Part 2

There are many descriptions of the creative state. How would you describe it for you personally? Is there an element of spirituality to what you do?

There's a transcendent quality to it—I forget about myself completely. When I reach a deep state of focus, whether I'm composing or performing and improvising in concert, the boundary between myself and my surroundings dissolves. I lose awareness of where I end and the music begins.

This doesn't happen every time, unfortunately. But when it does come, I feel entirely open and connected—to the music, to the other musicians if I'm performing, to something beyond my individual consciousness.

Those are the moments I live for as an artist. There's a kind of freedom in that dissolution of self that I can't find anywhere else.

Once a piece is finished, how important is it for you to let it lie and evaluate it later on? How much improvement and refinement do you personally allow until you're satisfied with a piece? What does this process look like in practise?

Ideally, I like to play new material with the band several times and make edits or rewrites based on what emerges in rehearsal. That collaborative process is valuable—I enjoy discovering how the musicians interpret the parts, and hearing the pieces in real time often reveals structural issues or opportunities I hadn't noticed when working alone.

For Run, Run, Run, however, we faced an absolute deadline and didn't have the luxury of letting things sit. That was a new process for me—I had to trust my instincts and let go at a certain point, even when my perfectionist side wanted more time.

Having complete trust in my band made that possible. They brought such depth and understanding to the material that, in retrospect, the time constraint may have actually served the project. It forced an immediacy and emotional directness that might have been overthought with more time to refine.

How do you think the meaning, or effect of an individual piece is enhanced, clarified or possibly contrasted by the EPs, or albums it is part of? Does each piece, for example, need to be consistent with the larger whole?

It really depends on the album's concept. In many jazz albums, individual tracks can stand alone as complete statements.

But Run, Run, Run is structured as a narrative journey—the music is interwoven with a story that unfolds chronologically. Listening to it in sequence creates a different experience than hearing individual tracks in isolation.

The pieces follow the emotional arc of the story, and experiencing them in order allows listeners to connect more deeply with the characters' journey.

What's your take on the role and importance of production, including mixing and mastering for you personally? In terms of what they contribute to a song, what is the balance between the composition and the arrangement (performance)?

Mixing and mastering give me control over the sound in ways that are often difficult to achieve in a live jazz club setup. I enjoy being able to adjust my violin tone, balance the volume of each instrument, and shape the overall sonic landscape.

For Run, Run, Run, I added some special effects to the violin during the mixing stage, and it completely changed the vibe of certain pieces—in ways I hadn't envisioned when composing.

That's what I love about the mixing process: it's another creative layer where I can experiment and discover new possibilities in the music. Production becomes an extension of composition itself.

Music and the accompanying artwork are often closely related. Can you talk about this a little bit for your current project and the relationship that images and sounds have for you in general?

For the Run, Run, Run project, I worked with my artist friend Noah MacNeil, who created a complete set of original illustrations for the story. During live performances, we project these illustrations alongside the narration, and they're essential to the storytelling—they create a visual language that complements and amplifies the music in really effective ways.

Noah also created two music videos for my previous albums, Branches Vol. 1 & 2, using his illustrations. I'm drawn to drawing myself and love incorporating visual imagery with my music.



When I listen to music in general, I often imagine visual scenes in my head—creating stories, moods, atmospheres. For me, images and sounds naturally work together, and I enjoy exploring that relationship in my projects.

After finishing a piece or album and releasing something into the world, there can be a sense of emptiness. Can you relate to this – and how do you return to the state of creativity after experiencing it?

Absolutely. I experience that emptiness intensely—I almost go through an identity crisis each time I release an album. So much of my sense of purpose comes from having a project to work toward, so when something is finished and out in the world, there's this disorienting void.

I've learned that I need to have a work-in-progress at all times to feel grounded. The transition period after a release—those few days or weeks of feeling empty—is never easy. I don't enjoy it, but I've come to accept it as part of my creative cycle.

Eventually, something new captures my attention, an idea emerges, and I find my way back into that state of focus and purpose. It always happens, even if it doesn't feel like it will in those uncertain moments."

I would love to know a little about the feedback you've received from listeners or critics about what they thought some of your songs are about or the impact it had on them – have there been “misunderstandings” or did you perhaps even gain new “insights?”

The feedback on Run, Run, Run has been largely positive, but some of the most meaningful responses have come from Japanese audiences.

Several people told me they've struggled with how to talk to their children about nuclear weapons—there's a complicated guilt around Japan's actions during World War II that makes it feel almost wrong to raise their voice about this issue. But they said my project gave them a new perspective because it focuses on our future rather than the past. That approach helped them find a way to discuss this history with their kids.

It's a complex situation. Japan is the only nation to have suffered atomic bombings, yet it refuses to join the Treaty on the Prohibition of Nuclear Weapons because it relies on the U.S. nuclear umbrella. I find that deeply sad.

Nuclear disarmament is incredibly complex—all world leaders would have to agree to make it happen. The situation with Ukraine is a painful example of that complexity: they gave up their nuclear weapons years ago, and were then threatened and invaded by Russia. It's deeply sad and ironic.

Some people say it's insane to talk about abolishing these weapons. But to me, what's truly insane is continuing to create them and basing our peace on weapons that could destroy entire ecosystems. I still hold hope for a nuclear-free world. We have to work together toward that.

Creativity can reach many different corners of our lives. Do you personally feel as though writing a piece of music is inherently different from something like making a great cup of coffee? What do you express through music that you couldn't or wouldn't in more 'mundane' tasks?  

Music expresses what cannot be articulated in words—emotions, sensations, and states of being that are fundamental to human experience. While we're all unique individuals, we also inhabit shared emotional landscapes simply by virtue of being alive.

What we see or what we express through language can sometimes divide us—words can be misunderstood, weaponized, or create barriers. But I believe music goes directly to the heart. It bypasses our rational defences and speaks to something deeper. Music can unite people across any background, any culture, any circumstance. There are no divisions in how we feel it.

That's what makes music such a powerful tool for connection and empathy, and why I take great care with what I create. Making a good cup of coffee is a small creative act with its own satisfactions, but music operates on a different plane entirely. It carries a responsibility—the potential to touch people in ways that can shift their understanding, create compassion, or simply make them feel less alone.

That's not something I take lightly.