Since 1994, John Goldsby has held the position of solo bassist with the Grammy Award-winning Westdeutscher Rundfunk Big Band (Cologne Radio Big Band). From 1980 to 1994, Goldsby was a fixture on the New York jazz scene. Goldsby’s recent recordings as bandleader include Segment (Billy Test & Hans Dekker), The Innkeeper’s Gun, Space for the Bass, Live at the Nachbar, and The Visit. With the WDR Big Band, Goldsby performs and records with stars like Joe Lovano, Patti Austin, Maceo Parker, Jacob Collier, Knower, Antonio Sanchez, Chucho Valdes and others. Goldsby has authored The Jazz Bass Book, Jazz Bowing Techniques for the Improvising Bassist, and Bass Notes. His new video lesson series is available at Discover Double Bass, and he teaches at Conservatorium Maastricht (NL).

John Goldsby, interviewed by Heather O’Donnell

HO: You’re very well-known as a jazz bassist and long-standing member of the WDR Big Band and have a long and rich career behind you. Are there any aspects of your biography (aside from what can be read on your website) that you’d like to share, especially related to musicians’ mental and physical health, or the social realities (the good and the bad) of life as a musician?

JG: The part of my biography that I don’t often mention is that I have a great relationship with my tight-knit family. My wife and two kids are my close family and also great friends and confidants. I can talk about anything with them and we support each other unconditionally.

HO: You’ve been generous about sharing your experience with a very serious health issue that’s occurred in the last years. Can you talk about that?

JG: The current diagnosis is stage 4 breast cancer, with metastases in the bones. To treat this, I had a spinal fusion operation plus radiation therapy in the fall of 2019. Now I’m taking medication (hormone therapy) to keep the cancer in check and getting monthly infusions of bone-growth medications to fight the progression of the disease.

Most people think of any type of cancer diagnosis as a death sentence without realizing that there are countless variations of cancer in all stages of progression. One of the first doctors I spoke with after my cancer diagnosis explained that everyone who is alive is in some stage of dying—yet most people don’t accept that fact or they are in a state of denial about what will eventually happen to them.

Even before my illness, I noticed that posts on social media about a serious illness—a death or a musician with health problems—are often sensationalized and filled with less-than-accurate information. Some people like to be the bearer of bad news or tragedy, and they often click and spread a post about someone without thinking. Most people are good-hearted, and they want to share something that touches them — maybe they’ve never thought about death (and certainly never about their own impending demise), and re-posting information or an obit of someone they may or may not know well helps them unconsciously deal with their own mortality.

I decided within a few days of my diagnosis to start a blog on CaringBridge—a website that is designed for people dealing with health issues. By writing my own blog posts I can control the information and narrative about what is happening. If I know a bit of information, I try to explain it; if I don’t know, I share that as well. People can access the website and comment and send good vibes, prayers or support. It certainly helps me to know that a lot of people are rooting for me, but I think it also gives these important people in my life a way to check in with me without having to make an awkward call or send an uncomfortable email. It’s important to me to be able to communicate with people in my close circle as well as let people communicate with me on whatever level we know each other. I have a lot of music colleagues, students and fans who are curious about the facts of the situation.

The blog has turned out to be a good outlet for me, and also for friends, family and bass-fans who want to check in, but who maybe haven’t wanted to call or write directly.

I knew that the news of my illness would spread fast because the WDR Big Band is rehearsing, performing and posting live streams and videos all the time. After I received my first diagnosis, I was somewhat in shock, trying to figure out what this meant for the near- and long-term.

On the day of my diagnosis in August 2019, I was also scheduled to play a concert later that night. I received the bombshell diagnosis, still managed to play the concert and went home afterwards completely devastated. My highest priority was to my family and I was trying to sort out all of the feelings and concerns I have about them. The first diagnosis was lung cancer that had metastasized in the bones, which portends a quick death. The diagnosis would change for the better in following months—stage 4 breast cancer with metastases in the bones and lung—which is a horrible, yet more treatable disease than lung cancer. At first the outlook was dire, and I had no idea what the treatment or prognosis might be.

In addition to thinking about my family, I also thought that the concert I had just played—a festive but low-key affair—would be the last time I ever played the bass. The radiologist had given a serious warning: Don’t carry any weight at all, because my spine was extremely fragile, and a couple of vertebrae were already fractured. The risk of complete paralysis was quite high.

I wrote an email the next day describing my situation to my immediate colleagues. I asked them not to spread the news on social media, because no one really had a precise diagnosis or plan of action at that point.

Since I’m a bit well-known in the bass community (a small but active worldwide community of bass players), I sent out a couple of press releases to bass magazines that I write for sometimes.

At the same time, I was continuing to post on normal social media channels about mundane stuff—music videos, bass trivia and such. I might be dying of cancer, but I’m still escaping into the internet and posting bass videos and links to music I’ve discovered! Most casual friends and followers on social media would not pick up the delicate intricacies of a life-threatening illness—so I didn’t address the illness at all on normal social media channels. I didn’t want to be the “sad news of the day” on Facebook, Twitter and Instagram, and I wanted to contain the flow of information regarding my situation. My real friends could find information on Caring Bridge, or they could just call me or send an email.

HO: I’d imagine that the process of managing and navigating this crisis had profound effects on your way of working. Can you talk about how your work was affected, both in terms of practical, external changes to your work that had to occur, and also in terms of internal changes and processes (like thoughts, emotions, sense of identity)?

JG: I was in the hospital twice in the first couple of months after my diagnosis. My first feelings had more to do with everyday treatment and survival, although I still thought about music a lot. When I had procedures or scans, I would just think through songs and sets of music in my head—trying to distract from whatever weird thing was being done to my body (like lying motionless in a PET scan tube for 45 minutes while being pumped with radioactive chemicals). But my thoughts were not focused on how terrible it would be if I didn’t play the bass again. I’ve always held the opinion that there are enough musicians in the world—musicians come and go, and the best ones leave some kind of legacy and people listen to them play long after they have passed away.

When I was first recovering from spinal fusion surgery (I have 16 titanium screws and a lot of cement holding my spine together), I was told by the physical therapist in the hospital that I wouldn’t be able to lift anything over five kilos. A double bass weighs about 10 to 12 kilos, when it’s not in a soft case. In the case, it’s probably closer to 16 kilos. When a doctor confirmed that the recommendation would be not to lift more than five kilos, I had the thought that I would stop playing the bass. It’s hard to be a bassist if you can’t pick the thing up.

I was almost immediately at peace with my thoughts about giving up the bass. It didn’t make sense to torture myself over the fact that my back would not support the weight of a double bass. It’s not as if the world needs more bass players, and over the years I’ve made a decent contribution to raising the standard of playing and furthering the tradition of the music. If I stopped today, I would still feel like I’ve “done enough.” I honestly didn’t feel like it would be a loss to give that up and let someone else play the bass.

I was at peace with giving up the bass, but I couldn’t help myself—I wanted to pick up the instrument and see if I could still play. In the weeks following the operation, I started playing the electric bass because it’s easier to pick up and hold than the double bass. I began playing every day for a few minutes—literally for just one or two minutes—then for longer periods, until I finally had the stamina to play for an hour or so. It hurt. I was feeling the weird effects of having 16 titanium screws implanted in my spine, and weak from radiation therapy. But I was playing the bass again—I was still a bass player. Eventually I began playing the double bass again—not moving it, just grabbing it from the standing position and playing. It hurt—but also felt great.

Since I work in a full-time ensemble, I was also very lucky that we have stage managers and road crew to move equipment, including my double bass. Once I got comfortable with other people moving and setting up my bass, I just walked into the studio or onstage, grabbed the bass from the stand and played. This situation lasted for quite a few months, until I got the okay from the doctor that I could indeed lift and move the bass on my own if I was careful.

After the initial diagnosis in August, 2019, I had the spinal fusion surgery at the beginning of October, followed by radiation therapy for 5 weeks that ended in November. By the middle of January, I was back to a full schedule—rehearsing, recording and playing concerts with the WDR Big Band. Nothing was easy in those five months between diagnosis, operations, radiation therapy and the return to playing music. But I was alive. Now, every day when I wake up, I’m thrilled to be alive.

HO: When navigating moments of crisis, one draws on support systems. Can you describe your supports? The people, things, and processes that help you navigate the difficult phases?

JG: My wife and children were rock-solid pillars of support for me through my crises. My wife Robin especially rose to the occasion in her superstar style, because she had to deal with my day-to-day requirements of getting me to doctors, my feelings of pain and nausea, making smoothies or something else that I might possibly want to eat or drink, crying with me, laughing with me and above all just accepting me and my situation. I know the situation is just as hard on the family of patients who are suffering, so I strive to support and care for my family, even in the midst of an unforgiving disease.

I have some very good friends who would call or drop by to offer their support. It’s hard to know what to do as a friend for someone who is suffering. The best moments that I experienced were the friends who could just accept the situation without trying too hard to look for solutions. That’s very hard for people to do, because we always want to look for something or someone to blame, and we’re trying to fix situations that we see as unjust. Cancer presents the ultimate unjust situation, and that’s why it’s known as the emperor of all diseases. Knowing that I’m fighting a foe that has no emotions or ulterior motive provides a certain freedom. The cancer will ultimately win because it’s so good at what it does. It’s like going to a casino—the longer one stays—the longer one survives—the better the odds that the house will win.

Since no one is getting out of this existence alive, there’s no reason to be pissed off at a disease of the human body. If the cancer doesn’t get you, it will be the diabetes, heart attack, stroke, Corona virus, traffic accident, freak fall from a high place or just plain old age. Until my appointed time comes, I plan to seize each day—whether that means waking up and just lounging around the house all day feeling tired or playing a concert that will be seen and heard by thousands of people. Every day is still a great day, full of some kind of possibility.

HO: Every musician’s health story is very individual, but it is often helpful and provides of sense of shared experience to read examples of how others navigate crisis phases. Given your experience in the past years, are there any words of advice you would like to offer to other musicians or performing artists who are navigating difficult phases?

JG: Every musician or artist is a person first. Don’t lose touch with your humanity and the beauty of being a living, breathing person—even if you’re suffering.

The Beauty of Being a Living, Breathing Person

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Living to Tell the Tale