Should Musicians Work a Day Job or Play Uninspiring Gigs?

I'd like to begin by saying that making a living solely from performing seemed like a pipe dream for much of my early musical career. Finding ways to supplement my income has always been something I’ve had to consider. When I decided to play the soprano exclusively, the challenge of achieving financial stability reached new heights.

I still remember many years ago sitting at a table at Bradley’s, a then-popular after-hours jazz club, listening to musicians complain about not making enough money from their gigs. Realizing it was getting late, I excused myself, mentioning that I had to wake up early the next morning. One of the musicians asked if I had a flight to catch—back then, that usually meant Europe or Japan. Feeling a bit embarrassed, I revealed that I needed to get up for my temp job, probably working in an office or mailroom. I’ll never forget the looks on their faces, as if one of their colleagues worked a typical 9-to-5 job. Back then, there was an industry that enabled many musicians to make a decent living—a scenario that seems almost elusive today. I mention this to show that I understand this situation well.

But back to the original question: Is it better to work a day job or play uninspiring gigs?

As a musician, balancing passion and practicality is a recurring dilemma. Unless you’re one of the select few, when it comes to earning a living as a musician, two common paths often emerge: working a non-music-related day job or playing gigs that don’t ignite your creativity. Mind you, I know plenty of musicians who make a good living playing only the music they love. But for many, this is not the case. This is not always a refoection on a player’s abilities. I know some amazing players who simply grew tired of the rat race, and found happiness doing other things. 

The Case for a Non-Music Day Job

A steady, non-music-related job, as uninspiring as it may be, offers financial stability, sometimes health benefits, and more importantly, a clear boundary between work and creative pursuits. Many musicians find this approach liberating, as it allows them to reserve their artistic energy for projects they truly care about. However, a five-day workweek, 9-to-5, can be time-consuming and leave little room for practicing, networking, and sometimes actual gigging, especially if it involves traveling.

As someone with a full-time teaching job, I'm well aware of the musical sacrifices made by having to report to work several days a week. In fact, I feel a little guilty about some of the gigs I've had to cancel for others, simply because I did not have time to properly practice the charts. When you have full days of teaching, grading papers, and endless administrative duties, working on a young musician’s charts with a different time signature every other measure takes a back burner. Nowadays, I make sure to assess the time commitment before accepting most gigs. Otherwise, it's unfair to me and to the person looking to have their music properly performed.

The Case for Uninspiring Gigs

Performing even at uninspiring gigs keeps you in the music world, hones your skills, and provides a direct income from your craft—which is a good thing. It can lead to networking opportunities and, many times, rewarding experiences. Contrary to popular belief, not all wedding gigs are dreadful; sometimes you get to play really cool music with great musicians. On the downside, playing for money alone can eventually sap your passion, making playing music feel like a chore rather than an art form. However, this will only happen if you allow it. I'm a firm believer that if you want it bad enough, you’ll find a way to make it work. And besides, a horn on the stage, is worth two in the case. You get what I'm saying!

Which Path Is Right for You?

The decision depends on your long-term goals. A day job may offer peace of mind and financial security, while uninspiring gigs allow you to remain active in music, even if they challenge your artistic integrity. 

Ultimately, a hybrid approach—doing as many inspiring gigs as possible while maintaining a flexible day job—might strike the best balance. Either way, your path should align with both your financial needs and your creative aspirations.

We’re living in an age where many musicians don’t automatically assume that only performing will be their norm. Some of my favorite players didn’t even major in music in college. As times become more challenging, musicians are having to become equally creative off the bandstand when it comes to diversifying their hustle. This doesn’t have to tarnish the joy and beauty of being a musician. If anything, it makes that much more enjoyable.

I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments! Which path have you taken, and how has it shaped your journey? Maybe you have some tips for relieving the financial burden of being an artist that might help some up-and-coming players. Whether we know it or not, we’re all in this fight together.

Civil Rights Era Envy: Are We Marching Forward or Standing Still?

On this Martin Luther King Jr. Day, I'm reflecting on his enduring influence much like a jazz musician listens closely to a familiar melody—attentive to every subtle shift and pause. Dr. King's approach to change was thoughtful and nuanced, blending deep moral insight with practical steps toward justice. His legacy reminds us that effective activism is not about loud declarations alone, but about listening, adapting, and finding the right notes to move society forward. As I consider today's challenges, his example encourages a careful, measured approach to pursuing lasting change.

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During my sophomore year at Berklee, the spring semester began under a cloud of uncertainty. Word spread quickly that the teachers, frustrated with their contracts, had officially decided to go on strike. Their demands likely revolved around the usual grievances in academia: better pay, manageable teaching hours, and job security. For us students, however, the strike wasn’t about labor negotiations; it was about our education and our dreams. The idea that our path to success might be stalled indefinitely felt almost existential.

Tensions escalated when a group of Black professors crossed the picket line to continue teaching. Their decision, though practical—they had bills to pay—drew sharp criticism. The picketing teachers, mostly white, called them “scabs," a term deeply entrenched in labor disputes. However, in the heated context of race relations, some professors interpreted “scab” as a code for the N-word.

This moment of racial tension sparked a reaction. Black students rallied to act as escorts for the strikebreaking professors, framing their actions as a stand against racial injustice. From where I stood, their efforts seemed to overinflate the stakes, equating these professors’ choice to cross a picket line with monumental civil rights struggles. No one was denied a job, brutalized by the police, or living under systemic segregation. Yet, the protesters carried themselves as though this was the next chapter in the fight against racial oppression.

I watched my peers assemble on Massachusetts Avenue, shoulders squared, exuding self-congratulation. "Rebels without a cause," as I like to put it. They were ready to escort the professors across the street like heroes emerging from the pages of history. While their intentions were noble, their actions felt misplaced. They weren’t rallying because these professors had been singled out for racial discrimination—they were upset because the professors weren’t being coddled. In that moment, they weren’t seen as Black professors breaking a strike; they were simply strikebreakers. In other words, they were treated like equals.

What’s ironic about the Berklee strike is that, years later, many of the same students who had marched to escort the professors benefited from the increased wages and improved conditions that the strikers fought to achieve. So did the scabs whom they were protecting. This is often the case: when we fail to take a more nuanced view of situations involving race relations, we run the risk of protesting against our own best interests—or at least being willing to protest without seeing the bigger picture.

Looking at today’s political climate, I see parallels everywhere. Over the past several years, activism has surged, particularly in response to racial injustice. Movements like Black Lives Matter have inspired massive protests, both in the U.S. and abroad. In 2020, the murder of George Floyd set off a cascade of changes, many of them impressive: Minneapolis banned the use of chokeholds. New Jersey updated its use-of-force guidelines for the first time in decades. Confederate monuments were toppled across the South. The street in front of the White House was renamed “Black Lives Matter Plaza.” These were tangible shifts sparked by collective action.

But amid these victories, I noticed something missing. In the rush to demand accountability from institutions, police forces, and white America, little was said about what changes Black America might need to make. Conversations about personal accountability, community responsibility, or the alarming rates of violence within Black communities were drowned out.

We seem to suffer from what I call Civil Rights Era envy. How can we not? It was during that period that Black America had a unified sense of purpose. Blacks from all walks of life were united in their effort to overthrow white supremacy. We finally had center stage, not only in the mainstream media but in the consciousness of mainstream America. Lady Liberty was reinventing herself, and we were leading the way.

It was a time of immense pride and strength. The shell of white supremacy was cracked open, and the world watched as we collectively mopped away the yolk of racial oppression. But in our yearning to replicate that feeling, we sometimes misdirect our energy, rallying around causes that don’t always serve our long-term interests.

Blacks in America are in an awkward position. We're the only group who fears being expelled from our race—at least in the court of public opinion. Unfortunately, the extreme left has also borrowed from this playbook of ideological manipulation. And it doesn’t take much. Bill Cosby spent years and millions of dollars in support of Black America, particularly HBCUs. He gave one speech pushing Black America to step up to the plate, and he was forever demonized. Pretty harsh stuff.

This fear keeps us tethered to a dangerous kind of collectivism. Standing out as an individual—or expressing views that deviate from the dominant narrative—can quickly result in being labeled a “sellout,” “Oreo,” or worse. This fear stifles meaningful dialogue within our communities and holds us back from embracing the diversity of thought that could empower us to solve our most pressing issues.

If there’s one lesson I’ve carried from Berklee to today, it’s this: Activism without nuance is activism without progress. As a developing musician, imagine if your teacher just said, “Your playing sucks!” That’s far different from a more nuanced assessment where tangible weaknesses are identified: poor intonation, inconsistent instrumental facility, or limited jazz vocabulary. Taking a measured and detailed assessment allows you to work toward meaningful progress.

Protests are no different. Modern movements, like musicians, risk stalling their progress when they refuse to identify specific, tangible goals and address inconvenient truths. A musician who ignores critique and simply practices louder or faster will only amplify their weaknesses. Similarly, movements that rely on symbolic victories without substantive follow-through—like renaming a street or tearing down a statue—may feel triumphant in the moment but fail to address systemic problems at their roots.

Great music, like great activism, isn’t just about volume. It’s about clarity, intention, and precision. A powerful solo is built on honesty—the willingness to confront flaws and embrace growth. Movements need to embrace that same spirit of intentionality, seeking to harmonize their passion with concrete strategies for systemic change.

The Civil Rights Era was powerful because it had clear goals and a unified sense of purpose. Like a well-composed piece of music, it had structure, vision, and a relentless pursuit of excellence. Modern movements risk losing that power if they devolve into performative gestures or avoid engaging with uncomfortable realities.

True progress isn’t about being loud. It’s about being honest—with each other and with ourselves.

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As we honor Martin Luther King Jr., his legacy calls us to approach our work with the calm precision of a seasoned jazz musician. True progress requires us to tune into the complexities around us, to engage with honesty and intention much like a musician crafts a delicate solo. By grounding our activism in thoughtful critique and clear goals, we echo Dr. King's spirit. In doing so, we not only pay homage to his memory but also ensure that our modern movements move forward with measured purpose, crafting a future of meaningful and lasting change.

 

Are You Building a Career or Just Doing Gigs?

As musicians, we’ve all been there—balancing a packed calendar of gigs while trying to stay true to our artistic vision. Keep in mind, having a filled calendar is an accomplished within itself, so it's certainly nothing to snub. But at some point, we do have to stop and ask: Am I building a career, or am I just keeping busy?

For many, it’s not an easy question, but it’s one we must face if we want to create a life in music that’s both meaningful and sustainable. 

Gigs are the lifeblood of a musician’s journey. They’re immediate. They pay the bills, help to hone your craft, and keep you visible. Like many, I’ve often said yes to almost every gig. Big or small, glamorous or gritty, it didn’t matter. At the time, it didn’t matter. I was on the scene, getting my name out there. It's what you do.

But over time, I began to notice something: even though the work was steady, a lot of it didn’t seem to be adding up to anything bigger. The gigs felt like isolated dots with no clear line connecting them. That’s when I began to realize that playing gigs for the sake of playing gigs wasn’t enough.

The bigger question: What’s the difference between gigs and a career?

A gig is a moment. A career is a journey.

When you’re building a career, you’re thinking beyond the next paycheck. You’re asking yourself:

• Who am I as an artist?

• What do I want to contribute to the musical landscape?

• How can I leave a lasting impact, both musically and artistically?

It’s about crafting a vision and staying true to it, even when the day-to-day grind tries to pull you in different directions.

A few words about the dangers of the gig trap.

The danger of the gig mentality is that it can lead to complacency. When you’re only gigging just to stay afloat, you can lose sight of your artistic vision You might find yourself saying yes to gigs that don’t inspire you or align with your goals. And over time, this can drain your energy and make you question why you started playing music in the first place. Mind you, not all of us have the luxury to pick and choose. I’ve been there. Playing some party gig that’s more about ambiance than artistry can make you feel invisible. 

Jokingly, I've noted that musicians go through three stages of gigging:

Stage 1: Trying to get the gig.

Stage 2: Getting the gig.

Stage 3: Complaining about the gig. 

Back to my point. The problem isn’t the gig itself—it’s the lack of balance. If all your energy goes into maintaining a busy schedule, there’s no room to build something bigger. This is where we can get behind the wheel and shift our focus.

Where possible, the key is to use gigs as a means to an end, not the end itself. Ask yourself:

• Does this gig move me closer to my artistic goals?

• Will it challenge me creatively or help me grow?

• Can it connect me with people or opportunities that align with my vision?

If the answer is no, you might want to think carefully before saying yes. Every gig you accept takes time and energy away from something else. Make sure it’s worth it. 

A few words about building a career.

Building a career as I see it  takes intention. It’s about finding clarity in your purpose and taking deliberate steps toward your goals. Here are a few things that have helped me:

1. Define Your Artistic Voice

Spend time exploring who you are as a musician. What do you want to say? Your voice is your currency—it’s what sets you apart.

2. Invest in Your Legacy

Record your music. Compose. Write (as in words). Create something tangible that people can connect with. Your body of work will outlive any single gig.

3. Diversify Your Income Streams

Gigs are just one piece of the puzzle. Teaching, composing, writing books and articles, recording, applying for grants can all give you stability and freedom to pursue your art without compromise. I would even say don't be too prideful about having a non-musical hustle. Many have confessed that they're happier doing non-musical jobs than gigs that drain their creative spirit and cloud their focus.

4. Build Relationships

Networking isn’t just about landing gigs; it’s about connecting with like-minded individuals who inspire and challenge you. 

How do we define success?

At the end of the day, the definition of success is deeply personal. Some musicians thrive on the energy of gigging. Others aspire to build a legacy that extends beyond the stage. There’s no right or wrong path—only the one that feels authentic to you.

The real question is: Are you making choices that align with your values and goals? Whether you’re playing a restaurant gig, headlining a festival, or posting musical excerpts on social media, the power lies in being intentional about your path.

The choice is yours.