The Music Continues: Life as a Jazz Artist Over 50

Life can be a scary time for many jazz musicians over 50—certainly for me. As Ralph Peterson Jr. once said, when you hit 50, you’re entering the third quarter of life. That idea has always stuck with me. It can feel daunting, especially in a field like jazz, where youth is often equated with innovation, relevance, and opportunity.

Most of us didn’t pursue this path expecting riches or fame. But I think we all hoped—modestly, realistically—that we’d at least be recognized for our work. And that’s the tricky part. Because as you’re doing your best to be seen and acknowledged, there’s a constant wave of younger musicians moving to New York, hungry and talented, stepping into the scene. You pay your dues, and then someone else comes along and steps in. And sure, that’s how it’s supposed to work—there should be room for the next generation. But the truth is, the industry doesn’t always make room for you. Sometimes you get overlooked. And when you hit that 50-year-old mark, you can’t help but wonder: maybe it’s never going to happen.

And you know what? You might be right.

At least, it might not happen in the way you envisioned.

But that doesn’t mean it can’t still happen in a different way—maybe even a better way. It might not come with the same spotlight or recognition you once imagined, but that doesn’t mean it’s any less meaningful. What it does require is a revision of your plan. A willingness to let go of one story so that you can write a better one.

Sometimes, happiness and fulfillment come not from achieving what you set out to do, but from discovering something you never knew you needed. Maybe your career won’t be defined by headlining at the Village Vanguard or winning a Grammy, but instead by deep artistic breakthroughs, meaningful collaborations, or having your music resonate with a small but dedicated circle of listeners. Maybe it’s mentoring the next generation. Or creating work on your own terms, without needing a gatekeeper to validate it. There are many forms of success, and many ways to still find joy in the music. The key is being open to rewriting the story.

And I say this not as someone bitter, but someone who has actually been quite fortunate. I’ve experienced more success and recognition than many. I won’t say most—but certainly many. That’s pretty remarkable, especially considering I’ve worked a full-time teaching job for years. I’m not in the trenches, booking gigs every week or hustling nonstop to advance my performance career. I’ve done what I can to stay active: I release recordings, even if not prolifically. I maintain a solid Instagram presence. I post regularly on my blog. And I stay engaged in the musical discourse. It may not be the kind of discourse that gets critics excited—or furious—but I believe it speaks to the broader jazz community in a meaningful way.

I consider myself to be in a unique position because I know people who are still in the trenches—low- paying to no-paying gigs, scraping by, working day jobs outside of music—and I know people who are soaring on top. Playing the major venues, headlining the major festivals. And I just want to say: being a jazz star is not all it’s cracked up to be. People make a lot of sacrifices. It’s not like you get there and suddenly your life is a bed of roses. There are real challenges at that level too. Some sacrifice the opportunity to start families. Others forgo the stability of homeownership or fall behind in preparing for their senior years financially. The costs can be high, and the rewards—while meaningful—aren’t always sustainable or secure.

So you have to ask yourself: What am I really missing out on?

Of course, who doesn’t want a three-week tour in Europe? Who doesn’t want to play the major festivals? I’ve done those things. I’ve even been on a major label. And yes, it was a lot of fun. I do miss aspects of it. But I certainly don’t miss the travel. These days, flying feels like riding a bus with wings. It’s uncomfortable, draining, and airport security only adds another layer of stress. That old saying—the grass is always greener—definitely applies here.

The truth is, this path we’re on as jazz musicians isn’t linear. As an aspiring writer of fiction, I’ve written many stories, and what I’ve learned is that the finished version is rarely the story I set out to write. Things shift. Characters evolve. Plot points change. And yet, more often than not, the story becomes more profound because of that transformation. We can approach our careers the same way. Sometimes the version of success that finds you later in life is deeper, more grounded, and more personally rewarding than the version you chased in your twenties.

So what can we do? Here are a few ideas that have worked for me, and that I believe can work for others:

• Redefine your audience.
  Your circle doesn’t have to be the entire world. Sometimes ten people who are deeply moved by your music matter more than a thousand casual listeners. If my core base is a handful of horn players curious about attaching tubes to their instruments, I’ll take it.

  Mentor and collaborate.
  Your wisdom is gold to the younger generation. Sharing it not only helps them, it keeps you connected to the vitality of the music. When knowledge is lived—not just book-learned—we often underestimate the depth of what we have to offer.

  Build your own platforms.
  Blogs, podcasts, self-released albums, house concerts—these tools free you from gatekeepers. You don’t need permission to share your voice. I moved to New York during the height of the scarcity era, when getting heard meant selling your soul to the devil. Those days are over.

  Prioritize depth over breadth.
  Maybe you don’t release ten albums a decade. Maybe you release one every few years—but it’s honest, layered, and meaningful. That’s still a legacy. A career isn’t defined by sheer productivity. Depth carries more gravity than volume.

  Take care of the whole person.
  Music is central, but so are health, family, financial planning, and joy outside of music. Stability doesn’t kill creativity—it sustains it. Looking back, a Grammy on the mantle and twenty bottles of medication in the bathroom is not the life well-lived we should aspire to.

The music continues. And so do we. Not in spite of being over 50, but because of it. We’ve lived, we’ve seen, and we have something to say. And that—if we keep at it—is where the true power of our artistry lies.

Don’t Leave the Hype: How Art is the Light, Not the Applause

A lot of times our perception of ourselves—and of others—is shaped less by the truth and more by a narrative that the industry builds. Magazines, radio, television, movies, even the educational system all work together to tell us: this is the person leading the path, this is the legend of their generation, this is the artist doing the “important work.”

That has its place. Narratives can inspire, elevate, and bring attention to deserving artists. But there’s also a danger. The hype can give us a false sense of our importance—and, even more tragically, a false sense of our unimportance.

We see someone on the cover of a magazine and think: they’re the one making an impact. And if we’re not on that cover, we start to think: maybe I’m not making an impact. Without realizing it, we internalize the idea that our work doesn’t matter.

But that is simply not true.

When I look at my own career, I don’t play the major festivals. I’m not headlining the so-called “important” stages. I’m not being called to guest on the albums of jazz stars. Most of my gigs are in small venues in Brooklyn, often for twenty people, sometimes fewer.

And still—I say this with humility—my work is just as important as anyone gracing magazine covers or headlining festivals. I’ll put my contributions bar for bar, spirit for spirit, against theirs any day. Because the value of the work isn’t measured by how brightly the spotlight shines on it. The value is in the light you create where you stand.

Some of my greatest influences are musicians most people have never heard of. Folks you won’t see on magazine covers or topping polls. But their impact on my playing, my vision, and my development has been profound.

I think about Bob Rainey, a soprano saxophonist I recently performed with. In my opinion, he has the most expansive vocabulary of multiphonics on the soprano saxophone to date. When I first heard him, he wasn’t using multiphonics as a gimmick or an occasional noise effect—he was using them as part of an expansive language, the same way others use single notes. That completely shifted my perspective on what was possible.

That’s influence. That’s light.

And none of it happened at the Newport Jazz Festival, JEN, or the Jazz Journalists Awards. It happened in a room, on a stage, through the sound of one musician taking their craft seriously.

I can only imagine that I’ve had a similar effect on others. Maybe someone sees me working on a certain experiment, and it sparks a thought: I never considered that before. That ripple is real. And it doesn’t require hype. It requires presence, honesty, and a willingness to create light where you are.

Because the important thing isn’t to stand under the spotlight. The important thing is to create light where you stand—whether that’s in a packed hall, a neighborhood club, or a subway platform.

The hype fades. The light remains.

And one final word to the artist: you may not always get the affirmations you think you need to keep going. But you have to create and put your work into the world with the belief that it is reaching people, making an impact, and doing what it was meant to do. More often than not, your work is shaping lives in ways you may never see or imagine.

The Art of Engagement: Why Connection Starts Long Before the Music Drops

As musicians, we’re always putting something out into the world. Maybe a new recording, a performance, a presentation, or some kind of debut. We’re constantly giving, presenting, sharing. And we need an audience for that.

But here’s what often happens. and I think it’s a big mistake. We put everything into the creation of the work, and then, maybe a week or two before the release or performance, we go into panic mode. Suddenly we’re flooding social media with posts, ads, and reminders: “Come to my gig!” “Listen to my new album!” “Check out this project!”

Sure, sometimes this last-minute push gets results. But in most cases, it doesn’t work the way we want it to.

Why? Because many of us are trying to activate an audience we haven’t really been connecting with. We show up out of nowhere and say, “Hey, I need you to come to this thing,” but people aren’t always ready to listen. It’s not personal. It’s just that if they haven’t seen or heard from you in a while—if you haven’t been present—they’ve already been engaged by others who have.

Social media isn’t just a billboard. It’s more like a conversation that never stops. And if you’re not in the conversation, you’re not top of mind. When you’re silent for too long, you fall behind those who are consistently engaging. So when it’s finally your turn to announce something, you’re starting from the bottom of the feed—literally and figuratively.

Here’s a common scenario many of us can relate to. You’ve got a new recording coming out. You hire a publicist, hand them the materials, and say, “Hey, get people excited about this.” You write a check for several thousand dollars and sit back, waiting for the buzz to build.

What usually happens? Sure, most publicists will get you something. A few reviews, maybe a feature or two. It’s rare that they come up completely empty. But more often than not, what they deliver falls short of what you were hoping for. And let’s be real—you didn’t spend $3,000, $4,000, or even $5,000 just for a couple blurbs. So you walk away saying, “This publicist was terrible,” or “This whole publicity thing just doesn’t work.”

But here’s the hard truth: most times, it’s not the publicist’s fault. It’s yours.

You put all the responsibility on them and did nothing to build interest yourself. You treated them like a magician rather than a megaphone. And that’s a mistake. If you really want to benefit from hiring a publicist, you can’t expect them to create the spotlight. You have to be the spotlight. Their job is to amplify what you’ve already built. They reflect attention; they don’t create it out of thin air.

If the only thing you’ve created is the music, that’s not enough. You need to cultivate a sense of presence, context, and narrative around your work. That’s what people connect to. And that’s what makes a publicist’s job actually work.

When I think about the books that I publish, it’s rarely the case that they just come out of nowhere. I’m usually writing on my blog, engaging people with ideas, sharing thoughts as they develop. I’m giving people a steady sense of who I am as a writer, how I think, what I care about.

So when a book finally drops, there’s already a relationship in place. People recognize the voice. They say, “Oh yeah, I know that guy. I like his ideas. Let me check this out.” That’s the result of groundwork—of staying present, being visible, and building trust over time.

And none of that is about scamming people or tricking them into buying something. It’s not a hustle. It’s just an honest continuation of a conversation that’s already happening. That’s the key. Engagement isn’t about selling; it’s about sharing. It’s about staying connected in a way that feels natural, not forced.

There are plenty of ways to engage. One approach that musicians used to use more often, though it’s fallen out of fashion a bit, is the full-on crowdfunding campaign. You’d raise money for your project and, in the process, get people excited about the recording. Fans weren’t just emotionally invested—they were financially invested. They had skin in the game. And so when the project finally came out, they felt a sense of ownership. It mattered more to them because they were part of it.

Now, I’m not saying everyone needs to go back to those days or that crowdfunding is the only way to build connection. But it’s a great example of how involvement creates engagement. There are other ways to do the same thing, just in smaller and more casual ways.

You can invite people into your process. For instance, say you’re trying to decide on an album cover—post a few options and ask, “Hey, which one do you like best?” Or you’re stuck between a few different title ideas. Put them out there and ask for input. Or maybe you just had a photo shoot and you’re torn between a couple images. Ask your audience which one speaks to them.

These may seem like little things, but they go a long way. They’re not gimmicks. They’re honest ways of saying: “Hey, I value your input. You’re part of this with me.”

It shifts the dynamic from “Here’s my finished product, come buy it” to “We’ve been building this together.” And when people feel like they’ve been part of the journey, they’re far more likely to care about the destination.

At the end of the day, you have to decide the best way to get your music out into the world. But my main point is this: engagement doesn’t start when the CD is finished—it starts much earlier. You’ve got to bring people into the vault, into the process, long before the final product is ready. That way, you stay in the driver’s seat.

Don’t just hand over all your power, and your money, to a publicist and hope for the best. Sometimes the most effective strategies are free. They just require time, honesty, and a willingness to connect.

Thanks for reading.