Marcus G. Miller ’08 has dreadlocks that tell a story. After discovering African American literature his sophomore year of high school, he started to think for himself for the first time and grew ’locks to commemorate the development. But more than just matted spirals of hair, Miller’s dreads symbolize the connection between literature and his appearance, art and his life.

The New Jersey native started playing saxophone when he was nine. It was a completely practical decision; instruments were being handed out at the end of third grade, and since his dad already owned a saxophone, Miller figured it was the most economical option.

The pragmatism quickly turned to passion. Miller practiced so ardently that by the start of the fourth grade he already knew all of his major scales, how to read music, and—just for kicks—how to play “Tequila.”

Miller continued to devote himself to sax throughout his early life, studying with various saxophonists and joining the Jazz Institute of New Jersey. A name more luxurious than accurate, the institute was comprised of a few students, some devoted teachers, and the basement of the Latino center at Rutgers. Despite its humble facilities, Miller learned the importance of improvisation as well as competition while ther. He also met his two best friends, who pushed him musically.

“At first we actually hated each other,” Miller says. “Each one of us wanted to be the ‘baddest’ sax player. But then when you didn’t play well, you’d practice and show up better next week.”

When he arrived on the Harvard campus, Miller employed the sames kind of drive to ensure that he developed a set of skills other than music so that he’d be financially stable in the future. For him, that skill set was mathematical. His math concentration took up a lot of time, and Miller, feeling uninspired by Harvard’s jazz scene, took a break from his saxophone.

“It’s a phenomenon with Harvard jazz musicians; the music just dies with people here,” he says. “It might be something spiritual or the lack of time but it sucks it out of you.”

Fortunately, Miller didn’t completely lose touch with his music. After his junior summer he realized how integral it was to his life and reprioritized so as to be able to devote himself to it. He started performing around campus with pianist Malcolm G. Campbell ’10. He also picked up a gig in New York, where he plays from 9 p.m. to 3 a.m. every Monday before catching a 7 a.m. bus back for his Tuesday morning classes.

“I have to recalibrate the rest of my week,” Miller says. “That’s just the life. But it’s a worthwhile endeavor.”

Such devotion colors Miller’s notes. He tries to practice at least five hours on a good day, working so that he’ll play and sound better when he hits the stand. The idea that all aspects of his life are related to his music constitutes Miller’s philosophy. He believes that if you’re a distinctive person, you’ll have a distinctive sound.

“How you sound, how you play in all musical situations directly reflects the kind of person you are,” he explains.

Though Miller couldn’t fully explain what that meant for his own sound, he did start singing “I Will Survive” in the Pforzheimer dining hall, suggesting that he, like his style, has a certain presence.

Miller’s enjoyment of entertaining and connecting to people is also included in that style. There are some musicians who are extremely intellectual, he says, their music is cerebral as a result and ultimately unintelligible to most.

“My music is not going to be completely regardless of what people like to hear,” Miller says. “It’s not the type of cat I am.”

Just because Miller is aware of his audience doesn’t mean that his music is in any way commercial. In fact, he deplored the vapidity of contemporary R&B for its lack of musical synergy and dancehall music for its plain ignorance. To him, there is no hard and fast line between the “sell-out” and the “authentic.” Miller plays sax because he couldn’t do otherwise.

“Music is a process of self-realization,” he says. “That it is able to entertain, touch, or move other people is an added benefit.”

As further proof of music’s importance to Miller, he confessed that if neither money nor time were an issue he would learn a million different instruments, practice them all, compose, perform, give music lessons, and, by extension, teach life philosophy.

But Miller understands the impossibility of such a dream. He sighs, “If only it were that simple.”

—Ama R. Francis