This is 56: Writer/Musician Robert Burke Warren Responds to The Oldster Magazine Questionnaire

"By accident and by design, I’ve led an interesting life, with lots to draw on to connect to others, or to entertain."

From the time I was 10, I’ve been obsessed with what it means to grow older. I’m curious about what it means to others, of all ages, and so I’ve started “The Oldster Questionnaire.”

Here, author and musician Robert Burke Warren responds. - Sari Botton

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Robert Burke Warren at 56. (Photo by Juliet Lofaro.)

How old are you? 

56

Is there another age you associate with yourself in your mind? If so, what is it? And why, do you think?  

I keep thinking I’m in my late 30s/40s. Perhaps because, aside from my first decade, I feel I learned the most—about myself, my loved ones, my world—in that period. Seismic events from the early ‘aughts to 2015 often circle back to the front of my mind, for good and for ill. 

Do you feel old for your age? Young for your age? Just right? Are you in step with your peers?

Depends on the moment. If I’m creating and it’s going well, or experiencing pleasant physical exertion (or, ideally, both at the same time), I feel ageless, outside the time-space continuum. That’s part of the drug-like attraction of those things. But if I’m anxious or depressed, I feel vulnerable and lonesome as I imagine the very old, and/or very ill, feel.  

In step with my peers? Well. At this juncture, most of my peers are more financially secure than I, some eying retirement. Not an option for me. I burned a lot of ships in the harbor. But the vast majority of the time I do not regret that.

While I would like to be, say, 21 again, and all that implies, if I couldn’t possess what age has given me—my home, my wife, my son, my knowledge, my community, hard-won abilities that bring joy to myself and others—I would not do it. 

What do you like about being your age?

I mostly enjoy my growing wealth of experience. Aspects of my memory remain unusually sharp, a mostly good thing. I use memory in my work, and it helps for perspective and empathy. By accident and by design, I’ve led an interesting life, with lots to draw on to connect to others, or to entertain. I recall acutely feeling a poverty of experience when I was young, wondering what stories I would have down the pike. I don’t feel that anymore. 

Backyard performance. (Photo by Gregg Segal.)

I was a 33-year-old stay-at-home dad when I began devoting serious time and energy to writing songs and prose. That might seem like bad timing, but paradoxically, it wasn’t. Prior to that, I had time, and did some good work, but lacked focus. I am reminded of a Leonard Bernstein quote: “To achieve great things, two things are needed; a plan, and not quite enough time.” I heard that in my late twenties, when I ran with musical theatre folk. It only resonated in the last couple decades. Like an old, much-played acoustic guitar, I experience more resonance these days.

As I reckon with less time, I work harder. (Though I also relax more enthusiastically.) In some respects, narrowing of options has been a good thing. Here, closer to the end than the beginning, I’m a better writer, editor, guitar/bass player, and singer than ever. Better actor and performer. As I told AARP, evidently, removing the goal of “stardom” from the equation was just what I needed to acquire some solid skills. 

I’ve been surrounded by children the last couple decades – as a parent, performer, and teacher. It’s been deeply gratifying to teach the chord, the bass line, the song, the story, and watch it sink in and enrich students. Younger me would not have excelled at that (and did not foresee himself being a teacher). These days, I aspire to be a kind of rock and roll Gandalf, sharing the legit magical incantations that are songs. It’s coming along pretty well. Especially the hair and, y’know, the wrinkles. (No gnarled walking staff just yet.)

At this juncture, most of my peers are more financially secure than I, some eying retirement. Not an option for me. I burned a lot of ships in the harbor. But the vast majority of the time I do not regret that.

What is difficult about being your age?

The goodbyes. The body falling apart. Some short term memory loss (names, but not lyrics of songs). Longer recovery time. But mostly the goodbyes.

At present I am dealing with my most significant injury since I severely broke my left arm when I was 13. Recently, a very heavy object fell on the tip of my bare right big toe. Suffice to say it was grisly, and required many stitches (courtesy Mt. Sinai ER docs) and antibiotics. As the bone and skin heal, I am not permitted to drive, and I hobble around in a protective shoe. Probably three more weeks of both situations. Every time I say, “My podiatrist says…” I feel I’ve crossed some threshold. On top of the pain and all that, losing autonomy—even temporarily—is anxiety-producing. Rigorous exercise is part of my mental health regimen, so it’s been challenging. 

Seeing the world carry on spinning as I’m benched offers yet another bit of humbling clarity. Also instructive—as crises always are—is who has been empathetic and who has not. 

The stay-at-home dad years with young Jack. (Photo by Jimmy Cohrssen.)

I know I will recover, but at 56, I’m concerned about things like reduced mobility and arthritis. Age, too much knowledge, and poor compartmentalization skills have made me a worrier. Needless to say, I thought of none of that when I was 13. That arm I broke still aches when rain is coming, though. 

What is surprising about being your age, or different from what you expected, based on what you were told?

I was told parenthood would sap my strength, limit my creativity. The opposite was, and is, true. I was told I needed to seek out or create suffering and drama to produce good work. I learned that drama and suffering find everyone, no matter what. The most helpful thing for work, in my case, is stability.

With age comes increasing intimacy with grief. It has shaped me, compelled me and my loved ones in ways I would not have predicted. I tried to capture some of its vagaries (as experienced by my peers and me) in my novel Perfectly Broken. 

Years ago, to my surprise, my son likened me to “a modern day John Burroughs.” I’d been out of New York City a decade at that point, but I still considered myself an urbanite, a rocker who stank of diesel. But he was on to something. The natural world had begun to captivate me. He saw what was coming. I did not. Today, Mother Nature thrills, fascinates, and delivers me. Since Covid, this has ramped up significantly. I’ve learned a lot. I can bore you to tears talking about trees. 

At present I am dealing with my most significant injury since I severely broke my left arm when I was 13…On top of the pain and all that, losing autonomy—even temporarily—is anxiety-producing.

What has aging given you? Taken away from you?

Like everyone, physically, of course, aging has robbed me of stamina, flexibility, hair, and muscle mass, and it’s doing a number on my skin. At least I rarely get zits now. 

But surviving to what I hope is middle age, while others have not, has definitely given me perspective. Mainly meaning: if the ravages of aging bedevil me, I need only think of the growing number of friends and loved ones who died before their time - sometimes long before - or who suffer chronic illness, and I am more inclined to shut the fuck up. They would love the privilege of my problems. I am, objectively speaking, fortunate. 

As my 57-year-old big brother says, “Don’t bitch with your mouth full.”

As “Uncle Rock,” Robert Burke Warren knew how to get kids down for a nap.

How has getting older affected your sense of yourself, or your identity?

I’ve learned some stories I compulsively tell in my head, or out loud, are not real, are not me, even as I present them as such. Like anxiety, this is a complication of storyteller DNA.

I have come to realize forgiveness—for myself, and others—is a road, not a destination. It’s a daily practice, an active thing. Some days I’m on a more magnanimous stretch than others. However, I no longer worry unchecked spite will corrode me from the inside out. I know a lot of hale and hearty graying grudge-holders. The Graying Grudge-Holders may be my next band. 

I often seek and enjoy solitude, but I’ve learned I am not a loner. I need people, even as my physiology actively resists contact—a self-destructive impulse I now recognize. I’m not fiercely independent. I need help. I want you to want me. I need you to need me. 

What are some age-related milestones you are looking forward to? Or ones you “missed,” and might try to reach later, off-schedule, according to our culture and its expectations? 

I hope to be a hands-on, indispensable grandparent, or at least a great uncle. (Not immediately. But… you know.) I’ve been thinking more about going to college. I only did two semesters before casting my lot with the bohos.

I often tell people I was never more satisfied on a day-to-day basis than the four years I was a stay-at-home dad, when I stopped chasing the white stag of fame and gave all my energy to raising a child while his mother toiled in midtown to pay the bills.

What has been your favorite age so far, and why? Would you go back to this age if you could?

While I would like to be, say, 21 again, and all that implies, if I couldn’t possess what age has given me—my home, my wife, my son, my knowledge, my community, hard-won abilities that bring joy to myself and others—I would not do it. 

I often tell people I was never more satisfied on a day-to-day basis than the four years I was a stay-at-home dad, when I stopped chasing the white stag of fame and gave all my energy to raising a child while his mother toiled in midtown to pay the bills. ‘98 to ‘02. Age 33 to 37. But this might not be 100% true. As rich as it was, I often mused how cool it would be in the future when my kid and I could toast each other with single malt scotch, deeply discuss (and make) movies, share books, console and encourage each other, and drive across the country together. And I was right. Those things, among others, make me feel like I invested in Apple stock.

Is there someone who is older than you, who makes growing older inspiring to you? Who is your aging idol and why?

My wife and I recently saw 90-year-old David Amram perform onstage with his fantastic band that included his son on conga. The performance stunned me. Amram sang, played piano, penny whistle, djembe, and French horn—all expertly—and told fascinating stories. I’d met him 25 years previously, and he remembered me. He was vital, engaged, funny, kind, and fierce. 

I recall standing next to octogenarian Pete Seeger at the craft services table at Clearwater Festival in the mid-aughts. He was lean and muscled from cutting firewood for his and wife Toshi’s Beacon home, jeans held up with a rope belt, and a head full of righteous songs and stories. Everything around us—the festival, the cleaned-up Hudson River, the musicians gathered like leaves on a tree, the dancing, singing audiences—had come from the spark of his will. He could’ve retired after the 60s, and his icon status would’ve been intact, but no. He plowed ahead like a well-oiled steam engine (powered by something other than coal, you understand), working his skinny ass off for others, and getting up on a stage to celebrate it all, and to invoke other people’s better angels. And lo and behold, there he was, gnawing—with his own teeth—on a bagel. I thought, “That there is a badass old dude.” 

What aging-related adjustments have you recently made, style-wise, beauty-wise, health-wise?

I generally eschew sugar, meat, and processed stuff, although I occasionally binge on dark chocolate, cheese, and ice cream. I drink gallons of green tea with ginger, which improves my lipid profile. I routinely ride my bike up Woodland Valley Road and lift heavy stuff. I wear earplugs more. I floss and hydrate more. I mind my microbiome. 

I sometimes look back wistfully on days of eating and drinking garbage with no obvious effect on my body.

Style-wise, except for pleated pants, I dress pretty much the same as I did when I was 30. I even still wear a few items from the early 90s. 

What’s an aging-related adjustment you refuse to make, and why?

I refuse to begin an email without a salutation, and I refuse to end one without a sign-off.

As long as I can pull the slim fit jeans over my hips, I will wear them. I recently bought a new pair of Converse sneakers, too. I bought my first pair when I was 17. I plan to keep saying “RAD.”

What’s your philosophy on celebrating birthdays as an adult? How do you celebrate yours?

Like Patti Smith and her annual CBGB’s New Year’s birthday gigs (her birthday is 12/30), for a few years, I would book a show, and invite friends to come sing along with me. My immediate family would also be there—my wife and son. That’s historically been my favorite way to celebrate another run ‘round the sun. I look forward to doing that again. And again. 

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Robert Burke Warren is a writer, performer, teacher, and musician, author of novel Perfectly Broken and one-man show Redheaded Friend. His work appears in Longreads, Salon, Texas Music, Brooklyn Parent, The Woodstock Times, Paste, The Rumpus, The Bitter Southerner, and the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame, among others. You can find his music on albums by RuPaul, Rosanne Cash, and rockabilly queen Wanda Jackson; The Roots used his tune "The Elephant In the Room" as John McCain's entrance theme on Late Night with Jimmy Fallon. In the 90s, he performed the lead in the West End musical Buddy: The Buddy Holly Story. Prior to that he was a globetrotting bass player. He is currently editing Johnny Cash anthology Cash on Cash: Interviews & Encounters for Chicago Review Press, due in Autumn, 2022. He lives in Phoenicia, NY.