A couple of weekends ago I was reminded of why it is I love music so much, as well as just how much I miss playing everyday.

Before embarking on my journey into culinary school I was convinced I’d be a musician.  Inspired by my middle school music teacher and so many influential bands and artists that followed, jazz and big band called to me and seemed like the natural path forward.  I was going to master the trumpet, study at McGill, and travel the world playing night clubs and musical stage productions; that was just a fact.  I’m not sure what convinced me otherwise, but at some point it came to mind that perhaps becoming a musician wasn’t such a sure thing, and so while I continued to play that horn like it was an extension of my soul as a member of numerous ensemble both in and out of school, I resolved to the fact that music likely wasn’t going to be my career.

Despite re-thinking my career focus, my love for music never waned and in the later high school years I decided that not only would I be the next Jazz Great on the horn, but as soon as the opportunity to play guitar entered my atmosphere, I’d vowed to master it as well and become a legendary rock star.  Also, not a great career choice.  Regardless of whatever path to employment I happened to follow, however, music has always come with me in some form or fashion.  Be it a garage band in high school, a house band in college, or a Dad strumming a few chords for his newborn daughters, music is a part of who I am, though, sadly, for the past few years it is a part of me for which I have not provided enough oxygen.It used to be that I’d play 7-nights a week but now I am grateful to pick up the 6-string once a month, and maybe once a year does that so happen to coincide with playing with other people.  A dear friend of mine and I tried to set up a weekly or bi-weekly acoustic jam, but then some pandemic thing came along and did away with that very quickly.  It’s on no one but myself for not engaging more with that side of my brain, and I suppose it stems not only from the period of life in which I find myself, but also the location in which I live.  I don’t really have Elora-based friends, and so anytime the option of a jam night comes around it also requires some level of planning with knowing I’ll either be home late or away for an evening.  With two young children, that level of coordination is not something that comes easily.  Add to the equation that everyone else in the band also has kids, resides in a different city, and carries their own unique work schedules and, well, you get the idea.  It’s not just a matter of getting the schedules to align, it’s also the fact that, whichever venue we choose needs to purge itself of any other residents and young children, as the evening tends to get loud and often times is accompanied by one or two pops; responsibility should not be assigned to aging musicians who don’t get out often and are not accustomed to staying up past 10:00.

Every now and again, however, the stars align, horseshoes fall from the sky, and I get nothing but clovers in my bowl of Lucky Charms, because somehow everyone is available, the house is free, no one is sick, and the weather isn’t shutting down the roads.  Damn right, it’s jam night.

But what’s the big deal?  I’m not going to play Wembley.  I will not release a gold record.  I will not stay at, nor be banned from The Edgewater and I’m at least one talent away from scoring an EGOT.  But music, for me (and for most), has absolutely nothing to do with any of those things.  Music for me is an intersection of emotion, community and passion.  It is where people can get together and turn individual notes into a soundscape of feeling, connecting in a way that perhaps words don’t reach.  It doesn’t always jive perfectly, but when it does and the ingredients, atmosphere and mood are in sync, something happens that bonds both the musicians and its listeners together in a way that nothing else can do.  It is therapeutic.  It is every feeling that humans can feel.   And it is, in every single live setting, despite the song being the same, unique each and every time.  You never know where a session is going to take you, and when you find the pocket, you can rest happily within in it for an indeterminate amount of time.

So, to The Sad Bastards with whom I had the joy of playing with most recently, thank you for the opportunity.  Here’s to hoping the next time won’t be long-awaiting.

Though our basement is permanently setup as though I’m expecting a full band show up at any time,  I know it’s unlikely to happen anytime soon.  So while most of my gear is downstairs waiting patiently to be played, I keep my guitar handy and in plain sight on the main floor of our home, serving as a reminder every day that nothing needs to really stop me from strumming a few chords.  It’s a passion I certainly won’t force upon the girls, but the fact that they both love smashing around on the drums now and again, and that they both enjoy piano lessons means that I am also not going to discourage the exploration of the medium in all it’s power and glory.  Their tastes in style is impressive to me, and though I do genuinely believe that whichever genre one leans into should never be judged, the fact that they are appreciating the same general styles that I do makes me quite proud (that Nora and I sat down together to watch Stop Making Sense and she engaged with thoughtful questions on what each member of the band were doing was a particularly proud moment for me).  And where our tastes differ, I am also proud to say that I am learning to appreciate and understand rhythms and tones for which I foolishly hadn’t previously given the time of day.

While it didn’t become my career, it never lost its importance in my life.  Be it playing, signing, dancing or listening, music is forever in our home and few things can bring me greater joy than seeing the smiles on my kids faces and throughout their whole body as they respond to music in ways that truly inspire me.

Cheers.