Puzzle Pieces

To those who made it through the past two posts, I have great appreciation for you. My journey in music has been decades in the making, and I suppose yards worth of autobiographical paragraphs are a fitting treatment. I am also wondering how anyone found the time to make their way through, but then again you have been wondering all along where I am finding the time to record music and blog about.

So we're even. And you have my sincere thanks.

It is difficult to sit down to a second daunting question knowing how long it took to do justice to the first one. This is a music recording project after all, not really a blogging project. But the intended purpose of these introspective queries is to bring the truth into the light and allow the findings to lend artistic direction to my final product. So without further preface, here we go again.

Question number two:
Who has influenced my personhood?

Rounding up the usual suspects, there's the wife, mom and dad, the members of club nuclear family, relatives, teachers, friends, colleagues, the librarian, the postman, the person I met in the grocery checkout. I could be here a while if I approached this question wholesale.

At the risk of excluding someone, please know that the ten on this list did had an impact, though maybe not the deepest or most profound in every case. The selections are not meant to be exhaustive, only a glance at what would otherwise be a much bigger picture.

So without further preface... (Is there an echo in here?)

Mama Ann
My first tangible understanding of death came as an abrupt interruption to my gloriously naive existence. I found out from my father one morning when I was five years of age that my grandmother was going come and stay with us – in our dining room!

“This will be great,” I pondered, “Because now I won’t have to wait for Saturdays for Mama Ann to play with me.”

Dad explained to me that Mama Ann was not coming to have fun and play, but that she was going to be spending a lot of time in bed and that she would need her rest. This was his way of telling me the news that had rattled his world: his otherwise healthy and able mother was quickly declining from an incurable cancer.

How could I ever forget the day that I was brought to Roger Williams Medical Center to offer a good-bye to my grandmother? In that moment, a part of me grew up way too soon. Against my parents’ strongest urgings, I climbed up into Mama Ann’s hospital bed to lay my head in her lap one last time.

Mama Ann never said a negative word about anybody. And she could bake up a chicken that would make the Colonel cower. And she knew, perhaps as well as anyone ever has, how to love. I cannot fathom what her voice would sound like in a raised tone, and I cannot picture what her brows would look like if furrowed. The light of life burned brightly in her, and I will forever count her death to be one of the world’s greatest losses.

Shane Claiborne
While many Christians twiddle their holy thumbs and go hard after the false prophets of the 'prosperity gospel,' there are a few women and men of faith who actually allow their understanding of the bible to shape their life choices and situations.

One such man is Shane Claiborne. Co-founder of The Simple Way, a non-profit group bringing justice and shalom to a forgotten Philadelphia neighborhood, Claiborne is the author of a few volumes that have reoriented my way of thinking. I sincerely hope my life will become curiously different as I continue to absorb the principles found in these books.

Instead of looking to milk his religion for all it may do for him, Claiborne asks the same questions posed clearly in the gospel accounts of Jesus like, "Who is my neighbor?" Deceptively simple, the answer has had profound implications for the author. As I read the ideas he presents in, "The Irresistible Revolution," I let that same question begin to penetrate my soul. This released a chain reaction of events that led to the establishment of the Communicycle Co-op, a bicycle repair shop that offers transportation solutions to the people of Chamblee (a complex and diverse neighborhood in north Atlanta).

Gary Motley
A monster of a piano player with a heart of gold, Gary Motley is one of Atlanta's finest jazz musicians. During my two year stint as a masters student at Georgia State University, Gary was there concurrently, picking up credentials that would allow him to obtain a teaching position at another nearby university. Technically we were classmates, but in every other way I was barking up a tree he had climbed decades ago. I will never forget the honor and shock of being asked to play five different shows with him. I realize it was a situation of the mother bird teaching this chick to fly more than anything, but those five gifts were some of the finest musical moments I have ever experienced. I am forever grateful that Gary noticed a speck of a seed growing in me and chose to nurture it.

Erik Wilmer
During my first night on the campus of Gordon College in Wenham, Massachusetts, I met an athletic man with somewhat of a unibrow on his way to play guitar at a coffeehouse in the student center. There was something about the way this guy carried himself, the way he sang his original songs, the way he listened with unparalleled intensity and focus. I watched him carefully from afar.

Though just a few years older than me, he was one of the few students I knew who had fully matured into actual manhood. From long before I actually knew this to be true, I could see it clearly as a crisp autumn day. During the following year, I volunteered on a music team with him that led a large weekly worship service in the school's chapel. One of the main reasons I wanted to join this group was to build a friendship with this heroic figure I had observed from a distance. He and the girl he would later marry became mentors to me and the girl I would later marry. It is rare and beautiful to meet someone with wisdom beyond their age, and Erik was one such gem.

Lisa Carey
If someone was a student leader of just about anything on campus, then they met with the Lisa Carey. With my leadership of the Sunday night service called Catacombs during junior year came the duty of answering to Lisa in bi-weekly meetings. I have always been a brazen leader, absolutely convinced of what I want and how I wish to proceed. I secretly resented Lisa's authority over me, but she was a smart lady who knew my distaste for her all along. I mostly blew off the meetings we were supposed to have and I seldom returned the voicemails she left me.

As the year ended, I was looking forward to another year of leadership in my current position. Lisa left a message on my phone that sounded more urgent and frustrated than all the others, asking me to please come to her office.

"I called you three times, and your silence has spoken volumes." I'll never forget her calm, assertive demeanor. "I can't have you leading the Catacombs team next year." This woman who barely knew me and knew nothing of the program I was leading gave me the boot. I was enraged.

It wasn't until years after the fact that I finally got over the bitterness of this and learned my lesson. I was pig-headed in my leadership, without caution or concern for others. Lisa taught me my most valuable college lesson: lead not as a locomotive but as a servant. She was completely right about me and I was entirely wrong. Had she not called me out, I fear I may have made devastating mistakes in future leadership roles with far greater cost to myself and those around me. I may not have liked Lisa, but she cared enough to teach me a lesson I needed to learn.

Joe MacSweeney
During my senior year, I had outgrown my Sonor phonic drum set and decided to purchase something more musical, tailor made to my needs as a player. I received a few recommendations, all referencing the same artisan of the drum making craft. With a humble workshop in Saugus, Massachusetts, Joe McSweeney has been making custom drums for a score of years.

What sets this man apart from the oodles of drum workshops in every nook and cranny of America's cities? Most custom drum makers buy prefabricated, unfinished shells from the Keller or Jasper company, providing finishing, drilling, and custom bearing edges. Joe MacSweeney is the only maker I know who starts with flat plies of Scandinavian birch, steam bending them to perfect round and hand-gluing the seams. An Eames shell, named for the original founder of the company with whom he apprenticed, is a truly unique instrument that qualifies as a work of art in my opinion.

Joe rents the second and third stories of a seemingly dilapidated brick warehouse not quite in downtown Saugus. Entering the workspace reveals the truth: there is not a speck of sawdust on the floor, not a tool out of place on the workbench, not a receipt left loose atop the desk. The Eames drum company is impeccable, almost seeming like a drum smith museum more thn a working shop.

The impact Joe has on me is found in his ability to pursue that which he loves. I will always look to this humble craftsman as inspiration to keep pressing towards my passions no matter how impractical or out of reach they may seem. If interested, you can see his work here.

Jim Zingarelli
As a lover of jazz music in an undergraduate program celebrating the western classical tradition, I was a bit out of place (mildly put). I managed to make a few enemies with the music faculty during my first few years as I wielded the same prideful arrogance rearing its monstrous head as mentioned above. With tensions mounting, I decided to explore the possibility of expressing myself through other artforms.

Keep in mind, I had zero experience with paints or charcoals, but I began experiencing a tremendous impulse to express myself through the visual arts. This did not come completely out of the blue as my mother is a fine artist and graphic designer by trade who always did a fine job of imparting her enthusiasm about the subject.

I wanted to paint. So I marched myself down to the Beverly Arts Supply Wholesale and threw a set of acrylics along with a brush set and a few pre-stretched canvases into the buggy. Down I went to the public gardens in Boston to craft what I was sure would become the finest painting to bless the earth's population, in recent history at least.

It sucked eggs, no exaggeration. My canvas was a blotchy pile of crap streaks reminiscent more of a post-game football jersey than a fine art selection. The framed still-lifes at the Holiday Inn are miles nicer.

One lady walked up to my perch, the empty of the canvas obscuring the nasty truth, "May I have a peek?"

"Oh sure, go ahead."

All she could bring herself to say was, "Oh..."

Jim Zingarelli is a marvelous sculptor and as wonderful of a human being. As the chair of the art department at Gordon College, he is held by students as the archetypal big-hearted professor. Anyone is welcome to call him 'Z,' and everyone does. In a world full of dream poppers, he actively seeks shreds of promise and makes great effort to foster growth in even the most fragile of talents.

I meekly showed him the three canvases soiled by the loaded ends of my paintbrushes. "I know they are not very good, but I really want to give this a go." He let me in the program; said I could submit an entry portfolio retroactively after I had completed a few courses.

I never did make a switch to the art major, as my manual technique ended up being as horrible as it initially seemed. But Z's faith in my ability to succeed landed me in a Principles of Design course that rocked my world and set me plodding down a path toward owning a small graphic design business. The man is my hero. I hope someday I will offer others the blessing he gave to me: the gift of belief.

Danny Prestley
No one has inspired a greater sense of adventure in me than Danny Prestley, and he doesn't stop there. Danny loves dreamers, and he empowers them with anything and everything he has in his possession. When I went to Asia on a service trip, he hooked me up with his feature-laden backpack and sub-zero sleeping bag. When I dipped my toe in the world of mountain biking, he brought me down to his basement workshop dozens of times to fix broken parts. And when the Redline Project revved up at the beginning of the year, he insisted that I bring home a carload of borrowed musical goodies, including the stunning Guild hollowbody electric that I am learning to love.

More than anyone else, Danny teaches me what it means to be generous, to hold possessions with open hands, and to celebrate the accomplishments of others.

David Park
David cares deeply about social justice, especially as it applies to racial reconciliation. He is one of the few people in my life who commit themselves to garnering information and disseminating dialogue pertinent to a single, specific topic. Not only is he invested in the lifelong pursuit of this dialogue, he does so with endless creativity and energy. David lovingly challenges me with his perspectives and humbly listens to my responses.

Not only is David an able musician, he is also courageous. For no other reason than his love of music, he has purchased a pile of gear with which we create sonic experiments. His creativity drove the genesis of the Redline Project, and I have not felt this vital in years. He keeps a great blog called NextGenerAsian if you want to join the discussion.

Jesus of Nazareth
Before you discount this section as pious mumbo-jumbo, please allow an explanation. Many in the world believe the Jesus Christ is a savior; as many hold that he is a false prophet, or even a complete lie. I am not writing this homage to persuade anybody about anything. I am genuinely fascinated by the person of Jesus, and the accounts of his personhood and teaching have tremendous effect in my life.

Born to unwed immigrant parents, Jesus was a fantastic radical, completely unexpected by almost everyone. He overturned tables in the temple and left the religious leaders silently seething as he outwitted them with carefully crafted speech. He didn't rub elbows with the dignified or societal types. He kept company with hookers and thieves and the rough fellows from the docks. Only a dozen people spent significant time with the man, but we are still talking about him millennia after the fact.

He was a storyteller, often sharing simple tales laden with wisdom. He spoke this message to the host of an important supper party:

"When you give a luncheon or dinner, do not invite your friends, your brothers or relatives, or your rich neighbors; if you do, they may invite you back and so you will be repaid. When you give a banquet, invite the poor, the crippled, the lame, the blind, and you will be blessed. Although they cannot repay you, you will be repaid at the resurrection of the righteous." (From Luke 14)

Time and again Jesus shows that his heart is with the poor, the disenfranchised, the underserved. Regardless of what you may think about the man, his teaching that it is good to care for our brother or sister in need should not be difficult to behold. I am transfixed by passages such as this; the ideas continue to shape my motivations and cause me to reconsider the wealth and possessions I too often try to accumulate.