In the face of rising threats to democracy, one jazz legend is turning her voice into a powerful protest against silence and division.
Imagine a jazz icon, at 75 years old, choosing to abandon the romantic, dreamy tunes of the Great American Songbook—the classic collection of standards from the 1920s and 1930s that have charmed audiences for generations—for songs that demand action and protect the very fabric of society. That's Dee Dee Bridgewater, a two-time Grammy-winning singer whose career has spanned over six decades, filled with collaborations with jazz giants and bold reinventions. But right now, she's gearing up for a concert in Des Moines, Iowa, and her heart isn't in those whimsical melodies. "I can't bring myself to perform love songs and fun pieces from that era," she shares in our conversation. "They're lovely, but something deep inside urges me to use music to shout: folks, we must safeguard our democracy."
Bridgewater stands as one of jazz's most esteemed voices in America, effortlessly blending smooth crooning with fierce confrontation. Her journey began by performing alongside legendary bandleaders like Sonny Rollins, Max Roach, Dizzy Gillespie, and Dexter Gordon. From there, she ventured into acting, explored pop and disco genres, and even drew inspiration from international roots in France, the UK, and Mali—always charting her own path with unyielding determination.
But here's where it gets controversial: at an age when many artists might coast on past glories, Bridgewater is channeling raw energy, idealism, and a righteous fury. "I'm too seasoned and have endured too much," she explains. "As a child of the 1960s, I backed the Black Panther Party and their efforts to uplift communities. Racism still touches my life every single day—my own children can't fully grasp it. I refuse to stay quiet; I must speak up." Her activism shines through at this week's London Jazz Festival, where she'll perform with We Exist!, the all-female band she created to champion women in jazz. "I grew weary of the constant sexist remarks from jazz musicians sidelining women," she admits. "So, I formed this group to declare that jazz remains dominated by macho attitudes."
Beyond the band, Bridgewater launched the Woodshed Network, now managed by her daughter and manager, Tulani. It's designed to equip female jazz musicians with essential tools—from mentorship to skills training—to launch their careers successfully. This initiative is housed within the Kennedy Center in Washington, DC, America's premier national cultural hub. And this is the part most people miss: the center is now under the control of Donald Trump and his MAGA supporters, raising serious questions about its future. Bridgewater expresses deep concern: "Given what's happening there, I'm worried if the Woodshed Network can endure much longer."
Throughout our 90-minute chat, she avoids naming Trump directly, simply referring to "him" with palpable disdain. Instead, she's pouring her anger into her music, selecting pieces like Billy Taylor's civil rights anthem I Wish I Knew How It Would Feel to Be Free, Gene McDaniels' Compared to What, Donny Hathaway's Tryin' Times, and Bob Dylan's sharp Gotta Serve Somebody. "I couldn't attend a No Kings protest, but through We Exist!, I'm delivering protest anthems," she says. "My current set began as a response to the Gaza conflict—I saw the news and felt I was watching genocide unfold. A spiritual voice guided me: channel it into songs, let music amplify your message."
One standout track is Nina Simone's Mississippi Goddam, "which nails the current reality, as authorities make protesting harder than ever." Another, Percy Mayfield's Danger Zone, "is a timeless blues warning we need to hear now— we're living in perilous times! We must raise our voices and vote, both here and across Europe."
Yet, Bridgewater acknowledges the risks of speaking out. "I'm using songs to awaken people, but many young folks seem unaware of the dangers. I want to stir without sparking too much backlash. I'm afraid this administration might suppress free speech and target those who challenge them." This fear underscores a broader debate: in an age of polarized politics, is artistic expression a safe way to protest, or does it invite undue scrutiny?
Born Denise Garrett in 1950 in Memphis, Tennessee, Bridgewater—nicknamed Dee Dee by her father, a jazz musician—grew up in Flint, Michigan, immersed in African American musical traditions. She performed in college bands and, at 20, wed jazz trumpeter Cecil Bridgewater. Their honeymoon tour with pianist Horace Silver's group led to an impromptu stage appearance in Detroit. "Cecil suggested I join for Love Vibrations, knowing my family was there," she recalls. "Horace, caught off guard, yelled, 'Get off my stage!' It hurt, but it fueled my drive to prove myself. By 1995, we collaborated on Love and Peace: A Tribute to Horace Silver."
Max Roach was tougher still. "He invited me to fill in for Abbey Lincoln in the We Insist! suite. After a few performances, he lashed out, mistaking me for Abbey and becoming abusive. I had to run offstage." Despite this, she includes Lincoln's And It’s Supposed to Be Love in her set and speaks kindly of Roach: "He was intense, likely battling bipolar disorder, but we remained friends—I'd visit him in Paris." As for her easier experiences, "Dizzy Gillespie was the kindest; he taught me to engage crowds and bring joy," and Sonny Rollins "gave me a warm embrace and praised my voice."
These early 1970s gigs propelled her to lead roles, though her debut album Afro Blue in 1974 didn't sell widely. As a single mom in New York, she shifted to pop music, earned a Tony for playing Glinda in The Wiz, recorded disco hits, and appeared in TV and films. An Olivier nomination for portraying Billie Holiday in Lady Day followed, then marriage to Jean-Marie Durand brought her to Paris for nearly 25 years. There, she honed her jazz standards, releasing acclaimed albums on Duke Ellington, Ella Fitzgerald, and Holiday—the latter two earning her Grammys.
In the mid-2000s, while in France, "I discovered Malian music on the radio and felt a strong connection. Eager to explore my African roots—DNA tests were too costly—I traveled to Bamako." Welcomed by singer Oumou Sangaré and musicians like Cheick Tidiane Seck and Bassekou Kouyate, she embraced griot songs, leading to the 2007 album Red Earth: A Malian Journey, a fusion of West African rhythms and jazz.
Bridgewater shows no signs of slowing: "This keeps me going—I'm always on the road, living out of hotels!" Her 2024 spot at the UK's We Out Here festival with DJs and producers reignited her club scene interest. She's now collaborating on an album with Gilles Peterson and house music pioneer Louie Vega. "Like Miles Davis, I evolve constantly, never sticking to one style," she says. She draws inspiration from Betty Carter, whom she visited in Brooklyn. "She ran her own label, packaged her albums herself, and led her band. Now, I produce and own my work, maintaining full control." She chuckles: "My daughter occasionally tries to steer me, though!"
So, what do you think? Is it the duty of artists like Bridgewater to blend music with activism, even at personal risk? Do you agree that jazz's macho culture needs dismantling, or is it just part of the genre's history? Share your thoughts below—let's discuss!
