I'm 66. Walked away in 2007, as I just could not face everything that goes with it: The endless soap opera of musicians, the ridiculous club pay in Nashville, the increasingly belligerence of club patrons (Lord Help, I shudder to think of what it's like today), drunks, drugs, on and on. Any itch to do it was cauterized out of me by the landscape of where I'd have to do it, both in a practical sense, and an emotional and spiritual sense.
A few years later, I was at a big local Flea Market, and they had a band for the afternoon. Guys my age, but the usual look: Alternately bored stiff, or suddenly perked up, hollering at the crowd, 'y'all ready to ROCK?', playing the same setlist of past-tired old warhorses, and most of them with a belly, board shorts, print surf shirts . . . . and ponytails. It was a moment of clarity for me.
That . . . . . nailed the coffin shut, the backhoe did its job, and they filled in the hole and put sod back over it.
Never . . . . again.