Don't Count Me Out Yet

Posted by Andre Harness

10/15/2026

Hello, readers!

It's been a whirlwind lately (what else is new?), and I figured it was about time for another update. Life has been full of changes over the past several weeks, some exciting, some emotional, and some that have forced me to slow down a little more than I'd prefer.

For starters, something most of you probably don't know (though some of you do) is that I had abdominal surgery a couple of weeks ago. Everything went well, thankfully, but doctor's orders have been pretty clear: no lifting weights and, perhaps more devastatingly, no playing saxophone for six weeks.

Six. Weeks.

For someone who finds a lot of purpose and personal fulfillment in music, that's been a difficult pill to swallow. It's also why you haven't seen much from me on Instagram or Facebook lately (no practice clips, no saxophone videos, and certainly no gigs).

I initially thought this would be the perfect opportunity to shift my attention to piano, specifically jazz comping, which I've wanted to improve for a long time. And for that first week, when I could barely move around, I actually did pretty well! I spent time working through Autumn Leaves, practicing licks in all twelve keys, reviewing scales, and getting more comfortable with two-handed voicings and left-hand ii–V–I patterns.

But as soon as I could move around more comfortably, my attention shifted elsewhere.
Namely, the new house.

Finding a Place to Call Home

I don't think I've fully expressed just how positive this move has been for me.

Our new home has a warmth and coziness that I never quite felt in our previous house. I've always believed that my environment has a tremendous influence on my motivation, energy, and general outlook on life, and this move has only reinforced that.

I find myself wanting to do more. I'm cooking more, taking care of chores, working on projects around the house, and generally feeling more motivated to actually live in my space.

Last night, Taryn and I spent an hour sitting together in our new loft/library, reading under the warm lighting we've put together. We just sat there, enjoyed our books, and appreciated the little space we've created for ourselves.
And yet, it was one of those moments that made me stop and think about how happy I am with where we are.

There's still plenty of work to do around the house, of course, but for the first time in a while, I feel like my environment is actively contributing to my happiness rather than working against it.

Another change I'm particularly excited about is how I've reorganized my work and music spaces.

In our previous home, my office was largely my own little world. It was isolated and served as the space where I worked, practiced, and spent a considerable amount of my time. Looking back, I think having everything concentrated in one room made it harder to separate those different parts of my life.

In the new house, Taryn and I share an office, and it's become a much more enjoyable, collaborative space for us to work and spend time together.

But that also meant finding somewhere else for my music. So, naturally, I commandeered a section of my closet and turned it into a little practice nook! I've got my saxophones, music, and keyboard all within reach, and honestly, it's turned into a pretty cozy little setup. It's nothing extravagant, but it's a space dedicated entirely to making music.

Instead of practicing in the same room where I've spent eight hours answering emails, attending meetings, and staring at a computer screen, I now have somewhere I can go specifically to work on my craft. There's something appealing about being able to physically step away from work and into a space where the only expectation is to make music and get better at it.

I haven't been able to fully take advantage of it yet, thanks to the surgery, but I'm genuinely excited to settle into a new practice routine once I'm cleared to play.

I'm realizing that this move has been about more than simply finding a nicer house. It's given me an opportunity to rethink how I spend my time, how I organize my environment, and what I want my everyday life to look like. Between our shared office, the library, and my little music corner, I'm beginning to feel like we've created a home that actually supports the things we love doing.

And I'm excited to see what comes out of that, musically and otherwise!

Learning to Let Go (A Little)

Of course, not every change lately has been quite so easy to process.
Right before my surgery, I performed my last concert as Music Director of The Golden Triangle Big Band.

I knew it would be emotional, but I don't think I was entirely prepared for just how much it would affect me.
During our final dress rehearsal, I had an opportunity to step back, look around the room, and really take in what we had created. Here was this group of musicians, rehearsing together, preparing to perform for a community that had come to support us. Something that had once been an idea was now a living, breathing organization.

And I had helped build it. I was, and still am, incredibly proud.
But I'd be lying if I said that pride wasn't accompanied by some complicated feelings.

There's something difficult about stepping away from a leadership role in something you've poured so much of yourself into. The countless hours of planning, rehearsals, administrative work, marketing, coordinating musicians, and worrying about whether the whole thing would succeed. The blood, sweat, and tears that go into building something from the ground up. You become so personally invested that it's hard to separate the organization's identity from your own.

And if I'm being particularly vulnerable, there's a small part of me that's afraid of being forgotten. Not because I think the organization can't thrive without me. In fact, I desperately want it to. That's the whole point of building something sustainable.

But I think there's a very human fear that comes with handing something you've built over to someone else. What if it becomes more successful? What if it reaches people I couldn't reach? What if the next chapter is the one everyone remembers?

It's easy to let those questions turn into doubts about your own contributions.
I recognize, though, that someone else's success doesn't diminish what came before it.

I'm incredibly grateful to our new Music Director, Dr. Logan Banister, who has been supportive and encouraging throughout this transition. I genuinely believe he's going to do wonderful things with the organization, and I'm excited to see where his leadership takes us.

He brings relationships, experience, and opportunities that will help the band grow in ways that I couldn't necessarily accomplish on my own. That's a good thing. It's what I want for the band.

I just hope that as The Golden Triangle Big Band continues to grow, the community remembers the work that went into getting us here. Because I'm deeply proud of that work.

And even though I'm stepping away from the podium, I'm not stepping away from the organization. My contributions are simply taking a different form.

Lately, I've been focused on grant applications, funding opportunities, long-term planning, and helping position the band for a sustainable future.
We also just launched our new website, https://goldentrianglebigband.com, which I'm excited to finally share!

If you haven't already, I'd encourage you to check it out, sign up for our mailing list, and follow us on Facebook, Instagram, and YouTube. And if you believe in what we're building, please consider supporting the organization through a donation or by attending one of our future concerts.

There's a lot of exciting music ahead, and I intend to be a part of that future, even if my role looks a little different.

A Little Time Away

On a lighter note, next week Taryn and I are heading to Cancún to celebrate four years of marriage!

We're spending some time at an all-inclusive resort, and I'm looking forward to doing a whole lot of nothing. Between the move, surgery, work, and everything else that's been going on, some time away sounds pretty wonderful.

I'm also looking forward to our first Halloween in the new house. We've already stocked up on candy for trick-or-treaters, and we recently had a fantastic pumpkin-carving session to welcome the fall season.

There are a lot of little things about this new chapter of life that I'm genuinely excited about.

And, of course, there's the matter of getting back to playing music.

I already have some upcoming gigs at Doc's lined up for when I'm cleared to perform again. You can find those dates on my Events page, and I hope to see some familiar faces out there!

I'm also hoping to get back into a consistent piano routine. Whether that actually happens before I can pick up my saxophone again remains to be seen! (don't judge me lol)

I'm Not Finished Yet

All of these changes have had me thinking about something that's been on my mind for a while.

I'm in my 30s now. And while that isn't particularly old by any reasonable standard, being a musician can sometimes make it feel that way. In my last blog post, On My Own Path, I talked pretty openly about the challenges of comparing myself to other musicians, particularly younger players and former students who are accomplishing incredible things.

At the time, Taryn offered some perspective that really stuck with me. She asked whether I'd considered that my priorities were simply different from theirs, and she was right.

I've spent years investing in my career, my relationships, my health, and building a life I'm genuinely proud of. Music has always been important to me, but it hasn't always been my highest priority. And that's okay. I don't regret the life I've built or the choices that got me here. But...

Accepting that I'm on my own path doesn't mean I have to be satisfied with where I am musically.
I can appreciate everything I've accomplished outside of music while still wanting to push myself further as a musician. And while I understand that comparison isn't particularly productive, knowing that doesn't always make the feeling disappear.

There's another reason I think this weighs on me as much as it does. Years ago, a mentor told me something that has stuck with me ever since. They explained the old saying, "You can't teach an old dog new tricks," as being rooted in the idea that our brains lose much of their ability to learn, grow, and develop after our 20s. The implication was that if I hadn't become a great musician during my college years, I probably never would.

I don't know that they realized how deeply those words would affect me.
When something like that comes from someone you respect, it's difficult not to internalize it. And for years, that idea has lingered in the back of my mind, influencing how I evaluate my own progress and, at times, undermining my confidence in what I'm capable of becoming.

But the older I get, the more I reject that idea. For one thing, the science doesn't support such a rigid limitation. Our brains retain the capacity to learn and adapt throughout adulthood, a phenomenon known as neuroplasticity. Yes, certain kinds of learning may become more difficult with age. But there's an enormous difference between learning more slowly and being incapable of meaningful growth. And beyond the science, I have my own experience to draw from.

I've grown more as a musician over the last ten years than I ever did during earlier years. My understanding of harmony is deeper. My ears are better. My approach to improvisation is more thoughtful, and my appreciation for the music itself has evolved tremendously. I'm not the same musician I was at 22, and I wouldn't want to be. 

Am I progressing as quickly as I might have when I was younger? Maybe not. There are certainly things I wish I'd taken more seriously back then, and I sometimes wonder where I'd be today if I had.
But I can't change that. And I'm not particularly interested in spending the rest of my life mourning some imaginary version of myself who practiced more in college.

What I can do is keep working. I refuse to believe that my potential was somehow determined by the time I graduated. I refuse to accept that the musician I am today is the best musician I'll ever be. Maybe progress will look different now than it did when I was younger. Maybe I'll have to be more intentional with my time and more disciplined in my approach. So be it.

I'm not giving up on becoming the musician I want to be. Not now, and not ever.