Kenny G: the pantomime villain of the contemporary music scene. That may be true, but digging back to his early days—including the performance at the legendary Newport Jazz Fesival below—provides an interesting look at the man that jazz fans love to hate.
There’s a particular kind of jazz fan who still shudders when Kenny G’s name comes up. You can almost see them reaching for their copy of Kind of Blue like it’s a crucifix.
And yet, the man with the perm, the soprano sax and the seemingly endless breath went on to sell more records than just about any instrumentalist in history.
How did that happen?
Let’s rewind to the early 1980s — a time when fusion was fading, the radio loved anything smooth, and jazz was trying to work out where it belonged in a world of synthesisers and shoulder pads.
From Seattle to the Soft-Focus Stage
Kenny G — real name Kenneth Gorelick — grew up in Seattle, practising along to Grover Washington Jr. records and sneaking in TV spots before he was out of high school.
He could really play. That’s the part people forget. He gigged with Barry White’s Love Unlimited Orchestra, joined Jeff Lorber’s fusion band, and earned his chops in the same way every working musician does — on the road, in the studio, learning the business.
But somewhere along the line, he noticed something most jazz players missed: if you wrapped complex phrasing inside something that sounded effortless and sugary, you could reach an audience miles wider than the club circuit.
The Sound That Wouldn’t Go Away
By the mid-1980s, Kenny G had signed with Arista Records. His first few albums sold modestly, but in 1986 came Duotones — and Songbird, the track that changed everything.
It wasn’t a hit because of a dazzling solo. It was a hit because millions of people who didn’t think they liked jazz suddenly realised they liked that sound.
The tone was polished, pure, almost liquid. It fit radio. It fit elevators. It fit dinner parties. It was jazz without the ‘complicated’ bits — the solos that lost you, the harmonies you had to work for.
By 1987, he was booked on the main stage of the Newport Jazz Festival.
For critics, it was sacrilege. For everyone else, it was a breath of fresh, scented air.
The Birth of “Smooth”
By 1988, smooth jazz radio was booming. Program directors wanted melodies you could hum. Arista marketed Kenny G like a pop star, not a sideman, and it worked.
He became a symbol — depending on your view, either of jazz’s lowest commercial compromise or its smartest reinvention.
He turned the soprano sax into a household sound, sold millions of albums, and built a career most musicians could only dream of.
And in doing so, he became the lightning rod for an entire genre.
Smooth jazz stations played him on repeat. Critics sharpened their knives.
Every jazz purist needed someone to blame for the decline of the real thing, and Kenny G was right there with a smile and a perfect circular-breathing note that went on forever.
Why We Love to Hate Him
There’s something fascinating about how much energy the jazz world still spends arguing over Kenny G.
They mock the hair, the grin, the hotel-lobby tone. But behind all that is a simple truth: he figured out what an enormous audience wanted — and he delivered it with complete sincerity.
He didn’t fake being hip or chase critical approval. He doubled down on melody, tone and consistency.
In a way, that’s what every artist wants: to play their sound, their way, and have the world listen. He just happened to do it on a scale that made the rest of us uncomfortable.
The Legacy We Can’t Escape
When you hear Songbird in a café, you think “smooth.” That’s the point. He helped invent a sonic mass-market shorthand for sophistication — even if it drove hard-core jazz fans up the wall.
And maybe that’s the real story of Kenny G’s rise.
He didn’t kill jazz. He didn’t save it either. He just proved that there was a vast space between the two — a space where a saxophone could sell ten million records and still be the punchline to every musician’s joke.
Technical mastery chasing commercial perfection, sincerity mistaken for schmaltz.
And somehow, forty years later, we’re still talking about him.