Bill Wyman turned 90 last month. Wyman, the longtime Rolling Stones bassist—both for a long time and a long time ago, because both can be true where the Stones are concerned—marked the occasion by appearing on a podcast called Rosebud, whose host, 78-year-old whippersnapper Gyles Brandreth, introduced Wyman as the “oldest living rocker in the world.”
Like the Stones’ fabled billing as “the greatest rock ’n’ roll band in the world,” that distinction is debatable. Ninety-something Rock & Roll Hall of Famers Buddy Guy and Willie Nelson are still on the road. Wyman arguably isn’t even the oldest living rocker who’s been interviewed on Rosebud; Petula Clark, whose hit single “Downtown” beat out the Beatles at the Grammys for the “Best Rock and Roll Recording” of 1964, guested last year at age 92. Nonetheless, few would dispute that 90 more than meets the minimum requirement to be considered geriatric, and not just by rock-star standards. The Rolling Stones have been famously “old” for roughly 50 years; Mick Jagger was asked about the band’s aging fan base in 1973. But 90 is no joke. To turn 90 is to be—as Wyman once sang—in another land. As an elderly Roger Angell wrote, the unspoken reaction to seeing someone that age who’s still compos mentis and mobile is, “Holy shit—he’s still vertical!”
Wyman, who holds his bass vertical but ceased rolling with the Stones in 1993, was the last to join the band, and its oldest member by several years. The surviving Stones who stayed in harness are, reassuringly, no older than 83; Mick and Keith Richards are octogenarians (something of an upset, in Keith’s case), but Ronnie Wood is still a sprightly, cancer-surviving 79. That trio has long outlasted and/or outlived the original rhythm section: Charlie Watts, who died in 2021, would have been 85 today; Brian Jones, a charter member of the 27 Club, 84.
I have no great affection for Wyman, an impassive stage presence and impenetrable personality with a sordid sexual history even for a former Stone. But the realization that ’60s rockers can be nonagenarians now rocked me.
Sixty years after the ’60s, the surviving stars of the era are way past “It’s better to burn out” and firmly into “fade away.” But there’s more than one way to fade away. When Wyman quit the Stones, burned out on being a rock star, Richards supposedly told him, “No one leaves this band unless they’re in a wooden box.” Wyman opted to exit under his own power, and though he kept making music—occasionally with the Stones—he hasn’t played a live show in a decade. Some of his musical contemporaries, by contrast, have continued to tour even though they may have to be wheeled, carried, or escorted off the stage. And so, as aging Americans refuse to retire or surrender their car keys, some senescent musicians are reluctant to turn in their tour buses. When is it time for them to drop the mic?
Or, for that matter, the Mike? The most dismaying reminder of musical mortality this fall came not from Wyman, but from Ryman—as in, the storied auditorium in Nashville, where the legal entity known as the Beach Boys played what may have been its last-ever concert, two weeks before Wyman’s big birthday.
Mike Love, cousin to the three late Wilson brothers who formed the backbone of the Beach Boys, is the last original or classic-era member in the band that bears that name; keyboardist/bassist Bruce Johnston left the group in March, though he and on-again, off-again guitarist David Marks recently reunited onstage with the quasi-ageless (but actually 84-year-old) Al Jardine, who tours separately with the remnants of Brian Wilson’s Pet Sounds Band. Decades ago, the Beach Boys released a self-titled record that’s sometimes styled as The Beach Boys ’85; now, Love is 85, and as a single from that album lamented, it’s gettin’ late. The band’s marketing copy proclaims, “The Beach Boys found in their music the key to unfading youth.” That may be true of the music, but the remaining music-makers are, unfortunately, fading. As another track on that mid-’80s comeback album observed, it’s just a matter of time.
Love emitted middle-aged vibrations for most of his life, but lately he’s left that phase far behind. The vocalist looked and sounded increasingly frail at the Beach Boys’ concerts this summer, and the band canceled dozens of shows and took a few months off for its lone claim to fame to “recharge.” But when the “Boys” returned to the road, in Cincinnati on October 10 and Nashville the next night, Love seemed further diminished. Thin and hoarse, he had to be lifted into and out of a chair at center stage, where he slumped almost motionless. He briefly addressed the crowd and contributed sporadic backing vocals, but was largely a spectator (if that) at his own gig, a frontman only by virtue of where his seat was set up.
There’s a scene in Season 5 of Curb Your Enthusiasm where Larry David stares aghast at his hobbled friend Richard Lewis as he limps along a hospital corridor. The ailing comedian, Larry later tells his wife, “was like the specter of death.” In actuality, Lewis had close to 20 years left to live. Love’s appearance last month made Lewis look robust, and clips of the performance made the rubbernecking rounds.
Love looked so far from stage-ready that actor and honorary Beach Boy John Stamos (Love’s musical protégé), along with Love’s son Christian, came out to prepare the audience before they hauled Love out to his chair. “[Mike] is here tonight,” Stamos explained. “He’s been going through some health issues. He’s had to cancel some shows. But he would not miss tonight. We sort of said ‘Stay home,’ but he was like, ‘No, I’m going to Cincinnati.’” Love’s son said, “As a family member, you want him to stay home and get healthy, but as a fan you want to see him come out and do the music, so tonight we’re gonna support him in doing what he loves to do, which is coming here and refusing to cancel this one.”
The backlash to Love’s appearance on October 10 was such that Stamos posted a lengthy message about Love’s “serious health challenges” hours before the Ryman show, in which he admitted, “there’s a part of me that wonders if this could be the last time I get to stand behind Mike.” Stamos added, “Despite doctors, family and friends urging him to focus on his health, he insists on being on stage. He says he needs his band, the audience, his friends and drummer surrounding him to lift him up.”
Love, who has previously attributed his condition to his “ongoing recovery from what started out as bronchitis, followed by COVID,” exacerbated by grief over the deaths of his sister and his cousin Brian, told The New York Times via email that “being onstage this past weekend fed my soul and gave me an incredible lift.” He added, “I’m putting my full energy into rehab so I can get back to the music and the best fans in the world.” A few shows scheduled for this week were subsequently canceled or replaced by dates for a Loveless version of the band billed as “John Stamos and the California Sound.” Only one Beach Boys concert is still scheduled, for next May in Alberta. After roughly 7,500 performances, the Beach Boys may Love and Mercy-fully be finished as an active, touring unit.
Love, who was inducted into the Songwriters Hall of Fame last year, has long been unlikable on a lot of levels, but even his haters hated to see him like that. “It’s shocking and I was really depressed,” Jardine, who’s clashed with Love for years, told Rolling Stone about his reaction to the videos. “I had to really shake myself out of it just to get onstage. Just the optics of it were just awful and I’m speechless. … That’s just not right, that I can see. … I really pity his situation, as we all do. It’s horrible.” Dean Torrence, of Beach Boys–adjacent surf rock duo Jan and Dean, said, “He’s not well, and he’s struggling, but he’s not going to stop until it’s really over. And I think he wants to probably even die on the road.”
Viewed one way, there’s something sad and self-serving about Love’s refusal to relinquish the stage. For 55 years, Love has been dogged by a line that ran in Rolling Stone in 1971, in which producer David Anderle summed up Love’s reluctance to alter the Beach Boys’ early, successful sound: “Mike wanted the bread, ‘and don’t fuck with the formula.’” Although Love has always maintained that he never uttered those words, the mindset they summed up manifested itself in his relentless touring, as he leaned into the Beach Boys’ frozen-in-time, oldies-act appeal one county fair or casino at a time. Maybe the final form of not fucking with the formula is resolving not to stop, even in extremis.
Yet there was also something poignant, even admirable, about Love’s willingness—no, eagerness—to get out there even in a condition that caused consternation. In the same Rolling Stone interview, Jardine said, “He lives for the stage, so I don’t think any amount of coercion or suggestion is going to change his mind. He lives for that. … It’s really tough to quit something that you’ve been doing for 65 years. We can’t imagine life any other way.” He also told The Times, “Mike is the epitome of that show business mentality. And I think that’s what keeps Mike up there, no matter what the cost is.”
Love isn’t alone. Torrence recalled doing shows with his declining partner before the latter’s death in 2004: “I had hoped that he just physically wouldn’t be able to do shows, and admit that he needs to pull the plug on it. That wasn’t Jan. I swear to God, at one point I visualized him in an iron lung onstage with a beer, because he would take it that far.” Brian Wilson was almost catatonic at times toward the end of his touring days. An 84-year-old Chuck Berry collapsed mid-concert. Frankie Valli, now 92—who’s been caught on camera looking out of sorts and silent onstage—has denied that he lip-syncs, that he’s retired, and that he’s a victim of elder abuse (which has become a concern regarding Gladys Knight). The phenomenon of not knowing when to go isn’t limited to rock musicians; in his later years, a fatigued, forgetful Frank Sinatra routinely flubbed lyrics.
Some musicians who do call it quits eventually unretire, like a lot of athletes who suit up for a few more swings or snaps after temporarily walking away. Rod Argent suffered a stroke and retired from touring in 2024, but he just performed publicly (and skillfully). Phil Collins, who “put [Genesis] to bed” in 2022 and hasn’t played live solo since his “Still Not Dead Yet” tour ended in 2019 (shortly after he took a tumble onstage), has dealt with diabetes, spinal injuries, knee surgeries, and nerve damage that prevented him from playing drums. Yet he’s contemplating a comeback. For lifelong performers, it’s hard not to hear the applause. Gazing at his empty backyard in 2024, Valli told The Washington Post, “Out there, on the lawn, there’s no audience.”
Maybe the test of whether it’s worth it to tour comes down to motivation. Is the artist doing it for the audience, or for themselves? And, more important: Can they still put on a good show? There’s no need for a mandatory rock retirement age: If you can’t rock me, retire, but if you can rock, roll on.
The older people get, the more variable their physical conditions become, compared to others in their age cohort. Richard Lloyd of Television died at 75 on Saturday. Richard Springthorpe, a.k.a. Rick Springfield, is not only alive and performing at 77, but leather-clad from the waist down, shirtless from the waist up, and ripped. Some ’60s legends still sound more or less like their old (young) selves: Jagger, Jardine, Colin Blunstone, Steve Winwood, Jon Anderson, Paul Rodgers. But they’re the exceptions.
When weighing whether to purchase (probably pricey) tickets to see a legacy group, a potential attendee has to answer a series of questions. How many original members remain? (If any do.) How do they sound? And what are the odds that they’ll make it to the stage? Many of the biggest draws on the rock-star senior circuit have canceled or postponed events this year for medical reasons. In June, 81-year-old Rod Stewart used an oxygen tank to keep himself from fainting after finishing a rendition of “Young Turks,” then announced that “The show must go on.” But it couldn’t continue indefinitely: In August, Stewart canceled the rest of his tour after undergoing a coronary stent procedure. Some lifers concede to arthritis or heart surgery; others soldier on.
These days, the last performers still standing often sit onstage. They rarely do duck walks, split-leg jumps, or many moves like Jagger (except for Jagger himself, who says “There’s nothing good about [aging]” but has handled the bad better than most). Then again, does it matter if Art Garfunkel sings seated, as long as his pipes still soar? Seeing a ’60s relic is more about being in the presence of a cherished artist than it is about hearing them make art. I sought out Paul Simon (who retired from touring in 2018, only to say “psych!” in 2025) at Forest Hills Stadium this summer not because I expected him to sound like prime Ryman Rhymin’ Simon, but because I hoped I’d get goosebumps hearing him perform an acoustic, unaccompanied “The Sound of Silence” in the borough of his birth. And I did.
That said, would I see him again? Probably not; I’ve crossed that concert off the bucket list. As Dean said of his latter-day shows with Jan, “People really liked it, once. So as long as you could play in towns that you hadn’t played in before, it all worked out pretty well.” Eventually, you run out of towns. And time.
Monocultural nostalgia is strong, and music streaming’s supremacy keeps old tunes within earshot even as it makes musicians more dependent on touring for big payouts. In politics, a gerontocracy (or oldigarchy) has serious consequences. In music, a gerocktocracy isn’t quite as costly: The downsides are some unsatisfying concerts, some upsetting sights, and, perhaps, a little less turnover on the annual leaderboards of top-grossing acts. However, much as the midterms brought new blood to Congress, 2026 seems to have delivered a changing of the musical guard: “Classic rock” refers to the 2000s now. Billboard’s top 20 touring artists for 2022 featured Elton John, the Stones, Red Hot Chili Peppers, Def Leppard, Mötley Crüe, Paul McCartney, Eagles, and Guns N’ Roses. This year’s top 20 so far, per Pollstar, includes no artists that were active in the ’60s, one that was active in the ’70s (Iron Maiden), and one that hails from the ’80s (GNR).
Billy Joel, who hasn’t made much new music for 30 years—a sort of Silence of Järvenpää for the 21st century—has hydrocephalus, and doctors have told him not to perform his old music, either (mostly). Mick Jagger is never too “chickenshit to get on stage,” as Love once memorably ranted, but the other Glimmer Twin is too weary to return to the road. Newly certified billionaire McCartney remains a good hang, but he’s cut back a bit on concerts: His eight shows this year are his fewest since 2008 (apart from the pandemic). Neil Young just released his best album in years and sued Donald Trump (again), but he also canceled his summer tour. He’s played one show this year.
Ozzy Osbourne played one show in the last few years (and weeks) of his life, a Black Sabbath benefit concert called Back to the Beginning. In the throes of Parkinson’s and coronary artery disease, the Prince presided from a bat-shaped throne as the original lineup of Sabbath re-formed for the one-off, hometown affair. It was one-third tribute to Sabbath, one-third performance by Sabbath, and one-third Viking funeral for Osbourne, who died 17 days later. “They advised us not to do the show,” his widow Sharon recently recalled. “They said it would kill him. … He said, ‘I know I’m dying. If I miss a few months of my life, I want to go this way.’” What’s more metal than that? Maybe one’s mid-70s isn't too late to go out blazing. Hell, he was too young: With help from Lady Gaga, Tony Bennett staged a triumphant farewell while suffering from Alzheimer’s at age 95.
I’m glad Pete Townsend and Roger Daltrey didn’t die before they got old. I’m glad Jagger didn’t quit music when he was 33. I’m glad McCartney asked for more than doing the garden and digging the weeds when he was 64. And I’m glad that some of the stars who started to be called—and to call themselves—“dinosaurs” as long ago as the early ’80s still roam the earth. But the real dinosaurs did go extinct, aside from the birds—and the Byrds disbanded decades ago. No one outpaces the Langoliers forever. Someday, even the Never Ending Tour will wind down, and we’ll lose whoever the last living link to a bygone era turns out to be—the Eva Marie Saint of ’60s rock. Then all we’ll have are holograms.
Until then, the bands will play on, whether wisely or ill-advisedly. And for an hour or two at a time, a dwindling lineup of legends will try to remind their faithful fans of receding youth, not impending death. Like Ozzy, they’ll go back to the beginning, before the end.
