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Today, dear readers, your little Island Hopper is pensive. I find I have spent much of the afternoon musing about art, and the artist, and the compromises one must make to pursue a craft in which only a tiny minority ever make a living at it.

A writer is often a solitary creature. My craft requires little input from other humans except for the ones who agree to hire me and the ones who ultimately, hopefully, read it.

Painters may say the same, poets, photographers, stand-up comedians, what have you. But think of the artists whose craft is a team effort. Aerialists, say. (Kind of a downer when there’s no one there to catch you as you swing off the trapeze.) Actors — because contrary to Vin Diesel’s belief, most people want to see a performer interacting with others, not simply showboating their own personal greatness.

And also, in large part, musicians. Think of this: You can probably count on one hand the musicians you know, famous or not, who can present a full, complete musical experience with nothing but themselves and their instrument(s).

Mark Wesley does it with his powerhouse voice, guitar playing, bass pedals, and harmonica (though even he adds a drum track). Ray Nesbit can do it with his big voice and crack guitar playing, though he “loops” the sound through a machine that lets him layer on levels of sound.

But most musicians require backup to peddle their musical wares. The entertainer who is as gifted vocally as he is instrumentally isn’t all that common (see the above two exceptions, along with a few others locally, like Ryan Darling and Mike Courtney). And in a town like Marco Island, where business owners want their full-band sound but won’t or aren’t able to pay whole-band prices, what’s a musician to do but make artistic compromises?

If you know where I’m headed with this — backing tracks — then you’ve probably been reading the column for a while.

This past Saturday night I watched a performer with three decades of experience singing with doo-wop vocal group the Crests, and who trained for three and a half years with the opera coach for the Metropolitan Opera House in New York City, stand behind a keyboard I will not swear that he was actually playing, as full tracks accompanied him.

Barry Newman has a solid, strong voice. He ought to — the Crests (Sixteen Candles) were known for their chromatic harmonies and tight vocals. He’s made his career in music for most of his life, currently not only performing, but also as president of 2B Productions, an organization that produces music acts at venues like the Naples Philharmonic.

And yet for him to be able to take his show on the road, so to speak, and bring his singing skills to local audiences, he has to be able to rely on something to provide his backing music; though he plays chords on keys, guitar and bass, and began as a drummer, Newman says he isn’t proficient enough to be his own backing band.

I guess you could say that about most careers: nothing exists in a vacuum, and even the least artistic of pursuits generally require other people. Salesmen need clients; attorneys need criminals — and their victims; doctors need patients — and nurses and anesthesiologists, for that matter.

But as someone who can sit down and practice my art and craft on my own at any time, I find it sad to think that there are those artists who have to work a lot harder logistically simply to be able to follow their dreams.

Newman does a pretty good job of it by using tracks recorded by the Crests’ backing band, with a full sound and good arrangements that aren’t simply karaoke tracks with the vocals pulled. His voice has a lot of character, with a ferocious vibrato, and though he might sacrifice a few ultra-high notes on songs like Unchained Melody, he barters not one iota of power.

His set features a lot of the old-time rock-and-roll he made his career on: Dion, the Righteous Brothers, the Duprees, the Temptations. He tosses in some Frank Sinatra — quite well — and peppers his between-song patter with plugs for upcoming shows he is producing — like the Lettermen and the Duprees Feb. 24, or Bowser’s Rock-and-roll Party in April, both at the Phil.

He’s assisted by guitar player and singer Chris Rowles, whose actual main job, I suspect, is encompassed by Newman’s description of him as “a computer genius” — it’s Rowles who seems to cue most of the tracks, playing his instrument only desultorily, providing occasional light harmonies, and taking lead on a few tunes.

The two present an entertaining show: the music is well chosen and encourages the many dancers who seemed to be populating Blú Fusion that evening. Newman’s voice is a pleasure to hear, and both men have engaging personalities (though I still maintain that Newman’s instrument is there more as prop than as backup).

But one of the truisms an artist learns early on is that you will ultimately be faced with compromise. Some choose the purist’s path — and while they may hold on strictly to their principals, they may also sacrifice opportunities to pursue their craft.

Newman has clearly made the other choice: to do what needs to be done to allow him to continue following his Muse.

You’ll never see me going on record as supporting tracks, my friends, but I will say this: sometimes to stay out of hell, you have to make friends with the devil.

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