ask — of European settlers came trade, fighting over boundaries and the introduction of European instruments.

At mission schools, Europeans taught Native Americans to compose on European instruments. This led to students composing Indigenous usic with those tools and methods. Works like 1845's Indian Melodies featured traditional Native tunes composed with European notation.

In the back-half of the 19th century, the primordial stew of Black American music was percolating — the one that would give the world jazz, blues and other idioms. And the pervasive invisibility felt by Indigenous peoples meant they had a point of commiseration with Black musical communities.

"Black and Indigenous people have been in community with each other since the beginning, since Black Africans were forcibly brought here for slavery," jazz bassist Mali Obomsawin, who is affiliated with the Odanak Abenaki First Nation tribe, tells GRAMMY.com. "I think people tend to forget that many of the founding blues and jazz artists were both Black and Native."

This confluence of heritages and traditions has been obscured by what Obomsawin calls a larger obfuscation of Indigenous identity — coupled with anti-Blackness. "If someone like Thelonious Monk, who was Tuscarora, was to be like, 'I'm Native American,' everyone would be like, 'No, you're Black,'" Obomsawin says.

"It was not desirable for Natives to be higher in numbers, whereas it was desirable for Black folks to be higher in numbers because they were considered property," she continues. "That means that slave owners and human traffickers had more property value. Whereas the more people that were Native, the more people the government was accountable to."

Mildred Bailey. Photo: Bettmann/Contributor via Getty Images

Julia Keefe, a jazz vocalist and enrolled member of the Nez Perce tribe, is acutely aware of the crossroads of Blackness and Indigenousness in early American music.

"There is a historical precedent for Native Americans in jazz," she tells GRAMMY.com, citing Indigenous people who learned European music in boarding and residential schools. "Around the same time that jazz was taking off in the '20s and '30s, there is evidence of Native people forming their own big bands."

One lesser-known early Indigenous jazz musician was Mildred Bailey, a singer of Native descent from the Coeur d'Alene tribe.

"She was the first one to sing in front of a big band," Keefe notes. "You think about all the female vocalists — Ella Fitzgerald, Billie Holiday, Sarah Vaughan — who got their start singing in front of big band, and it was because there was such an appetite for that sound by Mildred Bailey singing in front of the Paul Whiteman Orchestra."

Oscar Pettiford. Photo: Michael Ochs Archives via Getty Images

But Bailey is just the tip of the iceberg in this regard. Besides Parker and Monk, there's a lengthy list of jazz artists of Indigenous descent — including saxophonist Jim Pepper, bassist Oscar Pettiford and trumpeter and multi-instrumentalist Don Cherry.

And jazz is but one piece of the puzzle: Indigenous artists can be found in all genres. But at times, proudly broadcasting their heritage in these spaces has proved difficult in the face of divisive politics.

Navigating Political Divides

While Anderson can only speak for his local scene near Farmington, New Mexico, he has a clear vantage on what it's like to market oneself as a Native American musician.

"I think as time progressed from the '80s until now, there were a lot of stronger Indigenous voices that came out," he says, citing activist causes like the American Indian Movement. "The moment you try to take any stand for Native American something, people tend to take those words as 'You're a hardcore activist.'"

"I mean, I could go outside right now and say, 'I stand with Standing Rock,'" he adds. "Immediately, people are going to think of me as a negative force here."

And while that scene comprised a healthy variety of perspectives and genres, it attracted judgement from the outside. "I think a lot of the people who were involved didn't really realize what they were creating," Anderson says. "It really looked like they were making some type of coalition — or Indigenous organization — that's going to fight everything that goes in their path."

Delbert Anderson. Photo: Maurice Johnson

This atmosphere weighed heavily on Anderson's career in 2013, when DDAT began to market themselves as "Native American jazz." (James Pakootas, their MC, is Indigenous; bassist Michael McCluhan is white; drummer Nicholas Lucero is Hispanic.)

"We immediately got thrown into this pool of musicians that were stirring up this big group or organization," Anderson says. "The moment we said 'We are Native American jazz,' they immediately assumed we're part of this Native American music scene, and it lost us gigs because they thought we were there to lecture the audience."

Anderson saw his more militant colleagues as refusing to compromise, acting as if rules didn't apply to them. "There's a lot of that showing up in musicians today," he says. "The moment a venue says something that they can't do, like, 'Oh, you can't burn cedar here before the show,' or anything like that, they'll throw a huge, huge fit."

"I hate to say it," Anderson says, "but it kind of ruined it for the rest of us who don't participate in that ceremony."

To avoid these associations, DDAT eventually decided to pivot away from "Native American jazz," describing themselves as a funk/jazz group inspired by Indigenous melodies. "People started to see us as not being activists, or the rowdy ones," Anderson says. As a result, the group immediately started getting offered more gigs.

Julia Keefe. Photo: Don Hamilton

Braving Inner Conflict

This dissonance isn't limited to sociopolitical factions, or a conflict between musicians and promoters — although Anderson could certainly share other horror stories. Even so-called enlightened spaces, like jazz workshops, have left Indigenous musicians second-guessing themselves.

"At gigs or at workshops or what have you, people will come up and be kind of aggressive about it — almost offended," Keefe says. "Like, [Flustered voice] 'What does that mean? What do you mean you are a Native American jazz vocalist?' 'Well, I'm Native American and I sing jazz. That's what I do.'"

"With that confrontation of my identity," she adds, "there's been tension within myself of, 'If I'm going to claim my Native heritage on my business card, should my music be more influenced by my Indigenous heritage?'"

But even if an artist defines what Indigenousness means for themselves, it's bound to create friction with others' preconceptions or stereotypes. "That's something that Natives come up against in any sort of art form," Obomsawin says.

Adrian Wall. Photo: Shondinii Walters​

Adrian Wall, a flutist and guitarist with roots in the Jemez Pueblo tribe, experiences dislocation just by announcing who he is to the world.

"Once you play the Native card, you're kind of stuck being a Native musician when you're actually playing music that's accepted worldwide just as American music," he tells GRAMMY.com. "Once you call yourself a Native, all of a sudden you're playing Native music."

Raven Chacon, a Diné composer who works in the experimental and noise scenes, has had to push against assumptions that his work would be stereotypically Native — or adjacent to new age. 

"There was an assumption it was going to involve flutes or drums or something," he tells GRAMMY.com with a laugh. "Even from people should know better, there have been assumptions."

Raven Chacon. Photo: Jamie Drummond

To fellow experimental musician and sound sculpturist Warren Realrider — who is Pawnee and enrolled with the Crow Nation of Montana and makes music akin to John Zorn, Pauline Oliveros and Merzbow — the solution lies in creating a music industry framework that accurately represents Indigenous creators.

"These systems of music, distribution, performance, whatever — they are built on a world that's not the Indigenous world," he tells GRAMMY.com. "You're always going to have to work against that in some way."

Plus, as a representative of his background in the insular noise space, Realrider's work has become bigger than him — he feels inordinate pressure to not let his tribe down.

"A lot of Indigenous artists don't lose that aspect," he says, considering the arc of his life and career so far. "That's something you carry along with you, and you present yourself that way."

Addressing Language Barriers

Sometimes, the criticism comes from within Indigenous communities themselves. JJ Otero, a Hopi and Diné singer/songwriter inspired by bands like Counting Crows and Pearl Jam, had to deal with the finer points of language — even one he knew backward and forward.

"I didn't use the Navajo language in my music for the longest time," he tells GRAMMY.com from his home on a Navajo reservation. "The white guys in [my first band, Saving Damsels] said, 'You should write a song in Navajo that we can play.'"

JJ Otero. Photo: Unek Francis

Despite being a fluent Navajo speaker, Otero wanted to be careful that he said things exactly right. "I don't want my songs to just be a lazy utterance of words in Navajo," he says. To thread the needle, Otero enlisted his father to vet his lyrics for inexact grammar and syntax.

"I do believe that sometimes our own people can be our toughest critics," Otero says. "We can take that criticism and be mad and upset about it, or we can dive deeper into why those criticisms exist and understand the foundation of why Navajo is sacred."

Facing One's Own Community

As a rapper and motivational speaker who spits bars in DDAT, James Pakootas operates by what he calls "a very deep awareness of protocol."

"A lot of times, Native artists in contemporary music want to meld the two worlds, but it seems like sometimes they're taking away from the culture. It's not done with care," Pakootas tells GRAMMY.com. "It's like sampling a powwow song, putting it on a hip-hop beat and calling it good."

James Pakootas. Photo: Maurice Johnson

To avoid this sort of mishandling, Pakootas works with collaborators to tell his stories as considerately as possible, preferring to bring in a drum group and analyze together how the story could be told.

"A lot of songs I know are ceremony songs," he adds. "There's not going to be any of those that I share because there's a protocol in place to keep that sacred. There's a time and a place for that song to be sung or that melody to be used."

Reaching Harmony From Dissonance

How can music fans right these wrongs and push against the othering of Indigenous artists? Maybe the first step is realizing that Indigenous music is all music.

"Native people are very much seen as mythological creatures, as the villains in Westerns, the mascots that you love to hate, or whatever," Keefe says. "So, I can see why [musical discrimination] would be a thing because so often we are perceived as a figment of someone's imagination."

Warren Realrider. Photo: Shane Brown​

For Obomsawin, this necessary shift begins with education — and by listening to the stories of her elders. In her case, that teacher is Pura Fé, a Tuscarora and Taino vocalist and activist related to Thelonious Monk.

"She is so intimately aware of those dual legacies — the Black and Native lineages of jazz," Obomsawin says. "I just hope that more air time is given to the elders in the jazz and blues community who know those things. I think it could really help to unearth some of those stories as really important parts of American music history — as well as our history in general."

Mali Obomsawin. Photo: Nolan Altvater​

As for Yazzie, she believes significant change won't occur until we give sovereignty to Indigenous artists — so they can decide who their audience is, why they perform their music, what their music sounds like, where they want their music played, and how they want it to be perceived by the rest of the world.

"I always maintain that Native music is Native music because a Native person is outputting it," Yazzie says. "But on the flipside, you don't want to limit people to where all they do is Native music. I think you have to be really careful to not use the Native music label as a way to put people in a specific box. Because Native music is still also blues. It's still jazz. It's still country. It's still hip-hop. It's still classical music. [Indigenous] people are in those genre-specific spaces and they're doing amazing things."

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When considering this subject, Anderson always returns to Don Cherry, who remains one of his idols. "In one of his interviews, he said, 'Hey, it's about meeting other people. It's about having relationships with your friends,'" he says.

"I think everyone just needs to go back to their original state, going back to just being a human and recognizing that we're all humans here," Anderson adds. "Approach each other as human beings with our minds or our thoughts."

Anderson is bringing Cherry's openhearted philosophy to his next endeavor — collaborating with the American Pops Orchestra for a Bureau of Land Management project. This has been a laborious process, with no shortage of fine lines to navigate.

"Bringing this orchestra onto the Indigenous lands is going to be a real struggle because of all the racial division going on in the world," he says. But in the end, Anderson believes all the work is going to be worth it.

"Having these two different identities on that land, I'm hoping the land can really heal the group that's there," he says. "I mean, if the land really heals, we're going to put the land to the test." 

Because it's happened before on this soil: Indigenous people and those of so many other backgrounds have come together to make great American music. Sure, it's been a rocky path to get there — sometimes a troubling and treacherous one. But Anderson and his colleagues aren't afraid to tread it.

Commonalities, Subtleties & Purpose: 7 Musicians Pushing Ancient Asian Instruments Into The Future

Three months after OneRepublic began promoting their sixth album, Artificial Paradise, in February 2022, the band unexpectedly had their biggest release in nearly a decade. The pop-rock band's carefree jam, "I Ain't Worried," soundtracked Top Gun: Maverick's most memeable scene and quickly became a global smash — ultimately delaying album plans in favor of promoting their latest hit.

Two years later, "I Ain't Worried" is one of 16 tracks on Artificial Paradise, which arrived July 12. It's a seamless blend of songs that will resonate with longtime and newer fans alike. From the layered production of "Hurt," to the feel-good vibes of "Serotonin," to the evocative lyrics of "Last Holiday," Artificial Paradise shows that OneRepublic's sound is as dialed-in as it is ever-evolving.

The album also marks the end of an era for OneRepublic, as it's the last in their contract with Interscope Records. But for the group's singer, Ryan Tedder, that means the future is even more exciting than it's been in their entire 15-year career.

"I've never been more motivated to write the best material of my life than this very moment," he asserts. "I'm taking it as a challenge. We've had a lot of fun, and a lot of uplifting records for the last seven or eight years, but I also want to tap back into some deeper material with the band."

As he's been prepping Artificial Paradise with his OneRepublic cohorts, Tedder has also been as busy as he's ever been working with other artists. His career as a songwriter/producer took off almost simultaneously with OneRepublic's 2007 breakthrough, "Apologize" (his first major behind-the-board hit was Leona Lewis' "Bleeding Love"); to this day he's one of the go-to guys for pop's biggest names, from BLACKPINK to Tate McRae.

Tedder sat down with GRAMMY.com to share some of his most prominent memories of OneRepublic's biggest songs, as well as some of the hits he's written with Beyoncé, Adele, Taylor Swift and more.

I was producing and writing other songs for different artists on Epic and Atlantic — I was just cutting my teeth as a songwriter in L.A. This is like 2004. I was at my lowest mentally and financially. I was completely broke. Creditors chasing me, literally dodging the taxman and getting my car repoed, everything.

I had that song in my back pocket for four years. A buddy of mine just reminded me last month, a songwriter from Nashville — Ashley Gorley, actually. We had a session last month, me, him and Amy Allen, and he brought it up. He was like, "Is it true, the story about 'Apologize'? You were completely broke living in L.A. and Epic Records offered you like 100 grand or something just for the right to record the song on one of their artists?"

And that is true. It was, like, 20 [grand], then 50, then 100. And I was salivating. I was, like, I need this money so bad. And I give so many songs to other people, but with that song, I drew a line in the sand and said, "No one will sing this song but me. I will die with this song." 

It was my story, and I just didn't want anyone else to sing it. It was really that simple. It was a song about my past relationships, it was deeply personal. And it was also the song that — I spent two years trying to figure out what my sound was gonna be. I was a solo artist… and I wasn't landing on anything compelling. Then I landed on "Apologize" and a couple of other songs, and I was like, These songs make me think of a band, not solo artist material. So it was the song that led me to the sound of OneRepublic, and it also led me to the idea that I should start a band and not be a solo artist.

We do it every night. I'll never not do it. I've never gotten sick of it once. Every night that we do it, whether I'm in Houston or Hong Kong, I look out at the crowd and look at the band, and I'm like, Wow. This is the song that got us here.

We were halfway through promoting Dreaming Out Loud, our first album. I played basketball every day on tour, and I snapped my Achilles. The tour got canceled. The doctor told me not to even write. And I had this one sliver of an afternoon where my wife had to run an errand. And because I'm sadistic and crazy, I texted [songwriter] Evan Bogart, "I got a three-hour window, race over here. Beyoncé called me and asked me to write her a song. I want to do it with you." He had just come off his huge Rihanna No. 1, and we had an Ashley Tisdale single together.

When you write enough songs, not every day do the clouds part and God looks down on you and goes, "Here." But that's what happened on that day. I turn on the keyboard, the first sound that I play is the opening sound of the song. Sounds like angels singing. And we wrote the song pretty quick, as I recall. 

I didn't get a response [from Beyoncé after sending "Halo" over], which I've now learned is very, very typical of her. I did Miley Cyrus and Beyoncé "II MOST WANTED" [from COWBOY CARTER] — I didn't know that was coming out 'til five days before it came out. And when I did "XO" [from 2013's Beyoncé], I found out that "XO" was coming out 12 hours before it came out. That's how she operates.

["Good Life"] was kind of a Hail Mary. We already knew that "All the Right Moves" would be the first single [from Waking Up]. We knew that "Secrets" was the second single. And in the 11th hour, our engineer at the time — who I ended up signing as a songwriter, Noel Zancanella — had this drum loop that he had made, and he played it for Brent [Kutzle] in our band. Brent said, "You gotta hear this drum loop that Noel made. It's incredible."

He played it for me the next morning, and I was like, "Yo throw some chords to this. I'm writing to this today." They threw some chords down, and the first thing out of my mouth was, [sings] "Oh, this has gotta be the good life." 

It's the perfect example of, oftentimes, the chord I've tried to strike with this band with some of our bigger records, [which] is happy sad. Where you feel nostalgic and kind of melancholic, but at the same time, euphoric. That's what those chords and that melody did for me.

I was like, "Hey guys, would it be weird if I made the hook a whistle?" And everyone was like, "No! Do not whistle!" They're like, "Name the last hit song that had a whistle." And the only one I could think of was, like, Scorpion from like, 1988. [Laughs.] So I thought, To hell with it, man, it's been long enough, who cares? Let's try it. And the whistle kind of made the record. It became such a signature thing.

Adele — "Rumour Has It," '21' (2011)

"Rumour Has It" was the first song I did in probably a four year period, with any artist, that wasn't a ballad. All any artist ever wanted me to write with them or for them, was ballads, because of "Halo," and "Apologize" and "Bleeding Love."

I begged [Adele] to do a [song with] tempo, because we did "Turning Tables," another ballad. She was in a feisty mood [that day], so I was like, "Okay, we're doing a tempo today!"

Rick Rubin was originally producing the whole album. I was determined to produce Adele, not just write — because I wanted a shot to show her that I could, and to show myself. I stayed later after she left, and I remember thinking, What can I do in this record in this song that could be so difficult to reproduce that it might land me the gig?

So I intentionally muted the click track, changed the tempo, and [created that] whole piano bridge. I was making it up as I went. When she got in that morning. I said, "I have a crazy idea for a bridge. It's a movie." She listens and she says, "This is really different, I like this! How do we write to this?" 

I mean, it was very difficult. [But] we finished the song. She recorded the entire song that day. She recorded the whole song in one take. I've never seen anyone do that in my life — before or since.

Then I didn't hear from her for six months. Because I handed over the files, and Rick Rubin's doing it, so I don't need to check on it. I randomly check on the status of the song — and at this point, if you're a songwriter or producer, you're assuming that they're not keeping the songs. Her manager emails my manager, "Hey, good news — she's keeping both songs they did, and she wants Ryan to finish 'Rumour Has It' production and mix it." 

When I finally asked her, months later — probably at the GRAMMYs — I said, "Why didn't [Rick] do it?" She said, "Oh he did. It's that damn bridge! Nobody could figure out what the hell you were doing…It was so problematic that we just gave up on it."

I was in a Beyoncé camp in the Hamptons writing for the self-titled album. [There were] a bunch of people in the house — me, Greg Kurstin, Sia — it was a fun group of people. I had four days there, and every morning I'd get up an hour and a half before I had to leave, make a coffee, and start prepping for the day. On the third day, I got up, I'm in the basement of this house at like 7 in the morning, and I'm coming up with ideas. I stumble across that chord progression, the guitar and the melody. It was instant shivers up my spine. 

"Lately I've been losing sleep, dreaming about the things that we could be" is the only line that I had. [My] first thought was, I should play this for Beyoncé, and then I'm listening to it and going, This is not Beyoncé, not even remotely. It'd be a waste. So I tabled it, and I texted the guys in my band, "Hey, I think I have a potentially really big record. I'm going to finish it when I get back to Denver."

I got back the next week, started recording it, did four or five versions of the chorus, bouncing all the versions off my wife, and then eventually landed it. And when I played it for the band, they were like, "This is our favorite song."

It was my second session with Taylor. The first one was [1989's] "I Know Places," and she sent me a voice memo. I was looking for a house in Venice [California], because we were spending so much time in L.A. So that whole memory is attached to me migrating back to Los Angeles. 

But I knew what she was talking about, because I lived in New York, and I remember the feeling — endless possibilities, all the different people and races and sexes and loves. That was her New York chapter. She was so excited to be there. If you never lived there, and especially if you get there and you've got a little money in the pocket, it is so exhilarating.

It was me just kind of witnessing her brilliant, fast-paced, lyrical wizardry. [Co-producer] Max [Martin] and I had a conversation nine months later at the GRAMMYs, when we had literally just won for 1989. He kind of laughed, he pointed to all the other producers on the album, and he's like, "If she had, like, three more hours in the day, she would just figure out what we do and she would do it. And she wouldn't need any of us." 

And I still think that's true. Some people are just forces of nature in and among themselves, and she's one of them. She just blew me away. She's the most talented top liner I've ever been in a room with, bar none. If you're talking lyric and melody, I've never been in a room with anyone faster, more adept, knows more what they want to say, focused, efficient, and just talented.

I had gone through a pretty dry spell mentally, emotionally. I had just burned it at both ends and tapped out, call it end of 2016. So, really, all of 2017 for me was a blur and a wash. I did a bunch of sessions in the first three months of the year, and then I just couldn't get a song out. I kept having, song after song, artists telling me it's the first single, [then] the song was not even on the album. I had never experienced that in my career.

I went six to nine months without finishing a song, which for me is unheard of. Andrew Watt kind of roped me back into working with him. We did "Easier" for 5 Seconds of Summer, and we did some Sam Smith and some Miley Cyrus, and right in that same window, I did this song "Sucker." Two [or] three months later, Wendy Goldstein from Republic [Records] heard the record, I had sent it to her. She'd said, very quietly, "We're relaunching the Jonas Brothers. They want you to be involved in a major way. Do you have anything?" 

She calls me, she goes, "Ryan, do not play this for anybody else. This is their comeback single. It's a No. 1 record. Watch what we're gonna do." And she delivered.

My memory is, being in lockdown in COVID, and just being like, Who knows when this is going to end, working out of my Airstream at my house. I had done a lot of songs for movies over the years, and [for] that particular [song] Randy Spendlove, who runs [music at] Paramount, called me.

I end up Zooming with Tom Cruise [and Top Gun: Maverick director] Jerry Bruckheimer — everybody's in lockdown during post-production. The overarching memory was, Holy cow, I'm doing the scene, I'm doing the song for Top Gun. I can't believe this is happening. But the only way I knew how to approach it, rather than to, like, overreact and s— the bed, was, It's just another day.

I do prescription songs for movies, TV, film all the time. I love a brief. It's so antithetical to most writers. I'm either uncontrollably lazy or the most productive person you've ever met. And the dividing line between the two is, if I'm chasing some directive, some motivation, some endpoint, then I can be wildly productive.

I just thought, I'm going to do the absolute best thing I can do for this scene and serve the film. OneRepublic being the performing artist was not on the menu in my mind. I just told them, "I think you need a cool indie band sounding, like, breakbeat." I used adjectives to describe what I heard when I saw the scene, and Tom got really ramped and excited. 

You could argue [it's the biggest song] since the band started. The thing about it is, it's kind of become one of those every summer [hits]. And when it blew up, that's what Tom said. He said, "Mark my words, dude. You're gonna have a hit with this every summer for, like, the next 20 years or more." 

And that's what happened. The moment Memorial Day happened, "I Ain't Worried" got defrosted and marched itself back into the top 100.

Tate McRae — "Greedy," 'THINK LATER' (2023)

We had "10:35" [with Tiësto] the previous year that had been, like, a No. 1 in the UK and across Europe and Australia. So we were coming off the back of that, and the one thing she was clear about was, "That is not the direction of what I want to do."

If my memory serves me correct, "greedy" was the next to last session we had. Everything we had done up to that point was kind of dark, midtempo, emotional. So "greedy" was the weirdo outlier. I kept pushing her to do a dance record. I was like, "Tate, there's a lot of people that have great voices, and there's a lot of people who can write, but none of those people are professional dancers like you are. Your secret weapon is the thing you're not using. In this game and this career, you've got to use every asset that you have and exploit it."

There was a lot of cajoling. On that day, we did it, and I thought it was badass, and loved it. And she was like, "Ugh, what do we just do? What is this?"

So then it was just, like, months, months and months of me constantly bringing that song back up, and playing it for her, and annoying the s— out of her. And she came around on it. 

She has very specific taste. So much of the music with Tate, it really is her steering. I'll do what I think is like a finished version of a song, and then she will push everyone for weeks, if not months, to extract every ounce of everything out of them, to push the song harder, further, edgier — 19 versions of a song, until finally she goes, "Okay, this is the one." She's a perfectionist.

I love [our latest single] "Hurt," but my favorite song on the album is called "Last Holiday." I probably started the beginning of that lyric, I'm not joking, seven, eight years ago. But I didn't finish it 'til this past year.

The verses are little maxims and words of advice that I've been given throughout the years. It's almost cynical in a way, the song. When I wrote the chorus, I was definitely in kind of a down place. So the opening line is, "So I don't believe in the stars anymore/ They never gave me what I wished for." And it's, obviously, a very not-so-slight reference to "Counting Stars." But it's also hopeful — "We've got some problems, okay, but this isn't our last holiday." 

It's very simple sentiments. Press pause. Take some moments. Find God before it all ends. All these things with this big, soaring chorus. Musically and emotionally and sonically, that song — and "Hurt," for sure — but "Last Holiday" is extremely us-sounding. 

The biggest enemy that we've had over the course of 18 years, I'll be the first to volunteer, is, this ever-evolving, undulating sound. No one's gonna accuse me of making these super complex concept albums, because that's just not how my brain's wired. I grew up listening to the radio. I didn't grow up hanging out in the Bowery in CBGBs listening to Nick Cave. So for us, the downside to that, and for me doing all these songs for all these other people, is the constant push and pull of "What is their sound? What genre is it?" 

I couldn't put a pin in exactly what the sound is, but what I would say is, if you look at the last 18 years, a song like "Last Holiday" really encompasses, sonically, what this band is about. It's very moving, and emotional, and dynamic. It takes me to a place — that's the best way for me to put it. And hopefully the listener finds the same.

In the K-pop industry, the Neo Culture Technology juggernaut stands out as a cosmopolitan universe. The project is characterized by its highly experimental approach, where each of NCT's subgroups contribute a unique twist.

This is especially true of NCT 127. Comprised of Taeyong, Taeil, Jaehyun, Johnny, Yuta, Doyoung, Jungwoo, Mark, and Haechan, NCT 127's identity was forged via innovative arrangements that defy convention.

During their rookie days, this ahead-of-its-time strategy felt polarizing and raised a few eyebrows. However, after some years of ambivalence (and with some lineup changes in between), they exploded in popularity during the early pandemic with their second studio album, NCT #127: Neo Zone. This record gave them their first title as million sellers, significantly increasing their listeners globally — many of whom embraced the group's music as an escape during quarantine.

Read more: Breaking Down The NCT System, From The Rotational NCT U To The Upcoming NCT Tokyo

Today, they are more influential than ever and their sound is more accepted in the ever-expanidng scope of K-pop. Nonetheless, some K-pop listeners tend to pigeonhole the group as "noise," despite having a diverse catalog and some of the best vocalists of their generation.

Nearly coinciding with their eighth anniversary, NCT 127 released their sixth studio album, WALK on July 15. To mark this occasion, GRAMMY.com presents a song list — in chronological order — demonstrating their musical geniality, which extends far beyond the public's usual perception. 

The group's first mini-album, NCT #127, laid the foundations of their audacious sound and paired it with vocal finesse. To wit, the lead single "Fire Truck" arrived as an unapologetic disruptor shaking up the K-pop industry.

But the bookends of the EP are uniquely contrasting. Whereas "Fire Truck" opens with bold posturing, the outlier "Switch" concludes the ride with a more lighthearted and youthful production. In a way, this song could also be considered a prelude to the NCT universe, as it was recorded a year before NCT 127's debut, and it features members of other NCT iterations — like WayV and Dream — when they were still trainees. 

The name of this track is a statement of the group's boundary-pushing ethos. True to form, the song is built over a hammering backbone and lengthy synths that bite. The chorus is the highlight; its dynamic explosion of vocals only intensifies the momentum. And while the Korean version is strong, it could be argued that the Japanese rendition imbues the song with new layers of depth that truly elevate it.

It’s worth mentioning that, during the Limitless era, Doyoung and Johnny were added to the lineup, marking NCT 127’s first release with nine members — a move consistent with the original (now-defunct) concept of the NCT system.

Some songs are crafted for faraway souls and to offer solace to the aching heart. That's why "Sun and Moon," an evocative B-side from NCT 127's third extended play, exists as an unmissable gem.

It's a lyrical tale of longing, where Taeil, Doyoung, Johnny, Taeyong, Jaehyun, and Yuta serenade a distant love, hoping the gap will shrink and a reunion will come. The arrangement is understated but dream-like, and when the pre-chorus arrives, the most beautiful lines are unveiled: "When my moon rises/ Your sun rises as well/ Under the same sky/ In this different time/ Our hearts are connected/ Under the same sky."

Co-created by GRAMMY-nominated producer Mike Daley and multi-instrumentalist Mitchell Owens, "Come Back" exemplifies maximalism, undulating between intensity and elegance.

"One of the standout aspects of this song is the creative use of chops throughout the track," Daley tells GRAMMY.com. "Even though the arrangement follows a pretty standard structure for us, these chops add a unique flavor that sets 'Come Back' apart. We got to be more experimental [for this track] and bring in some unusual elements."

The voices of Taeil and Doyoung prominently take center stage, infusing potency that ensures smooth progressions throughout the production.

"Lips"

Featured on the group's first Japanese studio album, Awaken, "Lips" is an unjustly overlooked cut that blends sensuality with hypnotizing Latin rhythms. The deeper you are immersed in it, the more enchanting it becomes, casting a spell over your mind.

Its minimalist formula is effective, and the lyrics hint at a compelling journey: "Your lips come and take me to the place to go/ The place you would know where you should go." Sometimes, less is more, and the impact can be equally powerful.

"Highway to Heaven" shines as one of the crown jewels in NCT 127's discography, praised not only for its cathartic production but also for marking a turnaround in their artistry. It sees them delving into more subdued and ethereal soundworlds.

A pre-release single from their fourth mini album, We Are Superhuman, the instrumental is woven with buzzy percussion and silken guitar strings. The group's vocal prowess truly exhilarates, crescendoing a declaration of freedom during the chorus: "We'll take the highway to heaven/ Any time, anywhere I feel you/ You and I, highway to heaven/ This place where we're together is heaven." 

The track reaches its pinnacle with an interlude guided by Jungwoo's velvety delivery, eventually setting the stage for Haechan's soaring voice.

"Superhuman," the lead single from We Are Superhuman, is a timeless masterpiece. The avant garde song showcases the group's expansive adaptability, exchanging their usual edge for intricate sophistication.

American singer/songwriter Adrian Mckinnon — a frequent collaborator of SM Entertainment, home of the NCT project — teamed up with South Korean producers TAK and 1Take to bring the song to life, and he recalls being "blown away" when he listened to the instrumental. "All the glitches and stutters immediately gave nostalgia," Mckinnon tells GRAMMY.com, noting the sound choices reminded him of old school video games. "[The song] kind of sits in its own lane, maybe somewhere between glitch funk and glitch hop. Maybe a little Daft Punky too?"

Mckinnon says he sat with the instrumental track for half an hour before recording his vocal ideas. "I wanted to absorb it in its entirety before trying anything."

He also explains that they created the song without a specific group in mind, so he was excited to discover the song was placed with NCT 127. "I think this speaks to the versatile nature of the group because they executed the track very well and were able to make it their own. It's easily one of my favorite songs I've been a part of."

Another piece from Daley and Owens, "Love Me Now" pulses with gentleness and heartwarming nostalgia. It's a song made for those days when everything feels right in place. 

Daley recalled working on "Love Me Now" during a K-pop songwriting camp in Seoul, and says he refined an existing track. "Most of our stuff is tailor-made for artists in Korea, but this track was very much a U.S. pop/dance radio-sounding track," he says. "It doesn't feature a ton of sections, switch-ups, or the musically intricate bridge that a lot of our K-pop songs normally have. It's very minimalistic, bright, and centered, and sometimes that's all you need."

He observes the creation process of "Love Me Now" was more straightforward than "Come Back," as the latter contains the usual elaborateness of K-pop productions. "That simplicity in ['Love Me Now'] lent itself to making a very catchy, memorable record that was easy to digest."

By NCT standards, "NonStop" — from the repackaged album NCT #127 Neo Zone: The Final Round — is a B-side that overflows with the potential of a lead single. It's an amalgam of unburdened rap verses and cohesive vocals that glide effortlessly across a cutting-edge production.

Adrian Mckinnon explains that he and Kenzie chose the track from a selection created by the British production duo LDN Noise due to the magnetic pull of the intro. "The arpeggiated tones and the crazy melody of the lead synth immediately took us to the future," he says. "The chord progression and the rising energy out of the pre-chorus — it all felt like some high-speed race through some futuristic city."

The development of the structure proved quite challenging, but the end result encapsulated the intended concept. "Listening to it in its final form, you would think the sections were obvious, but each of the melody and topline — including others that didn't make the song — all felt quite hooky," McKinnon shares. "But since you only have so much 'song,' you must pick your favorite bits and massage the ideas together. That's how we arrived at what 'NonStop' came to be."

"First Love"

A burgeoning romance transforms into the dulcet melodies that define "First Love," a B-side from NCT 127's second Japanese EP, Loveholic, released in February 2021. Excitement beams throughout the lines of the song, capturing the world of possibilities that come with finding the person you've always dreamed of.

When the group leans towards professing love in all its shapes, they do so with a rawness that percolates through their voices, easily perceptible to all. And here, they opt for a playful and tender side.

"Breakfast"

Off of their third full-length album, Sticker, "Breakfast" is distinguished by its harmonic richness and stunning vocal arrangements.\

The track emerged from a collaboration in which Swedish producer Simon Petrén devised the sonic framework, complemented by GRAMMY-winning songwriter Ninos Hanna and songwriter/producer Andreas Öberg. "As the melody ideas evolved, the song was also developed and built up to match the topline," Öberg tells GRAMMY.com. "The original demo was called 'Breakfast' and tailor-made for [the group]. SM Entertainment decided to release this song with them shortly after we submitted it." 

Öberg describes the composition as "an interesting hybrid," with the original demo molded to be "a modern dance/house record while still using advanced chord progressions not only with influences from jazz and fusion."

He also cites Michael Jackson as an inspiration, drawing from "his unique style of switching between minor and major tonalities." 

"Favorite (Vampire)"

After releasing Sticker, NCT 127 wasted no time and quickly followed up with a repackaged album centered around the hauntingly resonant "Favorite." A brainchild of Kenzie, American producer Rodney "Darkchild" Jerkins, and singer/songwriter Rodnae "Chikk" Bell, this record is the most tempered of all the NCT 127's title tracks.

A whistling sample introduces a thumping trap beat that rapidly unfolds into piercing lines — courtesy of Taeyong and Mark — that slice through the song. But as we hit the road toward the chorus, "Favorite" veers into a more vocally-driven approach, a splendid transition that balances its core. In classic SM style, the bridge is a triumph, with Doyoung, Taeil, and Haechan pouring their hearts out as if they've been shattered into a hundred pieces.

Listening to "Angel Eyes," a cut nestled in the middle of their most recent release, Fact Check, is akin to a healing escape. From the first seconds, pure bliss fills the air and quickly transforms into an open invitation to lose ourselves in the music.

"Paradise, like an angel fly/ With your wings, make me fly through the brilliant world/ My delight in all the days and nights/ Even in darkness, make me dream the greatest dream," they sing in the last chorus, prescribing optimism atop a layering reminiscent of the '80s.

One of WALK's B-sides, "Pricey" boasts a delightful instrumental with thick basslines and a fusion of piano and guitar chords. Although the rapped chorus momentarily threatens to stall the pace, vibrant ad-libs — growing more captivating as the song progresses — quickly pick it back up, perfectly aligning the overall effort with their unique sound.

"Pricey" was originally intended for the American market, which makes it all the more inexplicable that it was tucked away in the NCT 127 vault for so long. Thankfully, it's now receiving the spotlight it deserves – it's simply too remarkable to remain unearthed.

GRAMMY winners Kendrick Lamar and Mustard have long repped their California roots. Earlier this summer, their powerhouse anthem "Not Like Us"  brought West Coast rap back to its roots and shone a global spotlight on the scene. 

Lamar and Mustard are at the forefront of a renaissance in West Coast rap. Their shared roots in Southern California cities — Mustard from Los Angeles and Kendrick from Compton — adds authenticity and resonance to their partnership. Their undeniable chemistry was on display in the video for "Not Like Us," which received a million views less than an hour after its release.

Mustard's signature beats and Lamar's profound lyricism has resurfaced the sound and culture that makes West Coast rap so unique and paved the way for a new generation of artists. All signs suggest that another impactful collaboration may appear on Mustard's upcoming album, Faith of A Mustard Seed.

Learn more: A Guide To Southern California Hip-Hop: Definitive Releases, Artists & Subgenres From L.A. & Beyond

Kendrick Lamar headlined the electrifying Pop Out concert on Juneteenth, which also featured sets from Mustard and DJ Hed. The event saw a handful of L.A. rappers, opening for Lamar in a showcase of  the vibrant talent that defines the region's rap scene.

The West Coast is a vast reservoir of talent, stretching from the Bay Area to Seattle. At the heart of this creative expanse is Los Angeles, which brings fresh perspectives, innovative styles, and renewed energy to hip-hop, ensuring the genre thrives. With the stage set for these newcomers to shine, it's the perfect time to take a closer look at some of the rising talents poised to impact the rap scene. While this list only scratches the surface, it offers a glimpse into the diverse and exciting talent from SoCal, the epicenter of the West.

Arising from Los Angeles, Blxst initially played the background as a producer but soon demonstrated his ability to excel across all facets of music creation. Blxst's breakout moment came with his platinum-certified single "Chosen," which solidified his place in the music industry. His collaboration on Kendrick Lamar's "Die Hard" from Mr. Morale And The Big Steppers further showcased his skill for crafting hooks that elevate tracks, resulting in two GRAMMY nominations.

As he prepares to release his debut album, I'll Always Come Find You on July 19, Blxst stands at a pivotal point in his career. With a great resume already to his name, his forthcoming album promises to showcase his undeniable talent and leave a lasting impact on the West Coast music scene.

Bino Rideaux is a South Central native and frequent collaborator with the GRAMMY-winning rapper Nipsey Hussle. He is the only artist to have a joint project with Hussle, No Pressure, released before the prolific rapper's untimely death. Rideaux has hinted at having a treasure of unreleased music with Hussle, saved for the perfect moment and album.

Rideaux  is known for creating tracks that get the city outside and dancing. He has made three beloved projects with Blxst, titled Sixtape, Sixtape 2, and Sixtape 3 resulting in sold-out shows and a special place in West Coast Rap fans' hearts. Endorsed by industry heavyweights like Young Thug, Rideaux continues to carve his path at his own pace. His journey is nothing short of a marathon, echoing the enduring legacy of his mentor.

Read more: Nipsey Hussle's Entrepreneurial Legacy: How The Rapper Supported His Community & Inspired Rap's Next Generation

Kalan.FrFr, whose name stands for "For Real For Real," is an artist whose music is as genuine as his name suggests. Growing up in Compton and Carson, Kalan.FrFr has always stayed true to his roots, and exudes the unyielding confidence essential to making it in the City of Angels.

His breakthrough mixtape, TwoFr, showcased his ability to shine without major features, delivering verses with catchy hooks and melodic rap. He's shown he's not confined to one sound, delivering vulnerable tracks like "Going Through Things'' and "Never Lose You." His EP Make the West Great Again, Kalan.FrFr both proves his loyalty to his origins and highlights his versatility. Kalan.FrFr's signature punch-in, no-writing-lyrics-down style keeps his fans on their toes, ensuring that whatever comes next is unpredictable but authentic.

Jayson Cash, a rapper hailing from Carson — the same city as TDE artist Ab-Soul — stays true to West Coast rap, from his lyrics to his beat selection. Listening to Jayson Cash's music is like diving into a vivid life narrative. His prowess as a lyricist and storyteller shines through in every verse. He gives his fans an insight into his journey, making it a relatable music experience.

Cash made waves with his debut mixtape, Read The Room, and scored a Mustard beat on the song "Top Down." Two years later, their collaboration continues, with Cash writing on Mustard's upcoming album. Though often seen as an underdog, Cash is not to be underestimated, earning cosigns from West Coast legends like Suga Free and Snoop Dogg. His latest project, Alright Bet, includes a notable feature from Dom Kennedy.

310babii has achieved platinum-selling status at just 18 years old, while successfully graduating high school.  Yet 310babii's career began in seventh grade, when he recording songs on his phone showing early signs of motivation and creativity. His 2023 breakout hit "Soak City (Do It)" quickly gained traction on TikTok — and caught the ears of Travis Scott and NFL player CJ Stroud.

As the song grew in popularity, it led to a remix produced by Mustard, who invited the Inglewood native to join him onstage during his set at The Pop Out. 310babii's innovative spirit shines through in his distinctive visuals, exemplified by the captivating video for his song "Back It Up." His recent debut album, Nights and Weekends, released in February, underscores his evolving talent and promise within the music industry.