Imagine making your grand debut as a jazz musician
in New York City. The lights are glaring, the
critics are, you know, sitting right there in
the audience with their note paths. Oh yeah,
the pressure is just immense. Exactly. Now imagine
doing that for the very first time at age 60.
Right. Like after spending the previous three
decades designing electronic circuits in a cubicle
in Colorado. It's wild. It completely defies
the standard timeline of how a successful life
is supposed to unfold. It really does. Welcome
to the Deep Dive, everyone. If you're joining
us today, and a warm welcome to all you fellow
learners out there listening, our mission is
to explore one of the most fascinating, entirely
non -linear paths you'll probably ever encounter.
It really forces us to rethink the entire concept
of momentum. I mean, especially in the arts.
Right. We're pulling our insights today from
a single, deeply compelling source, which is
the Wikipedia biography of American jazz tenor
saxophonist Henry Bertholf Robinson. or as he
was universally known, Spike Robinson. Born in
1930, passed away in 2001. Yeah, and he left
behind this legacy that teaches us, honestly,
as much about patience as it does about music.
OK, let's unpack this. Where does this incredible
journey actually begin? Because we really can't
appreciate those 30 years he spent in an engineering
cubicle without understanding the absolute artistic
high he was walking away from. We have to start
in Kenosha, Wisconsin. where Spike was born in
1930. Like a lot of players of his generation,
he actually started out on the alto saxophone.
Oh, not the tenor. No, not at first. The alto
is a bit smaller, higher in pitch. It's often
easier for a young student to handle before making
the switch to the tenor sax. Right, the tenor
being larger and deeper. Exactly, which would
eventually become his signature voice. But he
had the horn in his hands by age 12. The real
catalyst, though, came in 1948 when he joined
the U .S. Navy as a musician. OK, so for a kid
from Wisconsin, in the late 1940s. The military
was basically a primary ticket out into the wider
world. Oh, absolutely. And the Navy didn't just
send him anywhere. By 1950 they stationed him
in the United Kingdom. Which is where the story
really accelerates, right? Because he's overseas,
but he's not just, you know, staying on the base.
playing military marches. Far from it. He finds
his way into the very heart of the London jazz
scene. The source material points out that he
was regularly jamming at these legendary venues.
Like Club Eleven and the Downbeat Club. And Studio
51, and to put that in context for you, these
weren't just random pubs with the stage in the
corner. In 1950, London was experiencing this
massive cultural shift. Post -World War II, right?
Exactly. There was this huge hunger for the new
radical sounds coming out of America, specifically
bebop. And bebop was fast, complex, heavily improvised,
and frankly, Kind of rebellious. It was the absolute
cutting edge of music at the time. And Spike,
this 20 -year -old Navy kid, is right there in
the epicenter. He's trading solos with the leading
figures of the British bebop movement. Wow. Yeah,
guys like Tommy Pollard, Johnny Dankworth, and
this is important, a young prodigy named Victor
Feldman. We'll definitely come back to that name
later. And he even ends up recording for Carlo
Kramer's Esquire label, right? Which is a really
vital independent jazz label back then. He did.
It's basically like. It's like an international
study abroad trip where you just wander into
a local club and accidentally become a rock star.
That is the perfect way to describe it. You're
accepted by the elite players of a major global
capital. You're making records. You are living
the dream. And he had a safety net too. Right.
He was insulated by his military. income. His
nights were purely about the art. He didn't have
to worry about whether playing complex bebop
would sell enough tickets to, you know, buy his
dinner. The Navy was feeding him. Total artistic
freedom. Exactly. But then the deployment ends.
The reality check. Yeah. The Navy transfers him
back home to the U .S. and he gets demobilized.
Suddenly he's thrust back into civilian life,
specifically into the Chicago area music scene.
And the sources are very clear about this. He
was deeply unhappy with it. The contrast must
have been incredibly jarring. Oh, it had to be.
In London, he was part of an avant -garde movement.
Back in Chicago in the early 1950s, as a civilian,
he suddenly had to face the brutal, uncompromising
economics of being a gigging musician. Because
the post -war music economy was shifting, right?
Big bands were dying out. Exactly. Smaller combos
were fighting for scraps. And to make a living,
a saxophone player often had to play commercial
dance music or back up pop singers or just play
in styles they didn't creatively respect. The
Daily Hustle. taking gigs you hate just to make
rent, dealing with shady club owners, the constant
travel, the instability. I mean, I get why that's
draining. But I still don't get it, though. What
do you mean? If you love music so much, why not
just like move to New York, get a day job teaching
music, and play the clubs at night? Why make
a massive pivot completely out of the industry?
Well, because teaching music still ties your
financial survival to your instrument. Oh, interesting
point. If you teach all day, you're still exhausting
your musical energy to pay the bills. Spike decided
to use the GI Bill and go to university for electronic
engineering. By choosing a field completely unrelated
to the saxophone, he protected his art from that
corrosive anxiety of survival. That makes a lot
of sense, actually. And why electronics specifically?
Electronic engineering in the 1950s and 60s was
an exploding field. It required deep focus, meticulous
problem solving, and a highly logical mind to
understand circuits and transistors. Plus, it
offered immense stability. So he makes this profound
shift from the smoky basement jazz clubs of London
to the brightly lit engineering classrooms of
the American Midwest. And he really commits to
it. For the majority of the next three decades,
he lives and works as an electronic engineer
in Colorado. 30 years. Yeah, 30 years. He's a
corporate guy building a stable life thousands
of miles away from the music industry epicenters.
But, and this is the crucial detail the biography
provides, he never actually stopped playing.
No, he didn't. He didn't just lock the saxophone
in a case in the attic. He continued to play
tenor saxophone at local clubs in Colorado. So
he kept his jobs up. And he wasn't just, you
know, playing alone in his basement either. The
records show that a constant musical companion
during these Colorado years was Dave Gruesome.
Yes. Dave Gruessen? And for anyone listening
who might not know that name, Dave Gruessen would
eventually go on to become a massive Oscar -winning
film composer, an absolute titan in the music
industry. Right, so Spike is still surrounding
himself with staggering talent, just in a localized,
low -pressure environment. Let me push back on
the standard narrative for a second. Standard
bios might say he abandoned music for 30 years,
but did he? Or did he just figure out a genius
way to fund his passion without the stress of
the hustle? What's fascinating here is the psychological
benefit of this era. By taking that engineering
job, Spike removed the pressure for his music
to be a commodity. Yeah, that's a huge dist -
When your art doesn't have to feed you, you only
play what you want to play. You don't have to
chase trends, you don't have to play aggressively
to stand out in a crowded New York club. He was
unknowingly using those 30 years in Colorado
as an incubator. Exactly. He was refining his
sound, maturing as a human being, and preserving
a pure - uncorrupted love for the melody. So
he spends 30 years building circuits by day and
playing local gigs by night. But a holding pattern,
even a comfortable one, only works if you eventually
break out of it. What was the catalyst that finally
pulled him back into the professional spotlight?
Well, that brings us to the late 1970s and early
1980s. The engineering career has provided for
him, his skills have stayed razor sharp, and
the past finally comes calling in a way that
feels almost scripted. Right, because in 1981,
he returns to the professional recording studio
to make the album Spike Robinson Plays Harry
Warren. And pay attention to who is in the studio
with him. On bass, he has Ray Brown. Ray Brown,
Ella Fitzgerald's bassist, a member of the Oscar
Peterson Trio, arguably one of the greatest jazz
bassists to ever live. The fact that Spike could
step into a studio with Rhea Brown after 30 years
away speaks volumes about the level he had maintained.
But the truly significant name on that record...
is the pianist. Victor Feldman. Yes. The exact
same Victor Feldman he was jamming with in the
London bebop clubs back in 1950. Here's where
it gets really interesting. Look at the beautiful
geographic and interpersonal symmetry here. It
is profound. Victor Feldman was there at the
genesis of Spike's artistic awakening in the
UK. They spoke the same musical language as kids.
And three decades later, Feldman acts as the
bridge back into the professional recording world.
Wow. So it's not just a reunion. It's a validation.
Exactly. Feldman's presence essentially signaled
to the jazz world that Spike Robinson was the
real deal, like an unearthed treasure. So the
spark is lit again. The 1981 album happens. And
a few years later, in 1984, a British fan encourages
Spike to come back and tour the UK. The very
place where the magic started. Right. And it's
like finally launching the passion project business
you've been tinkering with in your garage for
30 years and having it become an overnight success.
Because he goes over and the tour is a runaway
success. He's playing with top -tier British
Jasmine people like Dick Morrissey, pianist Bill
LaSage, bassist Alec Dankworth, drummer Bill
Iden. And the reception is so overwhelmingly
positive that Spike finally makes the ultimate
leap. He takes early retirement from his engineering
job in Colorado to pursue music full -time. He
cashes out of the pragmatic life to return to
the artistic life, but the key difference is
that now he's doing it on his own terms. He isn't
a starving 20 -something forced to play gigs
he hates anymore. No, he's a fully formed, financially
secure adult stepping onto the stage purely for
the love of the craft. I really want to track
this late blooming stardom because he was incredibly
prolific once he made that leap. Through the
1980s and the early 1990s, he's performing at
clubs and festivals all over the UK, across Europe,
and back in the US. Yeah, the source notes that
he made his New York debut at Christmas in 1990.
At 60 years old, that's just incredible. Yeah.
And he was recording extensively during this
period for respected labels like HEP, Discovery,
and Concord. He essentially crammed an entire
career's worth of output into his later years.
He was playing as a band leader, but also recording
alongside other deeply respected figures. Right.
The biography highlights collaborations with
people like guitarist Louis Stewart, trumpeter
Harry Edison, and fellow saxophonists like Al
Cohn, Roy Williams, and Claude Tessendia. He
even moved permanently to England in 1989. He
went back to the geographic location that had
always nurtured his sound. Yeah. And he kept
pushing boundaries too. In the year 2000, when
he is 70 years old, he forms a band called Young
Lions, Old Tigers. With UK saxophonist Derek
Nash, drummer Pete Kader, bassist Rob Rickenberg
and pianist Nick Weldon. They release an album
and it wins Jazz CD of the Year in the British
Jazz Awards. Which is huge. Winning a major national
award at 70 years old is a testament to the fact
that his playing wasn't just some nostalgic novelty.
He was objectively brilliant, contemporary and
deeply resonant with audiences and critics alike.
Sadly, though, we know from the text that Spike
passed away the following year, in October 2001.
In Riddle, England, at the age of 71. Right.
But he left behind this incredibly rich discography
and a very specific, universally praised playing
style. Let's actually dig into that style because
the sources describe his playing with a few key
phrases. A mellow tone. An unaggressive approach.
and a deep affinity for the classic American
songbook. Yeah, broadly speaking, he was categorized
as part of the Lester Young School of tenor saxophonists.
What does that actually mean for the listener
who isn't, you know, jazz historian? Well, when
you think of a saxophone, you might picture the
aggressive, rapid -fire, almost frantic playing
of someone like John Coltrane or Charlie Parker.
Sure, lots of fast notes, very loud. Right. That
style is about pushing the physical limits of
the instrument. But the Lester Young School,
which includes players like Stan Getz and Zoot
Sims, is the opposite. OK, how so? It's about
floating over the rhythm. The player doesn't
bite down hard on the reed. They let the air
flow smoothly. it creates a breathier, lighter,
more relaxed sound. Got it. It's a style that
favors beautiful, lyrical melodies over showy,
complex acrobatics. So what does this all mean
for you listening right now? Think about the
physical mechanics of that style. Does a mellow,
unaggressive, breathy tone perfectly reflect
a man who spent 30 years patiently waiting? If
we connect this to the bigger picture, it's impossible
to separate the sound of his horn from the shape
of his life. His playing was unrushed because
his life ultimately had become unrushed. He had
an engaging, patient voice on the saxophone because
he had spent decades living a patient, meticulous
life as an engineer. That's a great point. An
engineer has to respect the logic and flow of
a circuit board. You can't just force electricity
to do what it doesn't want to do. Exactly. Similarly,
Spike didn't try to force the music. He mastered
the classic American songbook because he literally
lived alongside those melodies for 70 years.
You wasn't trying to prove his technical dominance
with frantic playing? No, he was just expressing
a deep, mature understanding of the song. And
you cannot fake that kind of relaxed mastery.
It requires life experience. It requires a maturity
that you simply do not possess when you're frantically
sprinting through your 20s trying to make a name
for yourself. And that is the true value of the
30 -year detour. The art needed the artist to
go live a normal life for a while. He had to
go experience the routine of a day job, the discipline
of engineering, the quiet evenings in Colorado.
All of that life experience accumulated so that
when he finally picked the instrument back up
in a professional studio, he actually had something
meaningful to say. Just to synthesize this incredible
arc we've been exploring, Spike Robinson went
from a teenage saxophonist in the Navy to a dazzling
bebop kid at the center of the London jazz scene
to a practical meticulous electronics engineer
in Colorado for 30 long years. and then completely
rewriting the rules of how careers are supposed
to function, he reemerged in his 60s and 70s
to become an award -winning international jazz
star. He lived three distinct lives and every
single one of them was a necessary prerequisite
for the next, which leaves us with a really vital
question to consider as we wrap up. Today we
live in the era of the creator economy. There's
this immense societal pressure that says if you
have a hobby, a passion, or a talent, you must
instantly monetize it. Oh, absolutely. You have
to turn it into a side hustle, build a brand,
market yourself, and hustle until it becomes
your full -time job. Right. The idea that an
unmonetized passion is somehow a wasted opportunity.
Which is exhausting. It really is. But Spike
Robinson's life asks us to reconsider that entirely.
What if the pressure to constantly monetize our
passions is actually killing our potential for
true mastery? What if, by keeping his music completely
separate from his financial survival for 30 years,
Spike Rodinson achieved a level of pure, uncorrupted
artistry that the modern creator economy makes
almost impossible? That is something to think
about. As you go about your day, ask yourself,
is there something in your life that you love
doing? that might actually benefit from being
hidden away, kept entirely for yourself, unhurried
and unmonetized, until you are truly ready to
share it with the world. A reminder that sometimes
the best thing you can do for your art is to
just go get a day job. Thanks for exploring the
brilliant, wildly nonlinear life of Spike Robinson
with us today. Keep learning, keep listening,
and we'll catch you on the next Deep Dive.