| Chanson Jazz |
Brad Schrader, or the Quiet Courage of the Amateur Ideal
Knowing absolutely nothing about this crooner, I did what journalists have always done when confronted with an unfamiliar name: I started digging. Years in the profession teach you that information is not always readily available, sometimes it is scattered, sometimes opaque, and occasionally almost nonexistent. After a long and circuitous search, I eventually stumbled upon a modest website hosted on Apple’s now largely forgotten “.me” servers. There, I found a brief résumé that may well be one of the most unexpectedly charming I have ever encountered:
“Raised in Cleveland, Ohio, and São Paulo, Brazil; also worked five years in Munich. Speaks and writes German. Actively involved in his church and in the cultural activities of the Chautauqua Institution. Interests range from Kalman filter estimation to interpreting songs from the American repertoire. Sailor, avid cyclist, and hiker. Restored a 1966 Mustang. Married, father of four.”
At first glance, it reads less like the biography of a singer than a portrait of a distinctly American archetype: the cultivated amateur, equally at ease with engineering concepts and old songbooks, technology and tradition, family life and personal passion. It is difficult not to smile, and harder still not to be intrigued.
This background matters, because Brad Schrader is not a professional vocalist. And that fact, far from being incidental, lies at the very heart of this album. Schrader approaches these recordings with an evident desire for vocal precision and technical correctness, an approach that might feel mannered or overly cautious in the hands of a seasoned professional. But here, the effect is entirely different. It becomes touching, even disarming.
What ultimately comes through is not ambition but sincerity. Anyone who has experienced the rigors of studio recording understands how demanding the process can be: the mental focus it requires, the relentless repetition, the absence of space for unmastered improvisation. To enter that environment without the safety net of professional routine requires a certain courage. This album, in that sense, is less a performance than an act of commitment.
Culturally, Schrader’s project fits neatly into a long American tradition that often goes unnoticed—the tradition of serious, deeply invested amateurs who keep the Great American Songbook alive not as a commercial enterprise but as a personal calling. Institutions like Chautauqua, mentioned almost casually in his résumé, are emblematic of this world: places where intellectual curiosity, civic engagement, music, and memory coexist. This is not nostalgia as retro fashion; it is nostalgia as stewardship.
The musicians accompanying Schrader understand this implicitly. Their playing is restrained, warm, and attentive, providing a gentle framework that allows the singer to inhabit these songs without strain or excess. There is a palpable sense of mutual respect among the performers, and it shapes the album’s overall tone. Nothing here feels rushed or overproduced. There is no attempt to impress, only an intention to share.
That absence of pretension may be the album’s greatest strength. In an era dominated by vocal acrobatics, algorithm-driven exposure, and relentless self-branding, Schrader’s recordings offer something quietly radical: music made for the pleasure of connection rather than recognition. The goal is not to dazzle but to resonate.
If songs such as “I Wish I Knew” or “Quiet Nights of Quiet Stars” already hold a place in your musical memory, this album is likely to speak to you. These interpretations do not reinvent the material; they inhabit it gently, respectfully, allowing the melodies to do what they have always done best, carry emotion with understatement. The result is a soft, unassuming nostalgia, the kind that settles in slowly and lingers.
In the end, this album invites a broader reflection. What does it mean, today, to make music outside the machinery of the industry? What value do we place on sincerity, on craftsmanship pursued for its own sake, on artistic gestures that are neither ironic nor strategic? Brad Schrader does not offer definitive answers, but he offers something rarer: a reminder that music, at its most honest, does not always need permission, pedigree, or polish. Sometimes, it simply needs to be made.
Thierry De Clemensat
Member at Jazz Journalists Association
USA correspondent for Paris-Move and ABS magazine
Editor in chief – Bayou Blue Radio, Bayou Blue News
PARIS-MOVE, December 30th 2025
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Musicians :
Jerry Vezza – Piano and Music Director
Alex Claffy – Bass
Andrew Van Tassell – Sax
Khary Abdul-Shahid – Drums
Track Listing :
Time after Time
I Whish I Knew
Its’ Alwright with ne
It Never Entered in my Mind
Quiet Nights with Quiet Stars
You Do Something To Me
Skylark