Every Story Is Different

Learning to push through the old rules

The idea to create a magazine issue dedicated solely to women in Latvian jazz emerged after the events of February 2025, when a journalist’s investigation revealed horrific cases of sexual harassment at the academy of music. My first reaction shifted quickly — from «How horrifying that these women had to endure something so traumatic and debilitating…» to «Thank God our jazz department is different, and we have nothing to worry about.»

But then I caught myself. Even if our environment truly is safe, friendly, and respectful, there is a world far beyond our classroom walls, and every teacher and every student carries a personal history shaped long before this moment. I know that today we understand far better that men and women are equally capable, that gender doesn’t define the choice of instrument, and that diversity enriches the music we create. Yet a question lingered: Is the generation teaching today really so different that the stereotypes of the past can no longer reach us? Are we truly beyond that? And so began my small quest to speak with women in jazz. My aim was never to collect stories of suffering. Instead, I wanted this issue to highlight that our jazz scene can indeed be inclusive, open, and diverse — that people are valued not for the roles society assigns them, but for their talent, integrity, and dedication.

This conversation was the first one I held after the story at the academy began to unfold. I invited Ilona Kudiņa, a US-based flutist with a powerful story of her own. I must admit that when I reached out to her, my emotions were running high as I described what was happening in my hometown. Naturally, our conversation began with her reaction to it all.

Ilona Kudiņa

The key idea after your introduction was that every case is different. Every person’s experience is different. People often think the grass is greener somewhere else — maybe in America, with the Boston Globe, the New York Times, publicity, and so on. Does it really change anything? That’s questionable. Maybe people speak up more; maybe there are more options for women, but I wouldn’t say it’s perfect there either.

The issue itself is incredibly complicated. When it comes to the Latvian Academy of Music, I feel for those girls who went public and had to go through their trauma in such a visible way. Some people say the classic thing — that «not every woman is innocent,» that some «initiated the problem themselves.» I can only say this: the trauma women sometimes go through at their places of study is terrible. It’s very complex. I can say that from experience. It depends on the person — how strong they are, how they were raised, what kind of support system they have around them, whether it’s a woman, a man, anyone. And I think the most painful part is this: only those who have actually gone through trauma will truly understand another person who’s gone through trauma. Only those.

People who were lucky, or protected, who never went through anything like that — they will never fully understand. And that’s why going public is so difficult. Those who never experienced it can, with just a few comments, practically destroy a person or make everything worse. So my take on it is this: it’s sad and terrible. I’m glad that nowadays people are speaking up. Is it better or worse? I honestly don’t know — it’s so complex. But I think it’s about time that in Latvia, we talk about it openly, specifically about the Academy of Music. Young musicians are so vulnerable; their personalities are still forming. They deserve a safe environment.

I wasn’t planning to dive straight into the most complicated topic. My initial idea was to build a picture of how a girl chooses an instrumental profession, given her background, and how music schools operate, regardless of whether it’s a small town or a big city, or even which country. From my perspective, things are getting much better now, just by looking at how many girls choose instrumental specialties — for example, at Jāzepa Mediņa Rīgas Mūzikas Vidusskola. That’s good. In a perfect world, it wouldn’t matter at all, of course. But, for the sake of argument, it’s a positive sign. It means girls feel confident enough to choose professions that are typically seen as «male.» I know that in Mediņi this year they have only one pianist enrolled — and she’s a girl. I don’t know about wind instruments, but still, it feels positive. At the same time, I still hear phrases like, «Well, a girl should play violin or flute, maybe.»

And who said that?

Let’s not name names.

It’s probably some old-school guy, right? With those statements, which are often presented as jokes, as we know, but there’s always some truth in them. Even if the person doesn’t mean it aggressively, it still shows something. But this is exactly where teacher ethics come in. It’s not a teacher’s job to predict what will happen with your career. Only God knows if it’s «right» that you chose guitar, flute, saxophone, or whatever. A teacher has no business making comments like that. You also don’t need to be obsessively counting every sentence and every look, but still, your job as a teacher is to teach. To give skills to a woman, to a man, to anyone. It really doesn’t matter if someone is a woman, a man, older, younger, from this or that culture. If you reach that state of mind, all those «isms» — sexism, ageism, racism — lose their power.

The younger generation grew up in a different environment. When I was studying, I don’t think there was even an ethics committee. And our generation doesn’t really talk about it.

Why do you think your generation doesn’t talk about these issues?

Partly because… what’s the point? Besides, karma never loses an address. If you went through specific experiences, do you really want to go back there? Often, it feels better to use that energy for other things — to create music, to do something positive. I think it’s great that more women are playing now. For me, everything is about balance. We need men, we need women — it’s all good.

But again — a teacher is not God. Only the Universe can tell what will happen to that girl if she plays the flute, guitar, or anything else. You’re not in her skin. You don’t know. Maybe Beyoncé will invite that guitarist on tour, and she’ll be set for life. How can you possibly know?

How was it for you when you were growing up? You’re from Krāslava, right?

I grew up in Špoģi, where my parents were schoolteachers, but I spent a lot of time with my grandmother in Treikanišķi, in the Krāslava region — basically in the middle of nowhere. When I was around 9 years old, we moved to Daugavpils, and that’s where I went to music school. Daugavpils was superb. I can only say good things. They loved jazz. It was diverse. We had an ensemble, «Daugaviņa,» and we travelled around the Soviet Union. My childhood was perfect in a musical sense.

How did you end up with the flute?

I originally wanted to be a pianist. But it was Soviet times. At nine years old, you were considered «too old» to start piano or violin. So they said: You have two options: cello or flute. I looked at the cello and thought, «That’s too heavy.» The flute looked fine. Technically, I wanted to play the piano, and I still love the piano. But there was this strict Soviet lady who decided for me.

Did you like the flute at first?

It was fine. I think at some point I wanted to quit, but my teacher came and said, «No, you should continue.» And I’m glad I did. But I always played obligatory piano — and it remained my second-favorite instrument.

Then you went on to Daugavpils Music College?

Yes — music school, then naturally you go further, to college, and then to the Academy. I was actually accepted into the Moscow Conservatory, but my mom didn’t let me go.

Do you think you should have gone to Moscow?

I felt good there. I had a great experience in the enrollment process; teachers liked me. But my mom said no.

I know now that women of the younger generation who studied in Moscow often also have complicated stories — Russian school can be like a survival camp: they try to break you, and if you give up, you were «not meant to be a musician.» If you survive, then you’re «worthy.»

I didn’t end up going, so I only had what I had — my experience in Riga.

Was it like that in Riga?

At that time, there was no jazz department. So I was living this double life. During the day, the classical world was the Academy. In the evenings, clubs are the only place actually to play, to improvise, to get experience. It was tough for women. Not at that moment — at that moment, you think you’re just having fun. But looking back, you realise things. You come home at night and throw all your clothes into the washing machine because they stink of smoke.

Still, I loved it. I loved improvisation, I loved the concept of jazz. I played with fantastic musicians and generally lovely people. It just wasn’t structured; you had to figure everything out yourself. I came from Daugavpils. I didn’t know anyone in Riga, so I had to read between the lines without actually knowing the lines.

Later, I studied in the Netherlands and London through the Erasmus program, which was a great source of inspiration.

When was that?

I started at the Academy in 1991. So — tanks on the streets, and I was practicing for a woodwind competition while history was unfolding.

We mainly played in half-empty clubs. I was part of the Raimonds Raubiško quartet «Flute Fever» — it was great musically, but still, almost no audience. Definitely no Latvians, mostly tourists. So I mostly played for foreigners; nobody really knew what I did in my free time. There might be a recording somewhere from the «Bildes» festival.

How did you discover jazz in the first place?

Through neighbours, actually. Valeriy Khadukin and his son Alyosha led an accordion orchestra in Daugavpils. They lived near us, and my father was friends with them. I went to their house, and they had all these LPs, CDs, videos, and cassettes. That’s where I first heard jazz. Alyosha played beautifully. I loved it immediately — it was fun, alive.

What was the attitude toward jazz at the Academy at that time?

Well, people would say things like, «If you come back playing without vibrato, don’t come back at all.» Very rigid ideas. I was listening to Miles Davis, Cool jazz, all these colors, and then you hear someone say, «You can’t play like that.» It’s absurd when you look back.

So, like living two different lives — day and night.

In a way, yes.I wrote an article about it!

When did you move to the States?

In 2001. I was born in 1971, entered the Academy in ’91, moved to the US in 2001, and arrived right in time for 9/11.

Lucky you…

Apparently, I like drama. We had gone to a competition in Helsinki with my then-husband. He played, I played, I got a scholarship, and then I went to study at Berklee. That’s it.

Can you describe the contrast? Latvia vs Berklee?

At Berklee, hardly anyone knew where Latvia was. Now people know because of Porziņģis and others, but in 2001 it was: «Are you from Belarus? Where is that? You have jazz there?» So again, you start from scratch. But what I loved most at Berklee was that I finally felt like one person. It didn’t matter what style I came from. «This is Ilona. She plays the flute. OK, let’s play.» The flute is flexible—you can blend anywhere. Classical, jazz, experimental — we’re a color. I loved that idea: you feel inspired, uplifted. Nobody says, «Flute? What are you going to do with that?» It wasn’t their job to doubt — it was my job to make something out of it.

In terms of inspiration and ideas, it was beautiful. And I had zero issues of the kind I had in Latvia. Of course, it was hard to pay bills, but emotionally, I felt good, supported. I also started composing at Berklee. Before that, I had a complex: harmonic instrument players «know the chords» and «know the real stuff,» and I was shy about showing my ideas. Berklee gave me a spark. I realized: «These are my eight bars. This is how I think. This is what I want to say.» It gave me skills and confidence to write my own music.

The US is a place where people are vocal. If there’s a problem, they talk about it. Did you encounter the «women belonging» topic there?

By the time I got to the US, I had already formed my opinion because of what I’d experienced in Latvia. First, you have to heal yourself before you can really think clearly about the topic. I worked a lot on emotional intelligence, both on my own and with specialists. Being away helped with that. Many people never leave the environment where they were hurt, and never really heal.

After that, I started to see things clearly. I had my «radars» on. I didn’t step on the same landmines. I wouldn’t say I had direct issues there. It’s still a music world, of course, and there is always politics. But I drove my car smart, so to speak.

What actually surprised me more was how aggressive women can be toward each other. One night, I was invited to a party, which is nice — it means someone notices you, and in a new country, you want to blend in. A woman came up to me and asked, «Did you sleep with this guy?» about a very respected musician. I was so surprised that the only thing I could answer was: «Should I?» It was such a stupid, invasive question. She didn’t know me; we were acquaintances. But it showed her own competitiveness, not mine. She wanted something from him, not me. Sometimes people focus only on men in these discussions and forget that women can also be part of the problem.

In recent years, we’ve seen a lot of «Women in Jazz» projects — special categories, grants, competitions. On the one hand, it’s great. On the other hand, I’m always cautious: how do you help women be seen without undermining them? At some point, you start hearing, «Is she in the band because she plays well, or because they needed a woman?»

You’re asking excellent questions. It depends a lot on where you are in your life. For a young musician, you might really need that extra push — that masterclass, that special program. The Berklee composition class was that for me. It gave me confidence. If I had stayed in the same old environment, maybe I’d never have started composing. Each case is individual. For myself, I like balance. We need men, we need women. But I agree with you: I don’t want a woman in my band just because she’s a woman. I’m interested in playing. Suppose her skills are great, then excellent. If not, gender doesn’t save it.

Recently, I played with a wonderful pianist. She had won a women’s jazz competition. I saw «women in jazz» in her biography and didn’t think much about it. But when we played together, I was impressed by how she handled everything — musically, professionally, emotionally. At that moment, I needed support — I had health issues — and she was exactly what I needed: focused, supportive, a truly organized collaborator. She didn’t have to invite me, a flutist, to her essential gig. She had plenty of colleagues. But she did — because she thought it would work musically.

We never talked about «female power» or anything like that. It was just the right collaboration at the right time. So yes, those programs can help. But in the long run, skills and musical connection are what matter.

I also spoke with a saxophonist who moved from Belarus to Latvia. She studied jazz in Moscow, plays baritone sax — the big, heavy one. She told me she was bigger in size at first, then lost weight, and only then started getting invitations to ensembles. Then she joined an all-women band — a «chica band,» as she called it. She said it’s very popular in Moscow to create all-female bands for two reasons: women feel safer playing with women, which is already telling, and «beautiful women, beautifully dressed, playing beautiful music» — what’s not to like? On the one hand, it gives opportunities. On the other hand, it starts to feel like a zoo: «Look at that, a woman who can play complicated music and looks beautiful.»

If such bands exist, it means there’s a market. There’s probably a place for everything. It reminds me of flute ensembles in the US — I led one for 10 years, too. They’re mostly women. I focus on the music: you can create beautiful sound, beautiful colors, harmonies.

Maybe those women genuinely like playing together. Perhaps they like the image, the dresses, the show. Everyone looks for something different. Personally, I’m an introvert. I don’t like big crowds, so I don’t see myself in that kind of ensemble. But I’ve learned never to say «never.» Sometimes you think, «No way,» and ten years later you’re doing precisely that and enjoying it.

Do you think men and women play differently?

I think so, yes. A classical pianist once told me that when men play, they often believe in larger structures — big lines, big form. When women play, we tend to focus on timbre, detail, and small nuances. So sometimes, in sonata form, the big picture can get a bit lost because we’re very much in love with the details. I’m not saying it’s always like that, but I recognize myself in it.

When I recorded my album, I decided consciously: I’m not going to compete with the guys. I’ll stay true to myself. I’m not a man, I don’t have to play like one. It actually creates a nice contrast — a more lyrical, feminine solo next to a powerful bass or drum solo. You don’t have to prove you can be as aggressive or muscular unless you’re in a particular mood and want to. Life is long; we go through phases. So yes, I think there are differences — in thinking, in sound, in how we approach the instrument. And that’s fine. It adds variety.

What would you wish for, or advise, young girls starting their music education in school or college?

Follow your passion. That’s number one. Really love what you do. Believe in yourself. Keep your eyes and ears open. If you encounter something wrong, remember that your life is bigger than that moment. Try to protect your energy and use it for growth — for music, for things that nourish you.

Any last words on the whole topic?

We went pretty heavy, but also touched things nobody ever asked me about before. I’m glad instrumentalist women get at least a bit of visibility — that people remember we exist, that we have lives and feelings, not only singers, but also instrumentalists, both women and men. It’s good to talk. I don’t think we can fix other people’s lives, but by talking, by shining a bit of light on these things, maybe we can spare someone a heartbreak.