Kid, let me tell you something about the trap. Not the one with the shiny prize at the end, but the one where you chase the idea of the prize so hard you forget the music’s right there, breathing in the room.
Back in ’98, I thought I’d found it. A young band—Lena on trumpet, fresh out of Berklee—wanted to record. I’d been quiet for years, sober, but the old itch was back: prove I still got it. So I pushed. Not just pushed—I demanded they play my arrangements, my way, for the "classic jazz" vibe I’d imagined. I’d rehearsed the hell out of it, drummed the parts into my head like a mantra. "This is how it’s done," I’d say, tapping my stick. "This is the real sound."
The gig at The Blue Note was a disaster. Lena stopped playing after the first chorus. "This isn’t our sound, Mr. Jackson," she said, quiet but firm. The bassist packed up. They walked out. I stood there, sweat on my neck, the bandstand empty, the audience staring like I’d lost my mind. I’d chased the ghost of my younger self—the one who owned the room—and forgot the room was full of new music.
Afterward, I sat alone with a cold coffee, the silence louder than any drum solo. No one called. No one cared. Just me, the echo of my own voice in my head: You’re still chasing the high, aren’t you?
Here’s what I know after 78 years: The trap isn’t the failure. It’s the chase. You think you need the next note, the next big thing, to feel whole. But the music’s in the space between the notes. In the rest.
I learned to play the rest notes too. Not just the loud ones. The quiet ones. The ones where you listen instead of shouting. Now? I sit with the young players. I ask, "What’s your sound?" And I shut up.
— Roger Jackson, still playing