Music Found Me Early

I can remember exactly when music became part of my life. I was nine years old.

My best friend Kerry, his brother Steve, and I spent just about every day together. We did all the normal kid things, but even then we seemed drawn to anything creative. Kerry's dad covered the exposed 2x4s in their basement with old cardboard from flattened boxes so we could draw directly on the "walls." We filled them with spaceships, invented worlds, and even created our own coded alphabet and language.

Before long, music joined the adventure.

Between us we had a little red snare drum and an old Stella acoustic guitar with three rusty strings. We started what was probably one of the world's worst garage bands, happily singing songs like Louie Louie, House of the Rising Sun, and Dizzy. Looking back, we weren't very good—but we certainly didn't know it. The neighborhood girls would gather outside the garage and peek through the windows to watch us rehearse. They were, I suppose, our very first groupies.

Around that same time, an older friend introduced me to her collection of 45 rpm records. We'd sit around the kitchen table with a little record player and listen for hours. I still remember hearing songs like Itchycoo Park by the Small Faces and Pictures of Matchstick Men by Status Quo. Those afternoons opened a door for me, and once it opened, it never really closed. Music wasn't just something I listened to anymore—it had become part of who I was.

None of us could have imagined that those childhood afternoons would lead anywhere beyond the next weekend. But decades later, Kerry and I are still making music together. Some friendships fade with time. Ours simply found new songs to write.

Music Was Meant to Be Shared

By the time I was about fifteen, I had already discovered something that would stay with me for the rest of my life.

I spent countless evenings at the home of a friend named Debbie and her sisters. We'd sit in her parents' living room with my guitar, singing together and learning intricate vocal harmonies. Before long, family members, friends, and neighbors began showing up almost every week. Some simply listened. Others brought guitars of their own and joined in. What started as two people making music gradually became something much bigger.

Those evenings often stretched on for hours. One night we played Hey Jude, and by the time we finally reached the famous "na-na-na" ending, we kept it going for nearly half an hour. Nobody wanted it to end.

Those evenings changed my understanding of what music could do.

For the first time, I wasn't focused on learning chords or singing the right notes. I was watching what happened in the room. I watched people laugh, sing along, remember old times, and sometimes quietly wipe away tears. Complete strangers became friends. Shy people found their voices. Music somehow reached places that ordinary conversation never seemed to touch.

Years later, I found myself at a party that had settled into one of those awkward, quiet moments when everyone seemed to be waiting for someone else to do something. The hostess asked for ideas. I quietly asked her if they happened to have an acoustic guitar. Within minutes, people were singing together, laughing, and the entire room had come alive. It reminded me of those evenings years earlier.

I've experienced moments like that many times since, but those gatherings in Debbie's parents living room taught me something I've never forgotten: music has an extraordinary way of bringing people together. Long before I ever thought about recording albums or writing songs professionally, I realized that music wasn't just something we listened to — it was something we shared.

That realization eventually led me to writing my own songs. Music had shown me what it could do for people. Writing songs became my way of contributing to that conversation.

I've always written the music first. Once the melody tells me where it wants to go, the lyrics usually follow. Sometimes the songs grow out of my own experiences. Sometimes they begin with someone else's story. Either way, every song starts with something real.

I've always been drawn to songwriters who tell stories. Artists like The Beatles, James Taylor, Jim Croce, Bob Dylan, Simon & Garfunkel, Tom Petty, Gordon Lightfoot, and Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young taught me that a great melody can make a story unforgettable. More recent artists such as John Mayer, Jason Mraz, Passenger, and Ed Sheeran continue to remind me that storytelling never goes out of style.

For years I performed live while quietly building a collection of original songs. As recording technology became more accessible, I finally reached the point where I could bring those songs to life the way I'd always imagined. Today those recordings continue to grow into a catalog of originals, acoustic performances, cover songs, and seasonal music that I hope people will enjoy for years to come.

Music eventually carried me from small-town Michigan to stages throughout Las Vegas, but no matter where I played, I always discovered the same thing: people connect through stories.

If one of my songs reminds you of someone you loved, a place you've been, or a moment you thought you'd forgotten then it has done exactly what I hoped it would do.

Because every story deserves a song.