Outdated expectations kill creative dreams
We leave together
I found out my dad died on July 30th, 2024.
We don’t know the exact time he passed, but he died alone in a trailer park in Florida. We didn’t have much of a relationship in the last seven or so years of his life for reasons I won’t go into, but I want to share a bit about his music.
My dad was an absolute music theory genius. He spoke in keys and modes and time signatures. He could play multiple instruments, listen to a song once, and play it for you backward and forward.
When I was a kid, he played in a country rock band called The Buckaroos, playing at ski resorts on the weekends and clubs during the week. He made good money playing guitar in the eighties.
Live music started to fade in our area, so he started teaching music out of his house. One of his students was a fiddle player who moved to Nashville and toured with a notable country artist or two.
In his later years, he’d seek out bass players and drummers, always looking to form a jazz trio. He had some luck getting gigs back in PA and later in Florida.
But when these groups fell apart, so did he.
He would still play at home, with his little Polytone amp that he bought in the 80s, playing his be-bop jazz and whatever else came out from his decades of experience.
While loading up our rental car with some of his belongings to take home, a neighbor named Otto pulled up, rolled down his window, and asked, “do you a photo of Ronnie I could have?”
My sister found a photo during the two days we cleaned out his trailer. It was newer, a shot in a grassy backyard, wearing his fancy shoes and his beret.
He loved that fucking beret.
“We would sit outside and listen to your dad play,” said Otto.
I handed him the photo that my sister found.
He didn’t say a word, but his eyes welled up.
“I’m glad you got to hear him play,” I said, and Otto drove away.
Dad’s idea of “success” was having a group so he could get booked at local venues. Without that, life seemed not… worth living.
And yet, his neighbors loved hearing the music he played.
It’s a lie that you’re not a real musician if you’re not booked at an actual venue.
The lie is real artists are in galleries, their names are on marquees, they have engineers setting up expensive mics in a studio in the hills.
The biggest lie is we have to make our entire living on the sale of our art, or else we’re just no-talent wannabes.
So many artists fall for this, feeling like 100 views isn’t enough, and they stop because “no one cares.”
I wake up thinking about the artists, poets, writers, and musicians we’ve lost because they couldn’t keep up with the “hitting it big” rat race of social media.
Somehow, 10,000 views aren’t enough because you really need 100,000. Having 12 people at a show on a Tuesday night is a waste of time. No one buys your art because you’re not making enough Reels.
It’s lies, it’s all bullshit.
Otto probably has that photo of my dad on his refrigerator or next to his record player.
The world doesn’t need another hot-take reaction to Spotify rates, or Instagram impressions - it needs you to release a three song demo you recorded you in your bedroom. Self-publish that piece of fiction.
Like the wise Cassidy Frost says:
“Go play a roller rink. Create your own festival. Tastemakers can’t take away your power if you’re creating a sick world around your music that other people want to be a part of. You have the tools. You don’t need the tastemakers.”
Someone needs your podcast episode about Edward Bouchet.
Someone in a small town would love to read your essay about landlocked countries.
You need to go to that open mic night and sing that song the universe dropped in your lap three months ago because someone in the crowd really needs to hear it.
Like Amy Stewart wrote, you need to “Be the Artist-in-Residence of Your World.”
Don’t wait for external validation from someone who just needs to fill up a Tuesday night, or fill a slot in their editorial calendar.
Don’t wait, don’t wait, don’t you dare wait to release your magic into the world because time spent waiting adds ups, and the regret compounds, and most of your belongings will end up in a dumpster a week after you die anyways.
I’m Seth Werkheiser, and I’ll help you spend less time on social media, and make money with your email list in a non-creepy way. Find out more here.
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I often think about all the musicians I’ve met over the years who make a living in various ways, but what sticks with me is their unique expression, regardless of how they earn money.
I stayed at a friends place once for a few days, and I brought my sax that I was just starting to learn. After I left, the neighbors told my friend that they missed the music, which was funny since I figured I sounded mediocre. So I guess you never know how music will affect someone.
Thanks for sharing, Seth.
Sorry for the loss of your father. Even when they are complicated, it's a sobering right of passage to lose one of your parents. And I agree with you. I always think of what Martin Shaw says about endeavoring to be famous within a 5 mile radius. Keeping it local is actually more important than taking it global.