Apr 7, 2025 3 min read

In addition to being a writer, I am a musician. The Beatles drew me in, and from the time I was 16 until I turned 33, I made a living almost exclusively by playing in rock bands. Was I “gainfully employed?” Not really. But I survived, and sometimes I made more than some people working what they called a “real job.” Some people like my dad.

When the dreaded age of 30 peeked over the horizon, I stopped playing full time but continued to play part time while working in — what else? — a music store. That continued until my band imploded on a rainy Friday night when our five members outnumbered the people in the club. We played one song and decided that it just wasn’t worth the effort anymore. So we packed up and left. But we never got together again. I hadn’t intended it, but that night began an almost 20-year stretch during which I didn’t play in a band. Instead I held a string of “real jobs.” Was I gainfully employed? Yes. Was I happy? Not really. Any musician will tell you: playing music provides a feeling that nothing else even approaches.

Since I retired 11 years ago from what Henry David Thoreau called a life of “quiet desperation” in the workaday world, I’ve been fortunate to play in bands again. I make about the same per night as I did when I played full time; sometimes I make less. But money isn’t the object.

Last week a friend announced that his very good band had just played its last gig. It wasn’t a forced breakup, and the members parted on good terms. Still, he said, it was “bittersweet.” I fully understand. It’s not far wrong to say that being in a band is much like being married — except that you probably won’t need a lawyer to extricate you from it.

His announcement reminded me of a few band breakups I’ve been through. Some were funny. For example, my first band “quit me.” The other members wanted to use a different bass player, but they didn’t want to hurt my feelings by firing me. So they all quit and re-formed with the new guy. We were all 16, and it was painful. Hilarious now, though.

Some of my bands just stopped when an essential member left. Such was the case in the early 1970s. Our drummer — a local guy who had found a measure of bigtime success on the West Coast — had returned home to care for his aging parents. The band was popular and talented. But music trends changed and jobs became scarce. So he decided to return to Los Angeles. “If I’m gonna starve,” he said, famously, “I’m gonna starve in the sun.” He did.

There’s a column or two to be written about goofy things that happened to my bands, some of which is suitable for a “family newspaper.” Maybe someday. With all its ups and downs, I’ve often heard being in a band described as a “musical roller-coaster ride.” But I liken it more to a merry-go-round: it’s hard to get off until the music stops.

But I’m a carousel pony: We don’t get off because we know that, sooner or later, the music will start again.

Saddle me up!