Not long ago, the primary concern for working musicians, particularly those in jazz, was the unauthorized use of their work. Piracy, bootlegging, and exploitative recording contracts that demanded portions of an artist’s publishing were seen as the greatest threats to creative ownership. Artists operated with a defensive posture. Sharing ideas too freely meant risking the loss of control over one’s own music.
I recall a performance years ago; a trio gig. Midway through a tune, the bassist noticed someone in the audience filming. Without hesitation, he stopped playing and insisted I ask the man to put the camera away. Besides from being unprofessional, that moment captured the anxiety of the time. Even rehearsal tapes came with firm instructions: “Don’t let anyone hear this.” Ideas were treated as intellectual property in the strictest sense—something to be protected, even hoarded, until they could be officially released.
Today, that fear has largely disappeared. And it has been replaced by something far more corrosive: the fear of being ignored.
We have shifted from an era of scarcity to one of saturation. The central problem facing many artists is not theft but indifference. In the past, the idea that someone might steal your music was alarming. Now, for many, it would almost be a compliment—an indication that the work was at least valuable enough to copy.
Where artists once protected their ideas with near-paranoia, today they flood the internet with content—live-streaming rehearsals, posting snippets of unfinished compositions, uploading fragments of gigs in the hope that something will catch fire. What was once guarded with secrecy is now offered up for free, often in real time.
I frequently perform with younger musicians: primarily members of Gen Z. One striking difference I’ve observed is how naturally they document and share performances. After certain gigs, I’ll receive notifications linking to several video clips, all posted to Instagram within hours.
Far from being a nuisance, this has proven beneficial. It allows me to revisit moments from the performance, and in many ways, it functions as post-concert promotion. Because the music is improvised, I have no concern over copyright. What matters more is that someone attending the gig found the moment compelling enough to record and share. That sense of value, of something being worth capturing, is not insignificant.
The other side of this shift, however, is worth considering. Does constant visibility risk diminishing an artist’s impact? Oversaturation may not only lead to audience fatigue, but also erode the sense of mystique that once surrounded public figures.
There was a time when musicians existed at a distance. They appeared in limited, curated contexts—on stage, film, television, or a crafted magazine interviews. Outside of those formats, they were largely inaccessible. That distance itself created a kind of reverence. You rarely saw them, and when you did, you paid for the privilege.
In the age of social media, that separation has vanished. Musicians and artists alike, now present themselves daily—via tweets, livestreams, TikTok videos, and casual behind-the-scenes clips. What was once extraordinary becomes routine. The mystique that comes with scarcity has been replaced by the banality of constant exposure.
Of course, one could reject this trend and choose to remain offline. But in doing so, the risk is not mystery—it’s irrelevance. The platform economy moves quickly, and opting out often means being left behind. So the artist today must navigate an impossible contradiction: be visible, but not overly familiar; be present, but not predictable.
Still, the broader trend is clear. Musicians today feel compelled to remain visible at all times. There is an unspoken belief that if you are not constantly producing content, you will disappear from public consciousness. As Art Blakey once said, “In this business, you’re either appearing or disappearing.” That used to be a commentary on the need for artistic urgency. Today, it feels more like a sentence handed down by the culture of digital media.
The fear isn’t being copied.
It’s being forgotten.
Have we traded artistic integrity for attention?
Or have we just shifted the spotlight—from excellence to engagement, from soul to scroll?
In a world ruled by algorithms, perhaps the real art is learning how to be seen without disappearing.
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