Fiona Ross, an innovator of jazz and unrepentantly honest raconteur, delivers an unapologetically plain anthem, "I Don't Want Money," for artists worldwide. It is a tribute to the music in us all, free of capitalism.
From the first beat, Ross makes us feel that we are in a world where art roams in free pursuit of passion over profit, free of the chill hand of industry. With her characteristic vocal phrasing, which glides between smoky jazz-world nuance and sassy spoken-word candor, Ross constructs a space that somehow manages to be entirely her own and wholly accessible. This is not merely a song. It's a proclamation. Set to an understated but grooving arrangement, "I Don't Want Money" vacillates between defiance and freedom. The rhythm has a swing, but the delivery has a grit. Ross sings for, not at, musicians, late-night creators, gig-to-gig schemers, and those chasing melodies, not marketing metrics. It's a vivid argument that, at its core, music is not a product but a vocation.
Ross carves through the noise with relatable truth. She wants to make music, she insists, and you believe her. It's not pretense, not gloss, simply a rarefied yearning for the freedom of art. The track isn't shouting rebellion, it's whispering it with assurance, and for some reason that seems even more forceful to me.
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