The Last Note

Here’s what I know after 78 years: standing alone isn’t strength. It’s just being alone.

Back in ’98, I opened "The Last Note" jazz club in the city. My wife had left, saying I was "too loud inside," and I thought, I’ll build something quiet, something just for me. I’d been a sideman my whole life—never the leader. But I’d read enough books about "taking charge." I poured every penny I had into the space, hired a few musicians I knew, and booked myself as the "featured artist."

Turns out, I was terrible at it. I’d show up late, forget to pay the band, and try to play every set alone. The club was empty most nights. The musicians quit. The landlord came after me. I’d sit in the empty chairs at 3 a.m., counting the same handful of dollars I’d made that night. One Tuesday, I almost picked up the bottle again. Just to fill the silence.

The failure wasn’t the money—I’d lost worse before. It was the shame of realizing I’d been playing a solo act when I’d never learned to listen. I’d been so busy being the drummer, I forgot the band needs a bassist, a piano, a reason to play together. I stood alone, and the music died.

After it closed, I didn’t get a second chance. I just sat with the quiet. My grandkids asked why I was sad. I told them, "I tried to be the whole song." They didn’t understand.

What I learned? You can’t build a life on "I got this." Not alone. Not ever. The best solos happen when you’re not alone—when you’re listening, not just playing. You learn to play the rest notes too. The silence between the beats? That’s where the real music lives.

I’m still learning. But now I know: standing alone is just a bad rhythm.

— Roger Jackson, still playing