Chris Kelsey enjoys the rare status of being involved with the world of jazz and improvised music from both sides of the fence. Since moving to New York City in 1986, Kelsey has forged a formidable voice on soprano saxophone, recording a handful of sessions for CIMP and his own Saxofonis Music label and performing with some of the city’s most respected improvisers. As a jazz critic, Kelsey’s work has graced pages both glossy and virtual; his tell-it-like-it-is reviews have been a mainstay of JazzTimes and All Music Guide for several years running. His latest release Renewal (CIMP) finds him returning to life as a musician after a self-imposed two-year break. In an email interview dating between November 2004 and January 2005, Kelsey offers an inside perspective on both facets of his musical life, from the limb-like virtues of the soprano sax to the ways in which his writing career has affected his musical one.

OFN: Your new CD, Renewal, is aptly titled because it marks your return to recording after a two-year hiatus. What were some of the issues that made you decide to take so much time off?

CK: Oh, man, how much time do you have? I had a lot going on, both positive and negative, and I just felt I needed to step back. The birth of my second child in 2001 had a lot to do with it. There are only so many hours in the day, and you have to set priorities. Of course, my family was and will always be priority number one. I also felt pretty burned out, to be frank.

OFN: Burned out in what sense? In trying to balance your musical activities with your family priorities, or something more specific to the music?

CK: Balancing the music with the family was one aspect, but truly the real issue was that I’d lost sight of the reason I made music in the first place. It had nothing to do with a personal aesthetic crisis, or doubts about my creative direction. I had let externals poison my attitude—worry about not being successful enough, or getting enough attention from the press and my peers, or getting what I felt was my due, which was really a crazy way to live. I put a quote from the Tao Te Ching in the liners to this album, about essentially letting the work be its own reward. It’s a simple enough concept, and I had paid lip service to it for years, but I had not lived it because I did not understand it deep in my heart. I worried about being famous, or being far enough along in my career at any given point. It’s something I think I had in common with many if not most jazz musicians, and it’s a terribly self-destructive—not to mention selfish and stupid—way to go about things.

About the time I put down the horn I was at a low ebb, the slough of despond, convinced that it was never going to happen for me. The fact was, it had already happened for me, and I was just too blind to see it. When it came right down to it, I played because I had to, because I had this thing inside me that I had to express, and that having the means to do that was an unbelievably wonderful thing. Once I realized that the act of creation was the end in itself, I became free. Getting recognition, making records or money, playing with the most famous cats—all that stuff is secondary to the real issue, which is just putting the horn in my mouth and lettin’ all the stuff out, and enjoying it for what it is.

I quit playing saxophone almost entirely for two years. During that time I gained perspective on things. I realized that I had let all that crap really mess me up. It had caused me to act badly toward people, to alienate people who supported my work and who actually had my best interests in mind. Once I let go of all that negativity, I quite literally felt like a different person. I started practicing again, and my chops came back stronger than ever, probably because what I was playing was purer and more inspired...

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One Final Note.