Yesterday, on Wade Barnes’s birthday, I published the page for The Brooklyn Bop Brothers.
I don’t usually listen to much bebop. One of the main reasons was that I carried a very strong image of bebop musicians breaking down from drugs or financial troubles and dying young. I had this filter that maybe bebop musicians were simply like that.
But then, it suddenly occurred to me: Was there actually anyone among those Brooklyn brothers who broke down from drugs or money and passed away early?
From what I looked into, every single one of them lived long lives.
And when I watched videos of Max Roach and Randy Weston speaking, they were so remarkably calm and gentle.
The decisive factor that made me create this page happened when I searched through the 129 boxes of the Leonard Gaskin Papers preserved at the Smithsonian National Museum of American History. Inside, there were articles, interviews, audio recordings, and videos of Max Roach, Duke Jordan, Randy Weston, and Cecil Payne—materials that had no direct bearing on Leonard’s own commercial career.
And then, on a whim… I typed Leonard Gaskin Seina into the search box.
A cassette tape from 1997, recorded with Leonard in a studio, came right up on the screen.
Tears welled up in my eyes.
This was Leonard’s love all along…
From there, I searched for other Brooklyn jazz musicians from that era and entered their names into that archive search bar. Those who emerged from that search became The Brooklyn Bop Brothers.
As for myself… I haven’t been very active as a singer, nor have I run a big business around it. Because of that, people sometimes look down on me and sneer, saying I haven’t succeeded—especially in Japan. Nor did I ever study under famous teachers.
Yet, there is one thing I can say with absolute certainty: through observing Leonard Gaskin, interacting with him, and recording alongside him, no one has ever taught me things more precious than he did.
If you ask me what that was, it was love and trust.
I was completely inexperienced, with very little musical knowledge or background. Yet no matter the circumstance, Leonard trusted me and supported me with quiet strength. What happened during our recording session remains engraved deep inside me.
“Seina, you are the leader. If you don’t lead firmly, we cannot play.”
Leonard was terrifying at that moment. He spoke with immense strength, clarity, and conviction.
And then, when I returned to Japan and tried to approach preparations for our concerts with that exact same spirit… the bassist shouted at me: “Don’t speak if you don’t know what you’re talking about!”
From around that time, I became unable to sing.
When I reunited with Leonard in 2006 after seven years apart, I had already become someone who couldn’t sing anymore. Whenever I tried to sing, my heart felt constricted, and my voice simply wouldn’t come out.
The 2008 tribute concert for Leonard at Ozanam Hall was the first time I held a microphone in eight years. I did it because there was something I desperately had to convey—and I knew it could only be delivered through music.
I truly believe that the story of these Brooklyn Bop Brothers is something we must pass down and keep alive for the future.
The most essential thing for a musician is love and trust. That is what manifests in the sound, seeping deep into the spaces of the heart and every cell.