ESSAY: Fading Stars

I believe that creativity has no expiration date. But there is another side to the story. Sometimes we watch an artist who we have loved for decades slowly fade before our eyes.

Recently I saw a ‘60s era superstar in concert. He will remain nameless for these purposes.

In my opinion, he was one of the greatest artists of the rock era. His songwriting, his guitar playing, his singing - all masterful.

Which is why seeing him recently was such a complicated experience for me.

He’s now in his eighties. Like all of us, he has aged. His voice has changed. His physical presence has changed. The effortless brilliance of youth has inevitably given way to something quieter and more fragile.

And perhaps what I found myself mourning was not so much him, but the realization that time eventually catches up to all of us.

The concert raised two questions for me. The first concerns the relationship between artists and audiences.

When audiences attend a concert by an artist whose career spans 60+ years, what are they hoping to hear? It’s pretty clear to me that the fans come to reconnect with the hits - the songs that became part of their lives. The songs attached to first loves, first apartments, marriages, children, friendships, and memories. Those songs belong not only to the artist but, in a real sense, to the audience as well.

So when an older artist loads new material and deep cuts into their set list, the audience is disappointed. In fact, Timothy B. Schmit, a member of the Eagles, said to me when I interviewed him on this show that the Eagles will never record a new album. Why? Because all that the fans want to hear are the hits.

That doesn’t mean that artists should stop creating new work. Far from it. I admire older artists who continue to write and record new music well into their eighties.

But there is a balance. Both Paul McCartney and James Taylor, for example, understand that in concert they must play the 25 or so songs that their fans want to hear. Then they can sprinkle in a few new ones.

The second question is even harder. How does an artist know when it is time to stop? Athletes face this question. Actors face this question. Musicians face it too.

There comes a point when talent remains but some of the tools that once expressed that talent begin to diminish. Voices change. Range disappears. Energy fades. The audience notices. The artist notices. And everyone involved understands what is happening, even if no one says it aloud.

This is not criticism. It is simply life. 

Perhaps that is why performances by older artists affect us so deeply. We are not simply watching our heroes age. We are confronting our own aging as well. The fading star becomes a mirror.

And maybe that is why audiences continue to give them standing ovations. Partly out of admiration. Partly out of gratitude. And partly because we understand that we are not merely applauding a performance. We are applauding a lifetime of artistry, creativity, and the memories these artists gave us along the way.

In the end, perhaps that is enough. Perhaps that is more than enough.

This is Robert Miller with Follow Your Dream.