By Doug Sims
I’ve never been interested in telling stories only at their highest point. The highlight is easy. What’s always mattered to me are the moments in between—the spaces where things are forming, shifting, or quietly becoming something bigger than anyone expected.
That’s the spirit behind Interlude.
I’ve spent years close to culture. Close enough to watch ideas turn into movements. Close enough to see how things get built, broken, and rebuilt—sometimes in full view, sometimes without an audience at all. Over time, I realized those in-between moments were where the real lessons lived. This podcast is my way of slowing the clock and sitting with them.
So when I thought about where to begin, my mind went straight back to 1980.
When You Could Hear the Neighborhood Coming
If you were outside in 1980—really outside—you didn’t need a chart to tell you what was hot. You heard it before you saw it.
Tom Browne’s “Funkin’ for Jamaica” wasn’t just a song—it was movement. It rolled through neighborhoods on boomboxes, spilled out of cars with the windows down, and owned the dance floor in clubs across the city. If you didn’t have a radio or a box playing that record, something felt off.
That song swept everything.
And 1980 had no shortage of music. Michael Jackson’s “Rock With You.” Shalamar lighting up the floor. The Whispers reminding us that the beat goes on. The Brothers Johnson telling everybody to stomp. The S.O.S. Band letting time slow down just enough to get it right.
All of it mattered.
But Funkin’ for Jamaica hit me differently.
A Record That Refused One Lane
What stood out then—and still does now—is that Tom Browne’s record didn’t live in one category. It wasn’t boxed in. It didn’t ask permission.
It was jazz and R&B.
Back then, not many records crossed those lines so cleanly. But this one did. Jazz stations played it. R&B stations embraced it. And the people didn’t care what chart it landed on—they just knew how it made them feel.
From the moment that trumpet cuts through, you know exactly what record it is. The bassline has this elastic, rubber-band feel that locks you in without rushing you. The groove glides. It breathes. It knows when to let the rhythm speak for itself.
That’s the kind of song you don’t age out of. You grow into it.
How Jazz Found Me Early
My connection to that record also comes from how early jazz entered my life. I was introduced to jazz in the fifth grade by my grandfather, and once it found me, it never really left. Jazz taught me how to listen—to space, to structure, to restraint. It showed me that what’s not played can matter just as much as what is.
Funkin’ for Jamaica carried that lesson without ever announcing it. It didn’t overplay its hand. It trusted the groove. And that confidence is something I’ve carried with me ever since.
That’s why jazz shows up so often in my thinking, my listening, and now in Interlude. Not as a genre, but as a mindset.
Why Interlude Exists
As this podcast unfolds, I talk about music—R&B, funk, jazz—but I also talk about photography, sports, friendships, and life itself. The good parts. The hard parts. The parts you don’t always post about.
Everything I share comes from my own experience. No interviews. No noise. Just perspective built over time.
This isn’t nostalgia for nostalgia’s sake. It’s about understanding how moments shape us, even when we don’t recognize their importance right away. It’s about momentum—how small, seemingly quiet things can carry us forward if we let them.
For whatever reason, Tom Browne popped into my head when I sat down to start this journey. And when I really thought about it, that made perfect sense.
A Groove That Still Moves Me
Funkin’ for Jamaica isn’t just a memory—it’s a reminder. A reminder that some records capture more than sound. They capture feeling, place, and time all at once.
Put it on today, and something still happens. People move. People smile. People remember.
That’s the energy I want Interlude to carry.
Not loud.
Not rushed.
Just honest, intentional, and aware that the moments in between are where the real story lives.
And this—right here—is where I begin.
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