Made it home safely to sweet Sass and the fur-babies!

Since my bio-clock is still on midwest time, and Scout is a “morning person,” we’ve added an early AM neighborhood walk to our schedule. During today’s chilly moonlit ramble I reflected on Michigan, why I love the place so much, and why I keep returning.

The Great Lakes State figures prominently in my origin story. 

It’s the first place I lived after leaving home, where I first became serious about music, and where I found out what it means to live as an artist. It’s where I learned the values and habits that have nourished and sustained me: how to be creatively resourceful, emotionally resilient, financially independent. How to be a citizen of the world. It’s where the boy became the man.

So many “firsts” happened for me in Michigan. It’s where I met my first benefactor and my first great music mentor. It’s where I prepared my first concert as bandleader, and where I played my first paid gig. It’s also where I first experienced romantic obsession and heartbreak. 

I accepted my calling there, that “mournful yet grand” destiny of which Liszt spoke, the internal narrative which has shaped my entire life. The place is absolutely redolent with personal meaning, and each time I return to that poignant landscape, its familiar sights and sounds and smells bring back a rush of emotion, and my affinity for Michigan only deepens.

When I was planning this trip, I intended to include other favorite midwest venues in Chicago, Milwaukee, and Cleveland, but I simply ran out of time. Before I knew it I had filled every available date with “mitten bidness” — 21 concerts and workshops in as many days! 

I’m glad it worked out that way. 

The trip felt like a homecoming, not just back to my beloved Michigan, but back to myself. 

These past few years have been challenging, ruminating over the loss of my father, facing my own mortality, dealing with the financial impact of the pandemic, struggling with anxiety.

Yet in Michigan, standing before the brilliant Diego Rivera frescoes at the Detroit Institute of Arts, I had this epiphany: returning here has reminded me of who I am. 

Road life is rewarding, but it can also be exhausting, especially after so many trips around the sun. 

However, today I feel rejuvenated. I now believe I have another decade of traveling and performing in me, something I doubted before. 

October is the perfect time to visit Michigan. 

Criss-crossing the state, driving those winding backroads through the tunnels of trees, past all the rivers and lakes and farmhouses in the mist, with the autumn leaves swirling? Absolutely magical.
 

The other thing that made this trip so healing? The people.

My bandmates and I shared a big house together in Detroit. Lisa cooked Korean food for us, Tom shared several excellent bottles of wine, and we all talked late into the night about anything and everything. 

Our performances got stronger as we grew closer, something I haven’t experienced since my international travels with Amina Figarova years ago. 

But it wasn’t just my colleagues on the bandstand. 

All the venues were so warm and welcoming. 

The students and teachers were so inspiring. 

And the audiences were amazing! 

So much kindness, soulfulness, and generosity. So much joy.

Thank you, Michigan.

Had a ball working with Mr. Ivie’s students at Boyne City HS. Wonderful to witness so many girls and young women discovering the joys of jazz. Broke up the 4-hour drive to Hillsdale with a nature walk and leaf-peeping in Roscommon State Forest. Enjoyed a hearty bowl of cajun shrimp pasta at a roadside brewpub, then stopped at a rest area for a brief flugel sesh. So grateful for this simple life of simple pleasures. Excelsior! 

After our thrilling show at the Blue Llama, I drove through the night to the quaint little village of Shelby in western Michigan for a 7 AM workshop. (Pro-tip for night-drivers: staying awake is easy when you’re scream-singing along with Olivia Rodrigo’s “Vampire” at the top of your lungs!) 

The Shelby HS students were brave and bold — everyone improvised! — and their delightful teacher, Erin Ray, even played drums for our session. 

Upon returning to Detroit, I visited the Dearborn HS program under the direction of Brian McCloskey. His jazzers meet even earlier — 6:40 AM — but these kids showed up ready to work!

Back-to-back “zero hours” on opposite sides of the state are no joke for a tired old road dog like me. Nevertheless, I’m grateful for the opportunity to work with such inspiring young students and teachers. Their energy and enthusiasm always seem to replenish the spirit. 

Excelsior!

Ann Arbor’s Blue Llama Jazz Club is a spectacular venue with award-winning cuisine, aesthetic lighting and design, excellent sound (right on, Jacob), and a very hip crowd. Warm thanks to owner Don Hicks, artistic director Dave Sharp, and the professional staff for taking such good care of the band. And much appreciation to our guest soloists: my longtime friend vocalist Joan Belgrave, rising stars trumpeter Carter Haugen and saxophonist Tim Grieme, and the man himself, Don Hicks, who played some tasty licks for us on an historic trumpet that once belonged to none other than Miles Davis. What a night!

After our thrilling week at Cliff Bell’s, I hung around suburban Detroit for a couple more days of solo workshops in Shelby Township and Bloomfield Hills. Then caught up on business, did a little laundry, ran a few errands, and rewarded myself with a few favorite gastronomic guilty pleasures: White Castle, Timmy Ho's, and Great Lakes Pasties. Always remember The Anschell Principle, kids: road calories don’t count!

Big day, big night! Afternoon workshops for two outstanding music programs — Pioneer and Community high schools in Ann Arbor — followed by an evening set at Moriarty’s in Lansing with the ace rhythm team of Jeff Shoup (photo credit), Lisa Sung, and Reuben Stump. Made lots of new friends, one of whom contributed some outstanding “Evergreen Girl” lyrics. Surprise celebrity appearance by the great Randle Gelispie! #respect

Be a man. Cowboy up! Don’t whine. Don’t complain. Just do what needs to be done.

Accomplish more with less effort. Use the tools of habit and ritual. Be resourceful.

Book extended tours: midwest (2023), western states (2024), east coast (2025).

Recommit to meal planning, black coffee, portion control, and nature walks.

Use fewer words. Say precisely what you mean and then stop talking.

Update duo, quintet, and big band repertoire. Prepare new sets.

Make time for long, meandering conversations with friends.

Maintain tourbus in excellent condition. Service regularly.

Update home security and emergency response plans.

Boost income from workshops by raising fees 20%.

Seek a mentor, a drinking buddy, and a side hustle.

Make the composition retreat an annual event.

Schedule a full week of rest in every season.

Stay humble. Stay hopeful. Stay grateful.

Take Sassy on a birthday vacation.

Selectively apply for grants.

Reduce debt by 10%.

Listen to the rain.

Learn to bowl.

Prepare.

Adapt.

This has been one for the history books!

It may take a little time before we return to pre-pandemic levels of activity. Several of our favorite venues, both at home and on the road, were sadly shuttered during the shutdown. For those that remain, the struggle is real. 

But thanks to YOU -- the clients, customers, friends and fans who sustain us -- little-by-little we’re getting back to business.

In 2022, the YEAR OF CASCADIA, we: 

traveled 33K miles
charted 11K spins and streams
 added 4K followers and subscribers  
played 132 concerts
directed 41 workshops 
produced 9 album release celebrations
 accompanied 8 talented vocalists 
headlined 7 music and arts festivals
published 6 original compositions 
planted 5 douglas firs
 recorded 4 podcasts 
arranged 3 large ensemble charts
completed 2 artist residencies
enjoyed 1 epic year 

Thank you for being part of it.

Here’s to 2023!

Cheers, 

~Dmitri

Said goodbye to Sunset Beach this morning and headed down to Monterey. 

Listening to NPR on the drive, I heard the news that Ramsey Lewis has died. 

It seems like we lose another hero every few days, but this one hits hard. 

30 years ago in May of ’84, Ramsey Lewis came to Interlochen Arts Academy for a performance with our studio orchestra. I was a senior in high school and he was the first “big name” jazz musician I’d ever met. 

He made a huge impression. I was blown away by his infectiously joyful performance and his extreme generosity toward me and the other student soloists.

It couldn’t have been very rewarding for him, sharing the stage with a bunch of teenage amateurs, but I can still see his thousand-watt smile, still hear his howls of approval, as we launched into “The ’In’ Crowd” and “Hang On Sloopy” — big Ramsey Lewis hits from the year we were all born! 

After the concert Mr. Lewis took the time to speak with each of us individually, encouraging us to pursue our dreams. Yes, he did. And we did. 

After that I began checking out his discography in the listening library, beginning with Upendo Ni Pamoja, the album recommended by my classmate Frayne Lewis, Ramsey’s son.

Later I discovered Mr. Lewis' collaborations with Maurice White and members of Earth, Wind & Fire, one of my all time favorite bands, and I was hooked. 

I suppose it’s no coincidence that tonight it will be my privilege to work with Leon Joyce, Jr., a longtime member of the Ramsey Lewis Trio.

Or that this weekend in Ashland, Oregon, Darrell Grant and I will play Mr. Lewis’ theme song, the spiritual “Wade In The Water” — a staple of our repertoire for 25 years.

Ramsey Lewis was far more than a Grammy-winning, chart-topping jazz and pop star. He was a true Gentleman of Jazz, the kind of Great Man that Kipling wrote about, who walked with kings but never lost the common touch. 

Mr. Lewis proved you can be both a serious artist and a crowd-pleasing entertainer. His worldwide reach and influence as a performer, educator, broadcaster, and recording artist, is profound, deep and lasting. 

He was called, he served, he counted. 

His legacy is secure.

Destination: Yreka CA 

Distance: 413 miles 

Scout and I are hitting the road today for California, Arizona, and New Mexico.

The first leg of our journey will take us all the way from Centralia, Washington to Yreka, California. 

$5 per gallon for gas is no joke!

Heartfelt thanks and a "free" music download for all our generous tour support contributors!

“I hide in plain sight. 
Same as you.” 
—Gustavo Fring 

I’m not a superstitious person by nature, but I was raised in the south where even educated folks recognize the power of signs and omens. Charlie’s gift of a tiny silver owl felt like such a signifier to me: a talisman of unknown provenance and portent. 

I began to carry the mysterious little figurine in my pocket, where it would gently jingle against my mouthpiece and pocket change as I walked. I carried it everywhere, like a good luck charm, and it seemed to be working. Within a few short years I’d established myself in San Francisco as a working musician, and had sold enough sponsorships to increase our jazz festival budget ten fold. 

In hindsight, this was during the tech boom of the early 1990s. Gigs were plentiful then because there were so many gainfully employed young people looking for a night out, and donations were up, too. The dot com bubble was expanding, the stock market was booming, and corporate support for the arts was ascendant. Bay Area businesses needed somewhere to park all that extra cash. Why not a nonprofit that offers exciting social events and a tax write off? It was an easy sell. 

I didn’t have that perspective at the time, however. Naively I thought I’d cracked the code! I felt powerful, like a double agent: professional jazz musician by night, hot shot sponsorship salesman by day. Oblivious to the unseen economic forces that conspired to pave my way, I credited my own skill and hustle, with perhaps just a little bit of secret “owl luck” thrown in for good measure. 

Over time my magical thinking grew deeper, abetted by echoes. Not only was I carrying the owl totem in my pocket, but I also began to notice similar statuettes in the executive offices of prospective sponsors. 

I would be in mid-pitch, sitting across from some corporate mucky-muck, when I would look over at the shelf behind them, and there it would be: another owl statue. I never said anything, but on more than one occasion I sensed a subtle nod or look of acknowledgment when I spied the owl. 

Like, I saw it. They saw me see it. Now what? 
 

It’s Tuesday night in San Francisco, and I don’t have a gig of my own, so I’m headed over to Sonny’s Place in North Beach to hear the incomparable flugelhornist Sweets Allen. 

For true fans of lyrical swing, it gets no better than Sweets and his honey-toned horn. He’s the real deal, a veteran soloist from the bands of Duke Ellington, Ella Fitzgerald, and Tony Bennett. Now in his 70s, Sweets is one of San Francisco’s most beloved musicians and one of the last great gentleman of jazz. 

For me, Tuesdays at Sonny’s are like graduate school. I rarely miss the chance to attend one of these weekly masterclasses.

Tonight Sweets is really living up to his name. His improvised lines are powerfully simple, pure, soulful, logical, and undeniably joyful. The warmth of his sound and the smile on his face combine to lift the spirits of everyone in the club. 
 

On the break I motion for him to join me at my table. Like my father, Sweets is a former school teacher, a wise elder who doesn’t mind sharing his accumulated knowledge. He patiently answers all my questions about music and life. 

“The main thing is to tell a story,” he advises, tapping his finger on the table for emphasis. “But it’s not like reciting a poem or singing a song. It’s got to be your story.” 

“Just be real,” he adds, “and never let the naysayers get you down. They’re everywhere, so keep your head on a swivel.” 

“Like an owl,” I say quietly. 

“Precisely,” he smiles, standing. 

“Which reminds me,” he adds before returning to the bandstand. 

“A little birdie told me you may be joining us.” 

Next:
THE OWL CLUB PART 5 — PARLIAMENT

Unhindered one may walk this good earth 

and see it’s bounty of living things 

One may find heaven 

wherever there is beauty 

All superfluous things are gone 

Simplicity itself remains 

and grows and gains 

what had been lost 

No more fighting just to hang on 

This is the good part of life 

The struggle is over 

What is there left to do 

but to do good? 

What is there left to say 

but to say truth?

     —Bill Matheny

“Untethered.” 

That’s the best word I could find to express the particular brand of loss that consumed me after my father died. 

I wasn’t in mourning so much as weary and resigned to the cruel finality of mortality, both his and, by extension, my own. I was even a little relieved because his suffering was over. 

In a way, Dad and I had already progressed through the first four stages of grief together — from denial to depression — while he was still alive, in hospice care. Only acceptance remained. 

I miss him terribly, but truth be told, I’ve been missing him since long before he passed away. I miss the man he used to be, before Parkinson’s and dementia robbed him of his mobility, wisdom and good judgement. By the time he succumbed to the disease, it had already been many years since we’d had a real conversation. Many years since I could benefit from his sage advice. 

With both my parents now dead, and no siblings or children of my own, it’s no wonder that I felt like an orphan. I’d experienced an inkling of that emotion only once before … when my marriage ended. 

Erica Jong describes divorce as “a ritual scarring that makes anything that happens afterward seem bearable.” She’s not wrong. I was gutted by the loss, not only of my wife and home, but of her family, whom I’d come to think of as my own. And I was surprised to lose nearly all the friends we’d collected over our 14 years together. It’s deeply unsettling and disorienting, after so many years, to no longer be responsible for, or accountable to, anyone. 

But even during the dark days of my divorce, Daddy Bill was there to commiserate and console. He was in my corner always. He never wavered. And now he’s gone. 

Because of the pandemic, I wasn’t able to be with him when he died, but I did visit him frequently during his final few years. I would return to Arizona for a week or more each season, and would sit with him for hours each day before heading off to the evening gigs that paid my travel costs. 
 

It’s difficult to know whether these extended seasonal visits to his assisted living facility were a genuine comfort to my father. He was embarrassed by his circumstances, and often when I returned each morning he didn’t remember seeing me the previous day. But every now and then his eyes would twinkle and he'd say something remarkably funny or insightful. He was still in there. 

Even in hospice care Dad somehow maintained a sweet disposition. For all his charm, however, he mostly avoided socializing with the other residents, opting instead to merely exchange pleasantries at meal time, then return to isolation. He had no interest in group activities or parlor games. He was a man who treasured his solitude, who loved to get outside and explore, but whose world had become oppressively small: a single twin bed in a tiny shared room. He often told me that he felt like a prisoner. It was heartbreaking. 

Sadly, he was no longer a man of letters, either. Books, his lifelong companions, were no longer of any interest. His hands weren’t steady enough to write, his eyes weren’t strong enough to read, and his attention span wasn’t long enough to follow the narrative of a novel or movie. Much of the correspondence sent to him remained unread. He appreciated postcards, greeting cards, small talk, and short conversations, even phone calls, as long as someone could help him operate his device. 

Most days I would just sit at his bedside and watch him drift in and out of sleep, while the TV spewed a continuous stream of conservative news and sports highlights. Sometimes we would talk about the weather or listen to an Eva Cassidy song. Occasionally we would venture into the other shared spaces of the care home, or sit outside on the patio, just for a change of scenery. But Dad needed to remain near the bathroom at all times, so we couldn’t go far. 

When he was able, we would shuffle around the tiny patch of desert surrounding the house. He tried valiantly to do it without his wheelchair or walker, but it was only a matter of time before even these small, slow walks around the block were too much for him. Yet even during our last few walks, although he struggled to finish a thought, he could still recall the latin names of all the neighborhood flora and fauna!

Dad’s been gone for over a year now and the world is diminished by his absence. I miss him something awful. And I must confess, while I don’t necessarily believe in an afterlife, I do find myself talking to him in quiet moments. I wonder what he would think of my life choices. I hope he would approve. 

Thankfully, I feel a little more “tethered” these days as I make a sincere effort to reconnect with distant friends and extended family. It’s especially comforting to spend time with other people who knew and loved him. 

Mostly I just feel grateful for everything he was, and will remain, in memory.

A man’s reach should exceed his grasp, or what’s heaven for? 
—Robert Browning 

About a year ago I wrote an obituary for my father. 

I sorted through his letters and personal papers, created a list of his educational and professional accomplishments, and attempted to fashion the mercurial vagabond voyage that was his life into some sort of cohesive linear narrative. 

I tried my best, but tributes never quite capture a subject’s true essence. This is especially the case with Daddy Bill, a great man who eschewed all markers of greatness. He didn’t care a whit about fame, gain, or material success. 

The part of his obit that feels 100% right to me is this: 

Throughout his life, Matheny generously shared his love of nature with others,
inspiring many of his students, friends and family members to develop their own
deep appreciation for the natural world. This is his great and lasting legacy. 

That legacy was underscored for me by the many people who reached out personally to tell me what Bill Matheny had meant to them. There’s no question: the man was beloved. He died without property or prestige, but his reach was wide. He will long be remembered as someone who made a positive difference in the lives of others. 

Unlike my Dad, I’ve always been ambitious and more than a little selfish. I knew better than to expect fame or fortune, but all my life I’ve worked harder than most of my contemporaries, powered by “main character syndrome” and the sincere belief that I was on track to become an historically significant artist. 

I now understand that goal to be unrealistic. 

Mind you, I’m a far better musician than I used to be. My new album will be my best, and I’m not done yet! I'll continue to strive for incremental improvement, greater authenticity, and soul. 

But my talents are limited. At age 56, there simply aren’t enough years left for me to join my jazz heroes on Mount Olympus. Instead, I now hope to live up to my father’s simple example of sharing with, and inspiring, others. 

Like the song says, “the greatest thing you’ll ever learn is just to love and be loved in return.”

Health 
Recommit to OMAD, black coffee, and portion control. 
Plant new salad vegetables in the garden. 
Walk every day before the evening meal. 
Curtail alcohol consumption. 
Prioritize memory work. 

Music 
Perform mostly songs from the new album. 
Expand melodic range in both directions. 
Arrange Joni Mitchell material for Holly. 
Write songs for top Indiegogo backers. 
Study Nelson Riddle's orchestration. 
Practice Beleza duo repertoire. 

Business 
Arrange for album design, distribution, promotion, and marketing.
Maintain tourbus with regular servicing, repairs, and upgrades. 
Apply for touring, residency, and commissioning grants. 
Schedule tours and album release events. 
Purchase a backup horn. 
Reduce debt by 25%. 

Personal 
Make an emergency response plan.
Write a blog post every week. 
Invest in home security.
Make time for friends. 
Practice gratitude.
Pace yourself.
Go fishing.

Well my friends, it may take several years before we can return to pre-pandemic levels of activity. But little-by-little we’re getting back to business, ever grateful for the clients, customers, friends and fans who sustain us. This year we: 
 

staged 81 concerts and events

welcomed 75 generous album backers

published 50 memoir blog posts 

gave 23 private lessons

conducted 19 workshops 

collected 12 vintage treasures 

recorded 10 songs

headlined 9 festivals 

bottled 8 jars of homemade hot sauce 

completed 7 new compositions 

played 5 live stream shows 

traversed 4 western states 

received 3 doses of DollyVax 

hosted 2 brilliant visiting artists 

rescued 1 precious puppy

and consumed 2197 hours of television (sigh).

Here’s to a happier, healthier, and more productive 2022.

Onward and upward! 

~Dmitri

When I first met my hero Art Farmer, he was spending half his year at home in Vienna and the other half on tour.

Occasionally concert promoters would pony up for his New York band, but most of the time Art worked with local rhythm sections. Regardless, he hired the best musicians everywhere, and his ensembles never failed to impress.

"How do your groups always sound so good?" I asked him after a knockout performance at Kimball's in San Francisco. "What's the secret?"

"Dmitri, it's simple," he said. "If you find that you're the smartest cat in the room, you're in the wrong room."

“The foundation of any national character is human nature.”
―Vasily Grossman
 

Of all the many magical places I’ve encountered in my travels, Kinkaku-ji, Kyoto’s Temple of the Golden Pavilion, is one of the most magnificent. Set in a classical strolling garden by a reflective pond, the temple’s design is strikingly opulent yet perfectly integrated into the surrounding landscape. 

Although I’ve only visited the historic world heritage site twice, I return so often in mind and memory that it has become comfortingly familiar. For me, this temple achieves what the great cathedrals of Europe do not. Instead of making one feel small and insignificant, Kinkaku-ji inspires a profound feeling of gratitude and connection to the natural world, inviting contemplation of one’s own role in the cosmos. As above, so below. 

Kinkaku-ji is a wonder of architecture and aesthetics. Each section of the three-story structure represents a different historical period and point of view. The first level, named Chamber of Dharma Waters, is rendered in the natural wood and white paneled shinden style of eleventh century imperial aristocracy, with verandas and open areas that bring the outdoors inside. The second story, called Tower of Sound Waves, is built in the tenth century manner of samurai warriors, with sliding doors and mullioned windows intended to convey evanescence. The top floor, Cupola of the Ultimate, is constructed in the twelfth century zen style suggesting meditation and spiritual insight. The top two levels are completely covered in shining gold leaf. Taken collectively, this singular architectural marvel confers both respect for nature and an awareness of the fragile, fleeting nature of existence. 

But it’s the luminous golden reflection of the temple on the surface of the pond that I find most compelling. The image remains constant as the seasons change. Even before you view the relics and treasures within, the building’s exterior design eloquently communicates the Japanese ideals of shokunin (craftsmanship, pursuit of perfection), wabi (understated elegance), sabi (the beauty of impermanence), yugen (mystery, grace) and ma (negative space, emptiness, and silence). 

Kinkaku-ji is a truly remarkable place. It’s also where I learned a valuable lesson about the absurdity of stereotypes and the gentle power of humor. 

A light rain was falling as I quietly admired the temple with my new friend Masa, an expert on buddhist culture who also happens to be the husband of a favorite visual artist), when our silent contemplation was suddenly interrupted by a boisterous busload of Japanese tourists. They tumbled out of the bus, photographers all, and immediately began to laugh and shout as they joyfully took pictures of one another on the temple grounds. 

I was offended by what I perceived as an inappropriate and unwelcome assault on my reverie. Kinkaku-ji is a sacred place! They should know better, I thought. But when I looked to my guide he was grinning ear-to-ear, delighted with their arrival. I wondered how he could remain so cheerful in the face of this intrusion.

“You don’t find them rude?” I asked, as yet another cluster of giggling girls pushed past us to pose in front of the temple. They squealed gleefully and flashed peace signs as their male companions snapped photo after photo.

“This is a happy place,” Masa explained, smiling benevolently. “Why shouldn’t they be happy?” 

Of course he’s right, I realized. Embarrassed by my own foolishness, I tried to make a joke. 

“Hey Masa, you’re Japanese. Where’s your camera?” 

He replied without hesitation.

“Well, you’re American...where’s your gun?”  

Childhood memories are like polaroid photos in an old dusty box. 

They don’t provide a cohesive autobiographical narrative, only brief flashes of insight into the murky past. You sort through the random images, shuffling them like playing cards, until one of them finally whispers to you, and a shard of memory is revealed, darkly, like a half-forgotten scent or song fragment. 

It is from these small, disparate clues that you must fashion your origin story. But each time you take the box down from the shelf, there seem to be fewer snapshots inside. 

It’s the summer of 1978 in Columbus, Georgia. A U-Haul is parked in front of our little apartment at Warm Springs Court. Daddy Bill and I are loading our last few boxes into the back of the truck. 

Daddy Bill Matheny | Summer 1978 
Warm Springs Court, Columbus GA 

“You about ready to hit the road, Bub Man?” Daddy Bill asks. He’s been calling me “Bub Man” lately instead of Little Bub, and it feels right. I’m 12-and-a-half now, not a little kid anymore, and we’re about to begin a whole new life, far away from this place. 

The past year was an emotional roller coaster. Up and down, love and loss. Dad finished his seventh year at Brookstone School on a high note, winning a prestigious teacher’s award from the city and having the yearbook dedicated in his honor. Then he abruptly resigned. Devastated by divorce, he slept for days at a time, rarely coming out of his room. “The doctor has me on tranquilizers,” he explained. When finally he emerged from the darkness of depression, other women came around, comforting him, playing mother to me, and we were happy for a time. But eventually they left, too. 

When Dad’s last great love, Judy Mehaffey, moved to Nashville to pursue a songwriting career, her teenage son Jay came to live with us. Welcoming Jay into our home made sense. Our families were already intertwined. Jay’s mom and my dad, who still loved one another, were now prolific penpals. Jay’s older sister Kim, away at college, had been my babysitter and Dad’s star student at Brookstone. Kim and Jay’s father Lem (divorced from Judy, estranged from Jay) was the landlord of our little apartment complex. 

Confused? Welcome to my world. The important thing is this: for one glorious summer I had a brother. 

I was an only child who never especially wanted siblings. I cherished my solitude and was never bored. Daddy Bill and I were pals, and if I needed more companions there were always plenty of kids in the neighborhood. But Jay’s arrival in the summer of ’78 was right on time. 

We lived in a small, two-bedroom apartment. Jay slept on our couch and made the living room his domain. As a tween on the precipice of puberty, I was utterly fascinated by this confident, lanky 17-year-old now living in our midst. It seemed like the most natural thing in the world, the way he immediately made himself at home, blasting Frampton Comes Alive on the stereo, watching Midnight Special on the tube, drinking Sprite, talking on the phone, holding court. I didn’t even try to play it cool. I thought Jay hung the moon, and he knew it. 

Jay Mehaffey | Summer 1978   
Warm Springs Court, Columbus GA 

Dad knew it, too. Inviting Jay to move in may have sprung from a desire to help Judy, but it turned out to be the very best thing for all of us. Jay had a stabilizing influence in our home. His arrival prompted Dad to come out of his cave. Order was restored. We kept the pantry stocked, shared household chores, enjoyed regular meal times, and took road trips together.

Jay showed me how to assert my independence. Prior to Jay, I was Daddy Bill’s little sidekick, not so much a separate entity as an extension of his adult persona. I perceived Dad’s needs as my own; his moods became my moods. After Jay, I was my own man. There were three of us now, each with his own desires and responsibilities. We were a family. 

But Jay was more to me than an ersatz older brother. He was like a cosmic life coach, sent by the universe to guide me through the emotional, hormonally turbulent life transition from boyhood to early adolescence. Our alliance felt all the more momentous because we knew it to be temporary. Summer’s end would mean our separation. Jay would stay in Columbus to finish high school, and I would move out west with Daddy Bill. Dad had accepted a new teaching position in Tucson, so that was where I would turn 13, begin junior high, and meet my destiny. 

If Jay felt it was a drag to have a shadow that summer before his senior year, he certainly never showed it. He introduced me to his friends and let me tag along on their outings. He helped me find a job mowing lawns, taught me how to pop a wheelie on my bike, and hipped me to all kinds of music. At night I would make a pallet on the floor between the couch and coffee table, so we could continue talking into the wee hours. I’d stretch out flat, parallel to Jay on the couch above, and imagine that we were real brothers, sharing a room with bunk beds. 

Our late night heart-to-hearts offered a crash course in what I should expect from life over the next few years. We talked about all the things I didn’t feel comfortable discussing with my father: cliques, crushes, flirting, fighting, parties, popularity, petty rivalry, peer pressure, the prom. I asked Jay all about the rituals of dating and how to talk to girls. He answered solemnly in great detail, stressing the importance of things like having plenty of money (chicks are expensive), when to give a girl your letterman jacket (only if you’re serious), and how to unhook a bra clasp (always use both hands). He spoke earnestly, as if he’d been tasked with a sacred mission of passing along his accumulated teen wisdom. I was riveted and hung on his every word. 

Jay and I haven’t really stayed in touch since then, except to exchange Christmas cards once or twice, the way men do. But I sure hope he knows how important he was to me that summer, and how grateful I remain. 

When the moving van showed up I was ready. Packing up was a breeze. After all, I’m the minimalist son of an anti-capitalist. We didn’t have that many possessions to begin with. Plus, we’d already moved several times before, so I knew the routine: put your stuff in boxes; say goodbye to all your friends. 

Moving days are always bittersweet, but this one felt different. Inspired by everything I learned from Jay, I was committed to reinventing myself. I divided my belongings into two piles. One pile comprised only the essential things I’d need in my new life out west: clothes, books, trumpet, bike. We loaded them onto the truck. The other pile was all the “kid stuff” I would leave behind forever: comic books, action figures, toys.

Word got around quickly and the neighborhood kids descended like vultures. I sold everything I could and gave away the rest, pocketing a little over five hundred dollars.

“You about ready to hit the road, Bub Man?” Daddy Bill asked. “You bet,” I replied, climbing into the cab.

I didn't look back as we headed west. To the future.

Next:
SNAPSHOTS | PART 2 — FIRST CONTACT

“There’s no sensation to compare with this 
suspended animation, a state of bliss. 
Can’t keep my mind from the circling sky. 
Tongue tied and twisted, just
an earthbound misfit, I.”
—Pink Floyd

I’m not sure when or why I first became fascinated with flying, but I suspect it has something to do with my father. 

Daddy Bill was always looking skyward, peering jealously through his binoculars at the raptors kettling overhead. Like me, he could fly in his dreams, and as a boy he imagined doing it for real. Young Billy wanted so badly to be a bird. According to family legend, he even broke his leg in an attempt to launch himself into the clouds, after the ghost of my great grandmother appeared to him in a dream and encouraged him to leap off the roof of the barn. 

I guess the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, nor the boy from the barn. Unlike my Dad, I never watched birds, joined the air force, or injured myself trying to defeat the laws of physics, but I definitely inherited his vivid imagination and impulse to fly. 

Nearly all my childhood heroes were flyboys of one sort or another. There was Shin Hayata of Science Patrol, who transformed into the giant alien Ultraman (cue theme: “here he comes from the sky!”), and of course the space cop Green Lantern, whose alter ego Hal Jordan was a fearless test pilot. Luke had an X-wing and Kirk had a starship. James Bond had his jet pack and James Brown had his private jet. Neil Armstrong’s moon-landing poster adorned my bedroom wall, and Ol’ Blue Eyes filled our home with songs extolling the romance of air travel. 

Nearly all my childhood heroes were flyboys of one sort or another.

Such notions were not uncommon for children of the 1960s and 70s. We were raised by television to defy gravity. 

Just as the previous generation had grown up playing Cops & Robbers or Cowboys & Indians, my friends and I played Star Trek and SuperFriends. It never would have occurred to me to pretend I was the Lone Ranger. I was more likely to choose Billy Batson (a boy who, by saying a magic word, can transform into a flying strongman), Steve Austin (a NASA astronaut/USAF pilot who survives a crash to become a powerful cyborg that can leap 30 feet into the air in slow motion), or Evel Knievel (a real life daredevil who dressed like a superhero and refused to remain earthbound). 

Could Evel Knievel fly? He sure as hell tried. My friends and I never missed Knievel’s televised stunts, including his disastrous attempt to jump the Snake River Canyon in a rocket-propelled skycycle.

Some of my pals were even more obsessed with flight than I. Lance was a space nerd who knew everything about the Apollo missions and could even recite the names of all the astronauts. Jeffrey could tell you what kind of jet was flying overhead just by looking at its silhouette. And all of us were jealous of Payton, whose uncle was a helicopter pilot. 

Commercial airline flights were still considered a luxury in those days, something that only executives, celebrities and rich people could easily afford. This was the tail end of the Golden Age of Air Travel, when seats reclined all the way back and there was still plenty of legroom for everyone. 

The Golden Age of Air Travel

Passengers wore their finest clothes, dined on steak and lobster, and drank endless complimentary cocktails. Beautiful air hostesses, glamorous as models, paraded the wide aisles with magazines and trays of hors d'oeuvres, pausing to lean and light the cigarettes of ladies and gentlemen alike. But the real stars of this hedonistic theater-in-the-sky were the dashing and charismatic pilots. Pilots commanded respect.

Pilots commanded respect

If you’ve ever seen the movie Catch Me If You Can starring Leonardo DiCaprio, you know what I’m talking about. Meeting an airline pilot in uniform was like shaking the hand of a famous military hero or movie star. I only flew a couple of times with my family back then, when I was still too young to appreciate or even fully recall the experience. But I do have one very clear memory: a friendly, square-jawed Delta Airlines pilot winking at me as he leaned over to hand me my very first souvenir kiddie wing pin. 

The first flight I remember well was not on a commercial airline, however, but a tiny Cessna seaplane that Daddy Bill chartered from Key West, Florida to the Dry Tortugas. The year was 1974 and I was nine years old. 

a Cessna seaplane in the Florida Keys

Our pilot, shouting over the engine’s deafening roar, pointed out sharks, stingrays, and sunken treasure ships in the ocean below. My Dad only half listened, preferring to focus on the sky and his quest of adding some rare pelagic birds to his North American life list. I just giggled the entire time, giddy with delight as we soared through the air. When our pontoons finally touched down upon the surface of the water at Fort Jefferson, I squealed “Again! Let’s go up again!” 

I would happily go up again and again over the next few years. By the early 1980s, commercial air travel had become significantly more affordable. Small budget airlines were just starting up, and the larger companies lowered their prices in order to compete. Like many middle class families, we chose to fly rather than spend most of our vacation driving to and from our destination. 

On the plane, people were still allowed to smoke, but it was becoming less fashionable to do so, and only first class passengers enjoyed the few remaining perks. They had their own dedicated flight attendant serving cocktails and canapés. Meanwhile, back in the cheap seats, where my family and I were squeezed together, “airplane food” meant stale, flavorless cafeteria fare on a plastic tray. 

The Golden Age of Travel was over, but I didn’t care. I loved flying and looked forward to every opportunity.

Some of the grown-ups teased me for being “journey proud,” a southern expression for folks who get so excited that they can't sleep the night before a trip. 

What can I say?

I’m still that way today. 

Next: 
UP IN THE AIR 
PART 2 — SEASONED TRAVELER

All the world’s a stage, 
and all the men and women merely players. 
They have their exits and their entrances, 
and one man in his time plays many parts. 
—William Shakespeare 

Don’t it always seem to go 
that you don’t know what 
you got ’til it’s gone? 
—Joni Mitchell 

I’ve been thinking a lot about stages recently. Concert stages, stages of life, and all the stages on which we perform, both literally and figuratively. 

Social media is itself a kind of performance space, where people gather for creative expression and the exchange of ideas. Depending on the user, social media may offer an elevated platform for high-minded art and ideals, an open forum for lively discussion and debate, or a cynical echo chamber of fear mongering, conspiracy peddling, virtue signaling and performative activism. (Or you can just post puppy photos!)

The virtual stage provided by live-streaming technology has been a godsend for performers during the shutdown, enabling us to stay active and remain in touch with friends and fans. When all the nightclubs and concert halls went dark, musicians from every genre took to the internet almost immediately, becoming virtual “buskers” overnight. I used a platform called “StageIt” to produce my Quarantunes series of live-streaming solo shows.

I used a platform called “StageIt” to produce my Quarantunes series of live-streaming solo shows

Don’t get me wrong. Live-streaming is no substitute for the real deal. But it can be thrilling to play for an international audience without ever having to leave the house. Food for thought as we consider the post-pandemic commute. 

Of course, real life also offers myriad opportunities to perform. Willy Shakes was really onto something when he penned his famous “All The World’s A Stage” monologue. Like actors in a play, we inhabit various roles at different stages of life: the good son, the good spouse, the good worker, the good friend, the good man. 

As I look back over my own life and career, I can identify seven stages of development. Starting from juvenescent beginner’s luck, I survived adolescent optimism bias and the Dunning-Kruger effect, then as an adult, progressed through confirmation bias and plenty of denial before arriving at my current position, somewhere between middle aged rationalization and senior citizen rosy retrospection. (Shout out to Wikipedia for the psychobabble refresher!)

Through it all, my refuge and sanctuary has been the concert stage, a sacred space where artists and audiences meet in search of a shared transcendent experience. As the immortal Bobby Hutcherson once told me, “Think of the bandstand as an altar. Music is a spiritual calling, and the stage is our church.” 

The Immortal Bobby Hutcherson 

Mr. Hutcherson’s wise words carry extra resonance today, as the pandemic threatens to permanently shutter many of our most beloved venues. Ours is a precious and precarious ecosystem which we must never take for granted.  

The relationship between artist and venue is a symbiotic one. Simply put, we need each other. Too often, however, relations between performers and those who hire them are perceived as adversarial. If you don’t believe me, ask your musician friends whether they happen to know any jokes about club owners.

Those jokes don’t seem so funny now. After fifteen solitary months of playing my horn to an unseen audience over the internet, I’m jonesing hard for a real gig with a real band in a real venue. I miss the creative collaboration, intimacy and immediacy of live performance. Most of all, I miss seeing the faces of people in the audience as we experience the miracle of music together.

Small venues have been hit especially hard by the pandemic shutdown. Many went out of business almost immediately. Of those remaining, ninety percent report that they are at risk of closing without additional financial assistance. 

Enter Save our Stages, a bipartisan bill to provide billions of dollars in relief grants for venues. Recently signed into law as part of President Biden’s economic recovery plan, the Save Our Stages act is not perfect, but it’s a start. As Minnesota senator Amy Klobuchar points out, “Independent venues were some of the first establishments to close down and will likely be some of the last to open. I refuse to sit by and let the music die.”

Save Our Stages is an emergency relief fund for live event venues and promoters 

She's 100% correct, and we all must do whatever we can to help. #saveourstages

Presently, as we anticipate turning the corner on COVID-19, there is reason for hope. My buddy Ed, a jazz guitarist and concert promoter in Ashland, Oregon, optimistically predicts a post-pandemic gold rush for events. He believes that audiences, having been deprived of live music for so long, will return in record numbers, more motivated than ever to buy tickets and support the arts.

Makes sense to me. The global health crisis provided us all with a chance to pause and reevaluate which things in life matter and which things don’t. I, for one, have learned that live music matters immensely, and stages are absolutely essential.

Joni Mitchell said it best: you don’t know what you got ’til it’s gone.

“One day, you’ll make peace with your demons, 
and the chaos in your heart will settle flat. 
And maybe for the first time in your life, 
life will smile right back at you and 
welcome you home.” 
—Robert M. Drake 

“We don't see things as they are,
we see them as we are.”
―Anaïs Nin

When Daddy Bill passed away last December, just before my 55th birthday, I felt something change in me. 

Way down deep, beneath the ocean of love and gratitude for all that he was, below the waves of grief, loss and mourning, there was a feeling of release. Not relief, mind you, but release, as if by saying goodbye to this world, my father was giving me permission to let go of certain unrealistic expectations about my own place in it. 

Before he died, I never fully appreciated the extent to which my professional ambitions were tethered to the desire to earn my father’s approval. Ironic, since he never pressured me in any way, and was always encouraging, no matter what. He believed in me. He loved my music and supported my life choices without reservation. 

Daddy Bill has always been in my corner. His approval was a given. But because I admired him so and wanted to make him proud, I worked harder than I might have, and whenever I achieved anything, no matter how small, I couldn’t wait to tell him about it. 

Daddy Bill has always been in my corner

Even during his last years, as Parkinson’s and dementia assailed his body and mind, we remained close. I visited him in Tucson every few months, and called him every Sunday. Because of his condition, we could only talk about small things: the weather, the news, what he had for breakfast. And though he was often confused or forgetful, he always remembered to tell me that he loved me, and would end every conversation with the same benediction: “you just keep playing that horn.” 

I miss my father terribly, but paradoxically, I also feel his presence. I’m not a religious person, and I have no belief in an afterlife. I don’t pray to God, communicate with the ancestors or converse with my father’s ghost. But I do hear the “still small voice” of my own conscience, and it just so happens to speak with a comfortingly familiar, decidedly paternal, southern drawl. 

Lately that voice has been telling me to make peace with my demons. We all have our demons, right? I have three, and they have tortured me for as long as I can remember. Their names are Grandiosity, Imposter Syndrome, and Polarized Thinking. 

In the past I’ve tried to fight my demons without success. To make peace would require a new strategy: that I stop fighting, and instead try to understand them and where they’re coming from. Think of it as Cognitive Distortion Diplomacy. 

my three demons have tortured me for as long as I can remember 

Grandiosity is the biggest and loudest of my demons. He infects me with toxic superiority and an exaggerated sense of my own importance. He robs me of rational thought and empathy, and fills me with bogus, superstitious beliefs: that I’m special, that I’m chosen, that I’m destined for greatness, and that the universe magically conspires to assist me at every turn. Grandiosity distorts my positive aspirations and work ethic, transforming them into an unearned and ugly feeling of entitlement. 

Imposter Syndrome is Grandiosity’s evil twin sister. Whenever Grandiosity sleeps, she awakes, to drain my delusional overconfidence and replace it with extreme self-doubt. Imposter Syndrome perniciously whispers that I’m an untalented fraud, that my entire career has been nothing but a long con, and that any past accomplishments and accolades are meaningless. Imposter Syndrome says “You’re not special at all. You’re the worst thing a person can be: you’re ordinary.” 

Of the three, however, Polarized Thinking may be the most dangerous demon of all. He provides the fuel that sustains the others. He inflicts an absurd all-or-nothing worldview of black and white extremes, in which I’m either destined for success or doomed to failure. Polarized Thinking says there can be no in-between, no shades of gray. If Grandiosity is born of the hope that I’m special, and Imposter Syndrome is the fear that I’m not, Polarized Thinking is the erroneous belief that these are the only two options. 

If I’m ever to let go of unrealistic expectations, and come home to the life that I truly want, then making peace with these demons is paramount. I may never be able to silence them entirely, but If I can just see them for the maladaptive, habitual, self-sabotaging ways of thinking that they are, perhaps I can diminish their destructive power and re-integrate them into a more realistic sense of self. 

In other words, I must learn to perceive things clearly as they are, unclouded by hope and fear. I must become like Manjushri, the bodhisattva of keen awareness, whose flaming sword represents the transcendent wisdom which cuts through duality and delusion. 

Manjushri, the Bodhisattva of keen awareness 

Who knows what the future will hold? None of us control the narrative of our lives, not really. But to the extent that one can shape a life story, I now aspire to a smaller, simpler, more sustainable one. 

I will “keep playing that horn” for at least a few more years. But while my love of music is undiminished, any ambitious desires to prove myself or make my mark have waned considerably. The truth is, there is no longer anything to prove. Not to my father, not to myself, not to anyone. 

Look at it this way: my dream was to become a professional jazz artist, to travel, make records, and share my music. 

As it turns out, I did precisely that, and I've enjoyed it for nearly 40 years. 

Maybe now it’s time to dream a new dream. Why not? 

Whatever the new dream turns out to be, I'm sure Daddy Bill would approve.

“It’s not just about me and my dream
of doing nothing. It’s about all of us!”
—Peter Gibbons

“Now is the age of anxiety.”
—W.H. Auden 

“Don’t make me dance.”
—Lilia 

I’m a big fan of CBS Sunday Morning. The show’s bright, optimistic tone, cheerful sun iconography, and calming nature videos are usually a welcome comfort. But this week’s episode made me anxious. 

The entire show was dedicated to the encouragement of widespread tourism, as if we’re already living in a post-pandemic world. From host Jane Pauley to travel guru Rick Steves to the lemon merchants of the Amalfi Coast, everyone seemed to be singing from the same reckless hymn sheet. There was even a segment promoting revenge tourism, the idea that pleasure travel is even more fun now, as a giant middle finger to COVID-19. 

Are you kidding me? Aren’t we being a little premature? 

CBS Sunday Morning is usually a welcome comfort, but this episode made me anxious

I dig that people are restless, and I understand we’re all feeling more hopeful as vaccinations increase. But the virus is still surging in many areas, and some of those new variants are scary. There are now 141 million cases worldwide, including 32 million in the USA of which 566,000 have proven fatal. This thing ain’t over yet. Is now really the time to cheerlead for non-essential travel? 

Don’t get me wrong. I’ve been a travel enthusiast all my life. In the 1970s of my youth, Daddy Bill and I road-tripped everywhere, from the Great Smoky Mountains to the Florida Keys to the Sonoran Desert. In the decades since I’ve had the privilege of making new friends in Azerbaijan, Barbados, Belgium, Cambodia, Canada, Chile, Czech Republic, England, France, Greece, Indonesia, Italy, Japan, Luxembourg, Mexico, Netherlands, Poland, Thailand and nearly every one of these United States. #AlphabeticalHumbleBrag

I'm profoundly grateful for my travels, and I wholeheartedly agree with the late Anthony Bourdain (a personal hero), who contended that travel, if we do it right, is our best defense against racism and xenophobia. You dig? 

xenophile hero Anthony Bourdain and friends showing us how its done 

Cultural tourism literally brings us together! That’s one of the reasons I chose this career. Travel is the lifeblood of our business. You don’t meet many xenophobic musicians. 

But this year? I’m not feeling it. 

Don’t be surprised. After all, I’m the Proletarian Contrarian. My entire life has been an exercise in cognitive dissonance. Swimming against the current? It’s kinda my thing. 

While most of my friends were leading responsible lives, raising families and being good citizens, I was traveling 57,000 miles a year to honk my horn among the great unwashed. It stands to reason that now, when I feel afraid to venture beyond my front gate, the rest of the world can’t wait to get on a plane!

As one sidelined traveler told the Wall Street Journal, “The moment can’t come soon enough to actually hit the road again. We’re all kind of clamoring for the celebration party.” 

Not all of us, pal. As usual, I’m out of step with the zeitgeist.

I just got my second shot of Dolly Vax.

I’m very grateful, but also anxious. 

grateful, but also anxious

Some of my uneasiness is just a lingering reaction to the white coat effect. I always experience irrational fear and agitation around doctor stuff. The stakes are higher this time (i.e., deadly global plague), which only exacerbates matters. 

I’m also anxious about the uncertainty of it all. Maybe I’ll have a bad reaction to the vaccine. Maybe the vax won’t work, and I’ll still catch covid. Or maybe it will work, and the next bug is the one that gets me. See what I mean? 

And it’s not only the pandemic that makes me nervous. I’m justifiably worried over the state of the world. So much vitriol and violence in the news. Racial unrest. Joblessness, homelessness, food insecurity. Explosions. Invasions. Protests. Riots. Wildfires. Floods. Hurricanes. Police brutality. Political corruption. Voter suppression. Cancel culture. Rampant stupidity. Nazis! Four full years of enduring daily presidential messages of hate. (Aren’t we all still suffering PTSD from that SOB?)

Then there’s the hypervigilance. I don’t mind telling you, I’m straight up terrified of catching a stray bullet. It seems every week there’s another random, senseless mass shooting in this country. I’m always checking over my shoulder and looking for the exits. How does anyone feel safe in a crowd anymore? 

Some of this anxiety is grief-related. I’m still mourning the loss of my father. I feel untethered, like an orphan. Facing a world without him in it fills me with dread. 

facing a world without him in it fills me with dread 

So I’m delighted the vaccines are here, and grateful to have received mine. And I’m glad that people are feeling more hopeful, but not if it means we all have to go rushing back. 

Because if I’m being truly honest here, the main reason I feel anxious is this: I’m simply not ready. 

I’m just not ready to go back. Not yet. I’m not ready for the ambitious workaday world with all its expectations and obligations. I’m not ready to leave the safety and security of my Hunker Bunker. And I’m definitely not ready to resume that relentless hustle and grind. 

I’m here for the music, not the dance.

“Adulthood and what they call maturity is 
the slow acceptance of what you will never be.” 
—Bryan Callen 

“Maybe it’s time to let the old ways die.” 
—Jason Isbell 

As of today, about 71 million Americans have been fully vaccinated, representing 22 percent of the total US population. As the shots-in-arms number rises, so do our spirits. Restrictions on travel and events have already begun to relax. Folks are starting to get back out there. 

Progress is slower globally. According to UNICEF, 130 countries have yet to administer a single dose, leaving 2.5 billion people out of luck in the worldwide vaccination effort. Doses remain scarce in many countries, despite resource-sharing programs like COVAX. Same storm, different boats. 

Meanwhile, new COVID-19 variants continue to emerge. The experts are now saying that coronavirus will never be totally eradicated. It has already spread too far and is changing too fast. The primary goal of public health efforts is now to make the virus manageable, like seasonal flu. We may need to get a coronavirus shot every year. 

So hope in the air, but so is trepidation. We now consider the road ahead. 

I received my first dose of the Moderna vaccine last month, and am scheduled for shot number two this weekend. With cautious optimism, I decided to dip my toe in the water, and agreed to play a couple of socially-distanced jazz festival gigs and teach at an adult jazz camp next month. 

Did I make the right call in accepting these jobs? The decision seemed reasonable at the time, but as May approaches, I can feel my blood pressure going up.

I'm nervous! Covid cases continue to rise, and hospitalizations have plateaued even as vaccinations increase. This thing is far from over. But health concerns are only a part of my ambivalence. 

This year in lockdown has taught me a great deal about myself as an artist and as a man. To put it simply, I’m not entirely sure that I even want to return to public life. 

When I was a young man, I believed that I was part of a sacred continuum. I regarded my musical heroes as ancestors, and felt that it was my responsibility to take up their mantle and follow their example. I fully expected that one day I would join them, in the grand succession, on Olympus. 

As I got older, I began to think about my legacy. I had no protégé, no students, and no children, yet I saved every concert program and news clipping. I imagined that these items would be valuable to future historians, biographers, and curators of retrospective exhibitions about my life and career. I even lugged my memorabilia around in a giant footlocker, which I called The Dmitri Museum without a trace of irony. 

The Dmitri Museum

When I hit midlife, after I'd been making a living in music for awhile, I began to realize that my career held no great significance. I’m neither a virtuoso nor an innovator. I can play, but my simple songs and modest independent recordings are not likely to be remembered by history. 

After some soul-searching I made peace with the demotion and embraced the more realistic role of blue collar bandleader. I'd lost interest in collecting museum exhibits anyway, so I scanned a few items, tossed the rest, and focused all my energies on filling the schedule. 

“If I’m not going to be important,” I thought, “I can at least be busy.” Over the next decades my bands and I spent over two hundred nights a year on the road, playing thousands of shows for small audiences in intimate venues. I took pride in our success, but I also felt like the dog that caught the car ... now what? 

Then came the big Pandemic Pause Button, and with it the chance to stop, think, and ask the big questions. Am I happy? Why did I choose this life? What other paths might I have taken? Should I stay the course, or find a new way? 

The first few weeks of the shutdown were especially challenging. My ego was attached to my manufactured identity as one of the hardest working, busiest cats around, and that had been taken away. I felt defanged and emasculated. But as weeks turned into months, I began to let all that go. Gradually I settled into a new rhythm. 

The pace of life during lockdown slowed to a stroll, my preferred tempo in all things. Each day was perfectly balanced: a little writing, a little teaching, a lot of relaxing. I puttered around the house, played my horn, wrestled with the dog, and took naps. I spent time outdoors, walking, gardening and fishing. I enjoyed home-cooked meals with Sassy and heart-to-heart talks with faraway friends. 

We also watched tons of movies. One that I found particularly inspiring was Harry Dean Stanton’s final picture Lucky, in which a 90-year-old man comes to terms with his own mortality in a small desert town. 

Harry Dean Stanton in Lucky (2017)

Lucky finds enlightenment in the minutia of life. “He has a routine,” observes film critic Matt Zoller Seitz, “and like many older people, it gives shape to his days.” Yes, indeed. 

Like Lucky, I’m a non-religious seeker, and ritual is important to me as I prepare for my own senescence. This year provided an unexpected, welcome preview of what daily life will be like when I retire. I was surprised to learn that I love this simple life, and that even without music and travel, I’m still me. 

This year of Liminal Time was a gift from the universe, an opportunity to reevaluate foundational assumptions. For example, as a child I was taught to see myself as a winner, and that idea was reinforced every time I excelled in school, work, music, life. But how can you be a winner if you never try things outside your comfort zone? How can you be a winner if you never attempt something at which you might lose? 

All my life I’ve parsed the world into two absurd, Randian categories: “things that matter” (where I win), and “things that are a foolish waste of time” (where I never lose, because I refuse to participate). I now see that what I believed to be discernment was actually a childish defense mechanism against the inevitable shame of failure. 

This cartoonish worldview served me for awhile as a useful delusion. It gave me strength during times of adversity. But it also deprived me of valuable life experience and depleted my capacity for empathy. It hindered my ability to make friends, because whenever I dismissed something as foolish, I would be equally dismissive of those who enjoyed or excelled at that thing. 

Art Farmer was 100% correct when he told me that I don’t take enough chances. Art also said that there is really no such thing as losing. “There’s only winning or learning.” What he didn’t say, but I now believe, is that of the two, learning is best. 

Art Farmer was 100% correct when he told me that I don’t take enough chances.

Looking ahead, I’m not sure what my new normal will look like, but I hope to fashion a more balanced lifestyle, one with less busyness and more curiosity.

I do still have some ambition in the tank. I'll surely write more music, play more concerts, and record at least one more album before I call it quits. But I also feel the need to make space in my life for frivolous hobbies, silly games, small talk, chance encounters with strangers, taking chances, and exploring new interests. 

I’d like to spend fewer nights on the road. It’s time to begin my transition from “touring musician” to “northwest composer” and eventually “eccentric old guy at the diner.” 

The fact is, I may have no choice in the matter. Competition for post-pandemic work will be intense. Many venues, including several of my longtime clients, have gone out of business during this crisis. Others are now booking bands at unrealistically low wages. Most won’t return to live music at all until capacity restrictions are lifted. #SaveOurStages 

But if this year has taught me anything, it’s that work for work's sake is overrated. Been there, done that.

The new goal is a smaller, simpler, more sustainable life.

One shaped by ritual and routine, punctuated by moments of discovery and wonder.

That’s the life for me.