Today, on Thanksgiving, I found this video (also shared on YouTube) of I Can't Give You Anything But Love, in my Facebook "memories from 2 years ago". Especially during the total shutdown phase of the pandemic (and continuing occasionally, after things started to open back up), I would clip out individual tunes from my weekly "Piano For My Friends" videos to post as stand alones. From 2007, when I began posting on YouTube, until the pandemic struck in 2020, I would only post from live performances, and never from home. It was, admittedly, a bit of a pride thing, wanting to make the statement that I was/am a working musician, and not someone just playing music in my living room. So this was a new approach for me, and a fun one. Rather than stopping between tunes to announce or regroup (which annoyed some people), I would play continuously throughout the hour long sessions, transitioning from one tune to another, however I was moved to at the time. Sometimes the wide open, non-stop format of these videos would entrench me more deeply in "float and dive (and duck and weave)" zone.This, apparently, was one of those times.  :)

Much has changed (and continues to change) in my life since then. Perhaps this is an appropriate video to share on Thanksgiving, as this "take whatever comes and embrace it, holding on tightly while letting go completely" approach, that I've learned to find and embrace (when I get out of my own way) goes way beyond just playing the piano. In the bigger picture, it becomes the "life skill" that keeps my feet on the ground, and my heart in the grateful/thankful place. Plus, when my ego (and everything else) is out of the way, what is left? So, from the piano (at least), I can't give you anything but that. And there it is.  :)

Happy Thanksgiving (every day of the year)!!

 This year marks 30 years that I have playing piano at the Heron Point Retirement Community, in Chestertown Maryland, beginning with a twice a month Health Center contract in 1994. This was at the beginning of what would become an explosion of ongoing senior facility contracts (30 senior facilities, in 4 states), and a Board Certification in Music Therapy. All of this kept me very busy, for about 15 years (on top of all the regular gigging, which I continued to do), until I began to pull back, and eventfully retire from music therapy practice completely. The only facility I've continued with ongoing commitments is Heron Point. And these days, just about anything that you imagine a pianist doing in a senior community, I'm doing it at Heron Point: regularly scheduled performances for residents, Sunday Vespers services, funeral/memorial services, and a wide range of special events. The connection I have with many of the residents (many of whom I known for most of those 30 years) goes deep. And the ongoing joke (though serious to some, I suspect), is to ask when I am going to get my own room there (or, why don't I have one already, as it seems like I almost live there, sometimes). In addition to all the wonderful connections, being introduced to Heron Point was also my introduction to the Eastern Shore of Maryland, and specifically, Chestertown. It wasn't long after my first 36 mile drive down Rt. 213 from Elkton to Chestertown that we moved to Kent County, MD. It's been a wonderful 30 years.

The above video for taken during a solo concert for the residents, earlier this month.   :)

Wrote this in my personal journal this morning (sort of):

Use fewer notes. Use far fewer notes. Wait for the space to open before attempting to play. Allow the notes/melody/music to come from my heart (or beyond) and not from my head. At this point, allow a greater quantity of notes to come, if they want to, so long as I remain an observer in the process. Recognize when I am navigating; weaving my way through something, with my primary focus on what is directly in front of me, and less so on the context, or the direction it is travelling. If so, stop, wait... Recognize when my emotions are steering me, rather than responding to me (may need to further reflect on this one to feel that I’m stating it properly). When overwhelmed, be still (It will very likely seem longer than it actually takes, if I’m actually still).

Although this (above) was where I was going, as I was writing, I actually wrote these words: 

Use fewer words. Use far fewer words. Wait for the space to open before attempting to speak. Allow the words to come from my heart (or beyond) and not from my head. At this point, allow a greater quantity of words to come, if they want to, so long as I remain an observer in the process. Recognize when I am navigating; weaving my way through something, with my primary focus on what is directly in front of me, and less so on the context, or the direction it is travelling. Recognize when my emotions are steering me, rather than responding to me (may need to further reflect on this one to feel that I’m stating it properly). When overwhelmed, be still (It will very likely seem longer than it actually takes, if I’m actually still).

For me, it's the same process. One defines the other. Everything I've needed to know in life, I've learned (and continue to learn) at the piano. If I can grow, even seemingly the tiniest bit, every day, then I'm travelling in the direction that I'm supposed to be.  :)

 I'm surprised that I didn't realize this until very recently, and I'm glad I stumbled onto it. This year is the 100th anniversary of Gershwin's Rhapsody in Blue. Other than not remembering the actual year of the George Gershwin/Paul Whiteman premiere, though, I'm pretty familiar with the rest of the story, and its introduction to the world via a much leaner (and meaner) orchestra than we are all now accustomed to. I love hearing this performed in it's original orchestration, truer to the influence of the "jazz" culture of the time. If you have the 17 minutes to watch the above video, you should.

A few days ago, after allowing myself to take a detour from office work to watch a couple of performances of of Rhapsody in Blue on YouTube, I attempted to return to the routine of the day (when I'm home), but my brain (which operates on its own, without taking direction or observing guardrails) was not letting go of one or the Rhapsody themes, and starts assigning words, At this point I'm just become more of an observer in the process. So I gave in to writing words down (see if you tell which of the themes was playing in my head):

"Every time I go to the store,

I pick up a jar of peanut butter,

And I'm always running out,

Cause I eat so much.

Why do I obsessively eat,

A peanut butter sandwich,

Maybe 2, at random times a day

And not just for lunch ..."

At which point I said ENOUGH to myself, so I could go back to practicing.

Living with my brain can be challenging sometimes.... uh, actually every day, all the time ...

A concert review, from some years ago, concluded with "Joe's artistry is best enjoyed live in concert where he is comfortably spontaneous and plays with a controlled abandon..." The reviewer confessed to me, after the concert, that he didn't "get it(/me)" until hearing me that day, having only encountered my playing in the context of a rhythm section, up until that concert. Or to put it another way, he (certainly) wasn't a fan prior to the event. Not to say that he necessarily became one afterward, but that what(ever it is that) I bring to the table became more clear to him, or more accessible in that experience. I learned a lot from this, and continue to learn, even as the review was written over a decade ago. Here's what I can articulate, at this point in the unfolding process; My core is improvisational abandon. My path, and presentation, is abandon within structure. Perhaps my strength is creating a sense of "and now what is he going to do?" while at the same time always allowing the listener to know where they are. Tethered abandon, perhaps? Am thinking so, and that the "tethering" holds the control. In my own process, this has become important to get a handle on. Although I can improvise freely for lengths of time, an overarching structure in these improvisations is typically weak, at best. I have hundreds of "free" (or free leaning) improvisations recorded, the great majority unreleased (and unstructured.) One of the things I'll often say, lightheartedly, about myself is that I enjoy structure, especially when someone else provides it for me. And when I say this, I'm not thinking so much about music, but about life in general. But when it comes to music, and specifically, my approach to it, these words make perfect sense. It takes me back to a book by Huston Smith in which he discusses esoterics and "exoterics", and their relationship to each other. One point he makes is that exoterics can provide the structure within which esoterics can operate, which he likens to shells and kernels; the kernel being the creative/big picture/spiritual force, and the shell being that which houses it, so to speak, and allows it to be. He summarizes, "No shells, no kernels" (he then goes on to say that the esoteric understands the need for the exoteric, but the reverse doesn't old. That's a whole other discussion). So here's a statement. I need structure, and probably more so than the average Joe, because I can't easily provide it for myself. And in music, that's what the song does (or is), structure. And I am at my best abandon when tethered to it. Or controlled within it.   

 I was listening to a song in my YouTube music app, and when it finished, a strange thing happened. There was silence. Beautiful silence. And in that moment, I don't know if I'd ever recognized silence as being so beautiful. Like a rush of bliss, with nothing popping up (like an unwanted commercial in the middle of a video that you are immersed in) to obscure it.

Perhaps the reason that this stood out so dramatically, is that I've been fighting the YouTube (et al) gremlins of autoplay for what was beginning to seem like forever. Especially in my car. One song ends, another begins, as I scramble turn off the autoplay (which seems to work for a minute or two, or, at best, until the next time I get in my car). As soon as my bluetooth engages, the music comes; uninvited, unwelcomed. Like when the next door neighbor would start up his motorcycle early in the morning, right outside my window (In those moments, I would seriously consider buying a bb gun), piercing the silence. Perhaps YouTube has trained me to expect this obnoxious behavior once the music is "finished" (provoking me to want to yell at it, or maybe throw something, or actually buy that bb gun), because as silence began to settle in, it was as a beautiful symphony.

Why silence, if music is so central in my life? An interesting question, and one I've been (indirectly) pondering for years, though I've never attempted to make verbal sense of it, rather holding it with internal acceptance. So, here"s a start: In my own experience, in both musical practice and performance, i've learned both to respond to what I hear in my head, and what I "see" with my heart, and to differentiate between the two. And reliably, the deeper spaces are found when I can gaze out beyond my own head. I suppose it's similar, and relatable, to the experience anyone can have in communing with nature; where wonder can enlighten us as concepts fail us. 

There are two responses one can have to silence; either to fill the space/vanquish the silence, or to listen to it. Listening to silence may first appear an oxymoron. So let's rephrase it as being present within the silence. And from there, everything flows. A Christian cleric I once knew was fond of saying: "God's first language is silence. God's second language is music. After that, It's a free for all." To me, there is much about this that rings true.

Listening to a recent livestream of one of my Mainstay First Friday concerts, I heard myself say, on mic: "All of my straight lines are circles". Hearing something come out of my mouth like that can take something from the pondering (understood in my heart) space and deposit it in another part of my brain, allowing me to say, "Yes, of course!", like I just taught myself something. And actually, I have. We can be our own best teachers, once we listen to ourselves after listening beyond ourselves. And having no straight lines can describe (in addition to everything else in my life), my approach to this journal/blog. This results in many posts in progress (aka: unfinished) concurrently. Then, at whatever the right moment winds up being, some inspiration or realization comes, adding the context that brings the previously isolated thought into proper focus. The entry below has been sitting in my drafts for months, waiting to be properly framed. Well, here goes: The last couple of entries in this blog have opened the window (just a little) to my current circumstance of my life, in many regards, being in flux, or perhaps better, suspended above ground. I have no anxiety over this, knowing it is a story being written. As such, I feel the paradox of everything being out of place and disheveled, and being centered in exactly the right place/space.

So this brings me to the musing in my drafts which I knew would eventually find it's way out, and into public view. Now's the time: 

A piano is a welcome sight; friendly, familiar, almost like home. Maybe it actually is home. Actually, of course it is. The piano is where I feel connected. Safe, even. And a portal to beyond. A place to untether. A place to unwind (as I untether). A place to be me. 

The piano is unique among instruments. a place where you can sit, alone, and have access to everything; the highest of highs, the lowest of lows, and a meticulous ordering of what is in between. The piano is where you can sit still, in one place, while at the same time be everywhere, and all at once. The piano is a place of solitude, and of connection (at least for me); with myself, with those around me, with God. The piano is home.

, 

  

 

 Some years ago, I arrived at the place, in my own personal/spiritual journey, of purposing to disavow forming conclusions (which is, and will continue to be, a work in progress). I don't know that I've ever really discussed this here (in this journal/blog), as it is paradoxical, and challenges the use of words. It also requires a certain degree of faith, or connection outside of one's own reasoning, to be able to trust that there is, indeed, a trustworthiness beyond where logical analyses can take us. There comes a point (and often, by now, I'd feel as if I'd already reached it) where the knowledge that some who are hearing me will (internally) fold their arms (and minds), leads me to be less inclined to proclaim, and more so to point. Less to convince, and more to demonstrate. Less to make a declaration, and more to be an example. 

When one is trying to encourage another toward finding a place of deeper connection (beyond what words can concretely describe), pointing in that direction can allow for reflection, pondering, and ultimately, discovery (it can be argued that this was the primary teaching approach of Jesus himself). Of course, the one pointing is already in that trusting place. So, rather than desiring others to arrive at the same opinion (or better, reach the same conclusion), my initial desire is for another is for them to unfold their arms, extending them outward, in trust. In terms of pointing broadly in this direction, I'll sometimes start with this quote from Keith Jarrett: "When I'm out there, and there's just a piano, it's like my body knows exactly what to do. It's just like my left hand knows how to play. And if I tell it what to play, I'm stopping it. Not only am I stopping it, but I'm stopping it from playing something better than I can think of". Now, of course, this resonates strongly with me, as the piano is where I spend much time cultivating the trusting place, essentially, in prayer (it would be fair to describe my attitude toward practicing as an exercise in spiritual discipline). I recently spent a few days in Florida visiting my son and his family, and went to church with them on Sunday. Had anyone engaged me and asked me about myself (and no one did), I was prepared to say that I pray for a living.   ;) 

The larger goal for me, in it all, is to trust/pray my way not just at the piano, but through all of life. And in that space (perhaps the perpetual moment?), not knowing what is around the corner is okay. And much more than okay, as what might otherwise be an unsettling state of uncertainty becomes a place of peace.

 I keep a bit of a wall up on the personal side of social media. I've gotten a lot of mileage over the years on YouTube and Facebook (and, of course, my email list) in connecting with people who are interested in the music side of things. But beyond that, on the personal side, it doesn't go much beyond the occasional grandchild pictures. The lines may be a little blurred when it comes to this blog, but not much, really, or perhaps just not at all. The personal (who I am) and the professional (what I do) can have much, and even profound, intersection in someone who is all big picture all the time, with little ability to compartmentalize anything.Who I am, personally, is fully inseparable from what I do (or who I am) professionally. But you know what I mean. I'm not the friend on Facebook who is reliably going to detail  his medical issues,  political opinions (to the extent I may have them), who I have a beef with, or (speaking of beef) what I had for lunch. Though now, I'm inclined to open the window a bit, or (looking at the above photo) the door to the apartment balcony. For the last several months, finding sudden and unexpected hairpin turns and potholes on my personal path, I've been living in a temporary apartment situation right above a coffee shop. The last few months have opened up a particular "season" of life, that I can best describe as like riding a wave. Not sure where it is taking me, and I am okay with that. And not just okay with it, I fully embrace it. What I have been training to do, in the spiritual discipline of practicing and playing the piano is essential here, just as in the broader scheme of things. Trust. Getting out of my own way and allowing it to happen; to come to and through me. Like an improvisation at the piano; when it is fully happening, I am a participant/observer in something that is bigger than me, and beyond what I could predertime to construct or concoct. I'm in the middle of a story, or at least a chapter in the larger story. I'm proposing to put it in writing, once I am out the other side (whatever that means). Now I'll just say that I'm preparing for the next turn on the road, where I can't yet see around the corner. But whatever it is, and wherever it takes me is what I am being prepared for. And the one thing I can say that I am determining purposefully to do, is to be ready. To be open, To trust. To step into the improvised solo that is already formed once I play the first note, and is revealed to me as I go. As goes my professional life, so goes my personal life, and vice versa.       

I am reminded, by the picture above, of the first CD themed concert following the official release of "Once Upon a Summertime - The Music of Blossom Dearie", nearly a year ago; when Sharon Sable and I ventured on a road trip to Mt. Vernon Nazarene University, in Ohio. In the afternoon of our concert, I took a walk to take some pictures toward making a Facebook photo post. The picture above, in particular, spoke to me, and now, a caption has come: "If I only think about where I am, I can't go anywhere". This, actually, has become the central element in learning to to express more deeply from the piano, and specifically, to get out of my own way. But more than that, it pretty well sums up life's lessons that have brought me to this point. Learning to let go (of where I think I am, or ought to be) may simply mean turning our focus away from that which is occupying the space in front of us (which may equate to: in our way). And if we are turning our focus away from what is directly in front of us, to what, exactly are we turning our focus? I suspect that the answer may simply be away from what is in front of us (in our way). Or to go back to the caption, if I only think about where I am, I can't go anywhere.  The landscape opens up when we don't insist on painting it ourselves.

 Something I will say often is that if I had to read from sheet music what I play (improvisationally), it would never get played. Had a visual reminder of this today, as I was looking through some file folders. In 2010, Ian Pallister was kind enough to transcribe my video post of "On the Sunny Side of the Street", from a nursing community, in 2007. Coincidentally, this happens to be my most viewed post (paltry by pop culture standards, but in the subculture world of classic jazz, I'm not complaining), at 60K and change. This is the only "Joe Holt" transcription available (free, on my website), but plenty enough to remind me (and to validate) what I'll often say. Though capable of reading music, I just can't process this at anywhere near the level of when I turn my brain processor off and play from another space. Which is now reminding me of something else I will often say. When someone compliments me using the word "talent", my response is to lightheartedly say that it's not talent, it's imbalance. But even though everything pretty much fell to one side of the scale (or my brain), I understand that, for me, this is (my) normal. I'm grateful for what I have, and very much so. And if I need to hear the transcription played, I can ask someone else to play it. Or just watch the video again (you can watch it here).  :)

As much as I love all things "Peanuts" (and especially "A Charlie Brown Christmas"), it startled me, at first, to realize that I never programmed a Vince Guaraldi/Charlie Brown Christmas tribute at the Mainstay until this year: 225 (or so) shows in. But it was worth the wait. You'll get the sense, in the above video of the encore, how much we connected with the audience, as well as how much we (Tom Baldwin, Greg Burrows and I) connected with the music itself. It was quite a special evening. How blessed and privileged am I to continue to curate and perform show on an ongoing basis at the Mainstay   :)   

It made sense to use "Hark the Herald Angels sing for an encore,  given that this is the last song heard on the television special (we gave it an "O Tannenbaum" treatment after the first chorus). Joining me were Tom Baldwin (bass) and Greg Burrows (drums). This selection wasn't rehearsed or scripted; just sitting there for us to pick up and run with if an encore was called for (which it was). If I can say so, it seems to me that the three of us gave this a genuine Vince Guaraldi treatment; in the moment, and in the pocket. It was pretty much that way the entire show. You can watch the video of the Mainstay archive here. Enjoy, and Merry Christmas (Charlie Brown)!

 The experience of returning to the Sun Valley Jazz and Music Festival this year was beyond special. First off, it was just nice to be back after 15 years (Sun Valley was the last festival I played with the Midiris, before leaving the band in 2008). Soooo much has happened since then; a providential weaving to bring me to a different place, paving a return to the same place. And if that seems confusing, it's actually a (much) simplified description of the path I've been travelling; a weaving beyond my ability to plan, script or comprehend. And on top of my re-connecting/bonding with my Midiri brothers, my path of musical partnership with Sharon Sable has crossed with the Midiri train (tracks), in a similar (clearly providential) weaving. Sharon was able to step in as the band vocalist (the first time in their 20+ years of performing festivals that the Midiri band has taken a singer) never having actually sung with the band. She and Joe Midiri were together on a couple of gigs earlier this year, and that was all he needed to know to make the call/offer, when the opportunity presented itself. It was a beautiful experience, for everyone, from front to back. Sharon's and my final set (just prior to the festival grand finale) was after the rest of the band left for the airport (we were able to stay an extra day), and gave us the opportunity to present a duo version of our Blossom Dearie show. Safe to say that Sharon made many new friends and fans that week. It appears that I held my own as well.  We are carrying the gratitude with us as we go forward  :) 

   

Since I have been back with the Midiri band, we have taken advantage of our unique instrumentation to work on building a repertoire of tunes with (George) Shearing-style choruses. This unique sound, popularized in the 1950's, features a specific block chord piano approach (which I am very comfortable doing) coordinated with vibes and guitar. We have a few arrangements worked out so far, and it's a really nice touch that adds to the band. Paul and I got together the other night to write choruses for a couple more tunes. Each of us are capable of doing this individually, on our own. But a deeper inspiration happens when we combine our (somewhat contrasting) approaches, and work on them together. With the Sun Valley festival just 2 weeks away now, we find ourselves motivated to make the time (not that either of us have much to spare right now) and add to the book. It is gratifying, and fun. 

There is something larger here at play, though, which has been at the front of my awareness for some time (although I haven't blogged/journaled much about it recently). This guy (Paul Midiri) is my brother. So is his (actual twin) bother, Joe. You likely know the story. Next year marks the 50th anniversary of our first meeting. Since then, the pendulum has swung back and forth, many times. It's like a rhythm (perhaps even a pulse) that has carried us along, over all these years. it's where we started, what we've experienced (together and apart) along the way, and where we are now. It's home. And we've always known that, even as it took us decades to acknowledge it. In 2005, we released a 30 year reunion CD titled "The Other Brother". At the time, it may have been, in our minds, more of a cute title than a declaration. But we knew, then, and we certainly know now. And we also know (or at least sincerely believe) that there is more to come. Maybe even the best (is yet to come). One beat at a time (Paul will notate it for us).  :) 

    

There is an order in the pulse,

There is a rhythm to the rhyme,

In the things that we find,

In the things that are hidden,

Within the pulse,

Layered beyond our vision,

Hidden beyond our reach,

Until our reach expands,

Within the pulse,

Surrendered to the order,

The order creation knows,

The order that holds all things.

The above poem came to me some months ago, in one of my morning practice sessions, in the clarity of opening up the creative space. As I revisit it now, I am reminded of where the "creative space" can go, when one is truly surrendered (losing one's ego/self) within it. I'll keep revisiting this one.  

 

There is always something new to learn. As it strikes me right now; each new thing is kind of like a new level of entry, to take you to the more important things you actually wind up learning. One of those important things I've learned (and continue to learn) in the winding path of my own life's tapestry weaving, is my connection to intuition. This is something that I've always had, which I can recognize as I look back over my life. Except that, for much of that life, I didn't understand what I was seeing. Or perhaps better, feeling (or even better, sensing). Now that I get it (at least enough to not be totally oblivious to it), I've come, first, to accept this as central to my approach to making, and practicing music. And when intuition comes, connecting into my mind (as opposed to coming from my thoughts), I continue to learn to trust, without asking questions. That's when the music starts to, in a way, play itself. Which is a beautiful thing to watch. Especially when you're the one doing it.  

Simply put (to the extent that I am capable of simply stating anything); living in the intuitive space (listening before speaking, trusting over worrying, knowing over guessing) is where I can be myself, most deeply and effectively. And what I am learning (and continue to learn) at the piano is what I purpose to take with me everywhere. Which can make every day a new adventure. For example, a few months ago, I was taking music therapy shop with a fellow music therapist, and the intuitive nudge hit me to (of all things) mention that I've always wanted to take swing dance lessons. I was surprised to have that come to me, but not surprised by the outcome, as I've learned to trust (and not overthink). So my new friend and I recently took a few weeks of beginner swing dance lessons. Oh my! Now I can ask "What was I thinking?!", as I can't keep the dance steps straight any more than I can keep my desk clean. Of course, the answer to the question is: I want thinking. I was trusting. And the picture is always, always bigger that we can see (or even imagine).  One (dance) step at a time   ;)   

PS - the above photo is from a swing dance at the Mobtown Ballroom in Baltimore, where I was on stage with the band. Where it's safe (and I won't fall down or step on anyone or otherwise embarrass myself).  :D    

 

It had never been on my radar screen to become a music therapist. But in the 1990s (in my 30s), the dots began to connect. Once I attained certification (MT-BC) in 1997, the network of senior/geriatric communities (many of them continuing care facilities) that I serviced grew to over 30. Most of these were ongoing contracts, ranging from once a week to once a month. It was, essentially, a full time day job, in addition to maintaining my gigging schedule. And for 3 of the busiest years (2003-2005), I held a half time position as Worship Arts Director at a local church. And I was a dad to 3 young children, as best I could be. It was an intense season of life, where sleep was at a premium, and piano practice time was minimal. These days, piano practice time is my center of professional (and to some extent, personal) gravity. But back then, circumstances pushed me in another direction. Becoming board certified as a music therapist allowed me, on a practical level, to pack my daytime hours with contract work (read, gigging). On a professional level, I became deeply immersed in (and a perpetual student of) music therapy in Alzheimer's care, finding a zone of achievable therapeutic benefits and repeatable positive outcomes. On a personal level, I knew, and often would say, that the most important things I (would probably ever) do in music are in places where no one will see. These many experiences were deeply moving, and will always remain in my heart, even as I have moved away from music therapy practice completely in the time since. That place in my heart has been re-touched deeply in recent years, beginning with the public acknowledgement of Tony Bennet's Alzheimer's disease diagnosis. And especially with the window being opened for all of us to witness his collaboration with Lady Gaga, leading up to Tony's final performance (with her) in 2021. Many people (including me) watched the "one last time" televised event with moist eyes. The additional profundity for me, was to be able to see all of this through the lens of a music therapist; seeing Tony's wife and family, and particularly Gaga, do everything right, with care and genuine love. A beautiful as this was to witness is as beautiful as Lada Gaga's posted tribute (image above) upon Tony's passing. Much respect ... to everyone. RIP Tony. Thank you. 

 

 Some musicians that I work with have heard me talk about (what I semi-jokingly characterize as) my PTSD. I'm not sure how much (or even if) I've referenced it in this journal blog, however. It's not necessarily a common occurrence, having a specific trigger that takes me back to another time; when I was different, and the (jazz) world was different. I also have a bit of an internally complicated relationship with the term jazz, which is not unrelated to all this, I'm sure. When this (PTSD) hits, it's fair to say that I come off as less than confident, and far more off center than is warranted or necessary, perhaps even to the point of undermining myself. And I came to realize, in conversation with Scott Robinson (my First Friday series guest at the Mainstay back in April) that the wheels can kind of come off the bus, from the vantage point of someone on the outside, looking in. To avoid taking this into the weeds (or perhaps, clouds) I'll simply characterize it as slipping into an extreme glass half empty mindset, obsessing over a specific (perceived) deficit, blinding myself to the larger context (obvious to everyone but me), in that moment. And I know better. Or at least I should. 

 

To come up as a young, traditionally-minded jazz-influenced musician in the 1970's was to, at times, be the subject of ridicule from those who considered it un-hip, or not sufficiently sophisticated, or just not jazz at all. I can encapsulate it in one incident back in my high school years when I was told, by someone in a authority position, that my attempt at a particular jazz solo was "the most ridiculous thing that (he'd) ever heard (because my references were too traditional)"  Now, 50 years later, the jazz world has matured somewhat, and there is less tribalism (though it still exists). Voices like Wynton Marsalis, who ascribe legitimacy to all stages of jazz development/evolution, are much more prevalent and heard. Back (and especially) in the 1970s, the condescension of the "hipper then thou" crowd, toward those who did not have "modern" jazz sensibilities, could be brutal. Of course, the inevitable outcome of this was for many in the traditional jazz community to return the condescension. It became complicated and confusing for me. I knew who I wasn't (or thought I did, based on the condescension of others who were telling me so), but wasn't really sure who I was. I knew who I wanted to be (or thought I did ...), except that the wanting was borne out of a false construct, thinking that I needed to attain the proper relationship to the jazz vocabulary to be worthy of being called a jazz musician. It's one of many examples where I can look back over my life and see myself stuck in my own head; and doing myself no favors. 

When one is stuck in their own head, it's difficult to see outside your head. Which is the last place you want to be if your objective is to play/live from your heart. Apparently, I still need to be reminded, on occasion, not to do that. In fact, all I really need to do is just step aside, out of my own way. And my conversation with Scott before that show was the perfect nudge, allowing me not to short change the opportunity to enjoy an evening of solid connection and sincere rapport. Thanks, Scott!   :).     

When someone first learns that I play music for a living, one of the responses I'll get is "You're living the dream!". But when I was a teenager, I had a very different dream (that I eventually let go of for the more realistic one; the one I'm actually gifted for 😉). My dream was to, someday, be in the company (as a peer) of guys I would watch on the Saturday afternoon Professional Bowlers Tour telecasts on ABC (preceding Wide World of Sports). In the 1970s, that would include greats like Dick Weber, Earl Anthony and Mark Roth, among many others. Saturday television, for me, was not just morning cartoons. In fact, some of  those morning cartoons would gave way to Saturday morning youth bowling league; first one (11am), then, eventually, a second (9am), pushing Saturday morning cartoons completely off to the side. I was hooked. For all of my father's attempts to nurture my interest and aptitude in sports (being the only child of an E9 in the Marine Corps wasn't exactly a walk in the park. Or at least any park I actually cared about), this is the one thing that stuck. And not only was there a bowling alley within walking distance of my house. In the military world, there is (or at least was) a bowling alley within walking distance of just about everything (save the battlefield). Even the Naval Hospital in Philadelphia had a bowling alley in the basement. And yes, I bowled on it. 

That was over 40 years ago. Now my bowling days are long behind me. But in recent years, I've reconnected with the modern PBA tour as a fan again. And imagine my surprise when I discovered, a few weeks ago, that the annual national PBA doubles tournament was taking place a half hour up the highway from me (keep in mind that I live in a very rural area), over the week of my birthday, no less.  So I gave myself a birthday present; buying a spectators pass for a day of qualifying rounds, and reconnecting, vicariously, with my childhood dream for awhile. It was cool to see many of the guys I watch on the televised events, starting from the moment I walked in the door. The photo above shows Packy Hanrahan on the verge of a 300 game, though in the end, the 10th frame didn't cooperate. This didn't stop Packy, and his doubles partner Mitch Hupe (also in the photo) from eventually winning the tournament. It was a nice way to spend my birthday   :) 

 The reviews have been coming in for "Once Upon A Summertime - The Music of Blossom Dearie", with Sharon Sable. Though grateful for them, many have seemed like the writers were cooking breakfast and reading the newspaper while composing their reviews, or something like that. This most recent one was very different. Raul De Gama writes as one who is deeply immersed in music; both as a subject, and in the experience of a listener. Sharon and I happened to be together when we received the notification of the review in our email, and so were able to share the in experience of reading what spoke validation and encouragement directly to each of us, and to both of us.  Thank you, Raul!

https://jazzdagama.com/music/sharon-sable-joe-holt-once-upon-a-summertime/ (text below)   

 "Blossom Dearie – the dedicatee of this wonderful album – had a voice like no other vocalist in popular music. Both in appearance and in the manner of her voice she resembles a sort of proverbial ingénue – not “unsophisticated”, in the sense that is described in lexicons, but beyond “endearing” as the French, in their impossibly poetic manner, describe as: “qui laisse voir librement et naïvement ses sentiments; une pauvre fille ingénu et sans malice.”

 As tributes go there are not many women who have stepped up to perform one better than Sharon Sable, who has both the voice of girlish timbre, the style of airy shaping of melodic contours laced with admirably restrained embellishments and affectionate communication of the poetry ensconced in the songs. This refers to the songs associated with Miss Dearie, as well as songs that may be attributed to her as well of numerous others. Once Upon a Summertime – The Music of Blossom Dearie is also ethereally an appropriate a title for an album given that someone like Miss Dearie also come once in a lifetime.

In songs made in the intimacy of the duet – in this case with an exquisite interpreter of song in the form of pianist Joe Holt – make everything so much more magical. Mt Holt is exemplary on his own. Indeed, there are very few like him [Steve Kuhn, who has glorified recordings with the great Sheila Jordan is another.] However, speaking of Mr Holt: his has a silken feel for melody and notes magically roll off the keyboard, caressed by his fingers. His harmonic intellect is flawless and, as a result, his choice of chords [and the harmonic] inventions and inversions that he employs will leave you breathless – if Miss Sable has not yet done so already. Mr Holt’s sense of time makes this music almost unspeakably rhythmically beautiful to behold.

You cannot really go wrong with repertoire when producing an album like this one. But you may have too much of ‘a good thing’, if it [a given song] goes on for far too long. However, both Miss Sable and Mr Holt are acutely aware of this and their brevity when exploring each song indicates that both know when to start and when to usher in the perfect dénouement for a song. Moreover, they intersperse dallying, balladic material with slightly saucy, but ever-so-endearing narratives.

On several songs – where the duo becomes a trio – the inimitable contrabassist Amy Shook graces the studio soundstage with her majestic presence. Miss Shook brings uncommon gravitas and elegance to songs such as the eloquently Down with Love and L’etang [on Miss Shook shows off her magnificent con arco technique], the puckish Boum, and the magical Tea for Two. Any one of those charts might easily qualify as the apogee of the album – in no small part because the contrabassist adds much to what Miss Sable and Mr Holt already bring to it.

This album is one for the ages – not only as a Blossom Dearie tribute but as an album by a truly miraculous vocal artist, made of glorious warmth and intimacy.

Deo gratis…!"

 The director of the Mainstay, Matt Mielnick, included his perspective on me, and the "Frist Friday with Joe Holt" series that he initiated upon arriving here, in this week's Mainstay email blast. In order to preserve this beyond whatever email folders it resides in, I'll share it here:

"Joe Holt’s name is well known to Mainstay audiences, and to music lovers throughout the Delmarva Peninsula. I was introduced to Joe shortly after I was given the keys to The Mainstay in October of 2021. I had little direct information about him, but recognized that he was listed on the Concert Logs I was given as having a show every Monday night for the four years leading up to the pandemic. Alongside his name, each show highlighted a different guest performer, usually with widespread local credentials, but occasionally musicians that I recognized from as far north as my home in New York – and not all of them were jazz players. Well, I thought, this guy invites these people, serves as the host of the event and then moves aside for them to do their thing, perhaps jamming with them for a few tunes. I couldn’t have been farther off the mark.

Joe used our first meeting to give me his resignation. My first thought was that it must have been a challenge to find a really impressive different guest to spotlight every week. But after asking people about his shows, the truly surprising report I consistently received was not about the brilliance of his guests, but about how inspired the collaborations were. These were not jam sessions. They were well-planned, audience-focused productions, and Joe’s marvelous, at times capricious playing was the lynch pin. For you visual artists out there, try to complete a painting or sculpture every single week for four years that you’re proud to present to the public. I feel a panic attack coming on just thinking about it.

This is how local favorite Beth McDonald phrased it: "The most in-tune accompanist I have ever encountered, and not just because he hits the right notes (haha), but because he is able to meet those who share a stage with him exactly where they are. He isn't thrown off by switching genres or trying new arrangements. Musically speaking, he takes the hand of the one he's accompanying and together they find that sacred place of connection with their audience. It's a beautiful thing to witness, both as a fan and a fellow performer. He's quite simply the best."

Four years of Monday night shows (not most people’s preference for a night on the town), and Joe’s fans were always there. That's a compelling endorsement. The second time I met with Joe I tried my best to persuade him to continue doing these shows, but only on the first Friday of every month. The idea seems to have worked. Those that recognize his passion are already convinced. Those first-timers to his Friday night shows keep returning, regardless of who he shares the stage with. And Joe always shifts the spotlight onto his guests. But there’s another wide spectrum light that falls on him and the work he puts into each and every show. If you could read the label inside his jacket, I’m sure you’d find the following words printed – Joy, Sensitivity, Humility.

By the way, Joe and vocalist Sharon Sable have a new recording about to be released this month celebrating the music of Blossom Dearie, titled Once Upon a Summertime. If you come to Joe’s show this next Friday you can ask him about it."

It's always interesting (and in this case, nice) to see something through another's eyes. So thanks, Matt.   :)

Roughly 3 years ago, Sharon Sable and I began talking about the idea of a Blossom Dearie tribute project.  Now we are in the final weeks of the countdown to our official album release date of 4/11/23. It's been a long and deliberate road; limited on straight lines, boundless in openness and surrender to where this would take us. No one can accuse us of rushing this through. Neither should anyone accuse us of wasting any of our time. The process was exactly what it needed to be, to get us to this point. Who we each are is reflected in this project, or better, embedded in it. What is also embedded in this project is the rapport and connection Sharon and I have recognized and developed over the course of it.  

Some time ago, I came across a refrigerator magnet that was so perfect, I had to buy 2 of them; one for Sharon and one for me - "Hang on while I overthink this",  Sharon and I are each capable of self-doubt. But underneath (and perhaps even foundational, in some way, to) the surface tendency to overthink, is a knowing that we (each) hold something inside of us, a specific (even unique) divine gift. A sense of purpose, shining an inner light that, ultimately, never goes out, needing be put to use. Sharon, like me, has been a performing musician from teenage years. Our stories are dissimilar, until they become much the same. I met Sharon just a few months before beginning this project. But in this limited time, from then until now, I've seen in her the essence of my own life's journey; one that brought me to see my connection to music as far more than an ability or an opportunity. In my early 20's, I consciously accepted making music as my calling. And though I didn't fully comprehend it then; a calling for the benefit of others. Sharon has undergone the process of this too, in her own way. And the place, or lane, in which we collaborate, is where these abilities and realizations are shared.  One of the great blessings of making music are the friendships it forges and nurtures. On this, and on many levels, we are blessed indeed. 

After not flying for nearly 14 years, I've flown commercially twice in the span of 6 months; first, a transatlantic flight, then a cross country route. On the 8 hour flights to and from Europe, I took advantage of the bells and whistles of individually controlled entertainment options. It was fun to do once. On the cross country flight (en route to the jazz festival in Pismo) there were fewer options, which was okay. Old school works for me. So when a bit of conceptual clarity entered my mind (I call these moments "balls of yarn", given to be pondered, as they are unwound) I pulled out my clipboard, opened the tray table, and began writing. This is usually a slow process for me, which is actually good on a long flight. I took out that clipboard the other day and tried to clean it up a bit. Here is an example of what may randomly enter my view (or leave it) at any moment: 

"Anything that can be measured, or considered as going from here to there, on any level, is a measurement of, or response to the created/temporal realm. From our vantage point, time is, perhaps, the most unique measurement in that it is seen as a moving target. To capture a place within time requires that you “freeze” it. These frozen memories, or single frames of experience, turn our focus, at least to some extent, away from acknowledging that these experiences are cumulative, contextual, interconnected and interdependent. “Cumulative time”, as opposed to the frozen frame, reflects more truly the reality in which we live. Cumulative time paints a landscape that gives unique meaning to the individual features; each park bench, tree, puddle and pebble, to whatever extent, or not, you are inclined to ponder these things. Often, though, our pondering (becoming more like imagining or projecting or worrying) fails to consider, or even acknowledge the landscape of context, as we hold a single frame of experience in our hand, staring at only that. As our awareness settles in this manner, whether in memory, current experience, or anticipation; we may retreat into ourselves, holding our frames, disconnected from cumulative time. This works to constructs our own unique version of reality, into which we may imprison ourselves.

Cumulative time allows context to be seen. Without seeing, or knowing the context (in any particular situation), we are inclined to respond to the frame in view, or whatever we are clutching. Admonitions such as to “not worry about tomorrow” or to be “thankful in all things”, rely on some sense of acknowledgement of cumulative time. We disconnect ourselves from context/greater reality when we fail to do this and more so (and to our determent) when we act on our disconnection.

Modern science is beginning to construct a framework for what spiritual and religious teachers have been bringing to our attention through the ages.  Scientific explanations, however, may lack the necessary emphasis to allow us to loosen our grip on the freeze frames; as scientific explanations, in isolation, tend to create their own. The necessary path of connection to the sense of living in cumulative time, with larger purpose, in an interconnected universe, at a place where self (and the frames it clutches) can move to the back seat, is faith."      

A bit of an illustration of what it's like to live with my mind. And why there are few straight lines in my experience.   ;)      

 On the Pismo (Jazz Jubilee By the Sea) festival with the Midiri Brothers band a few weeks ago, I learned a bit more about myself (or received some additional clarity) as the layers of discovery continue to be puled back. Here is what I posted on Facebook when the situation happened:

"When we arrived at the venue for the livestream set today, I was thrown into a bit of a panic. Have never seen a piano with this (first picture) done to it. And when it's on one end of the stage, and the rest of the band is on the other side of it, for me, whenever I play, all of my sound is hitting me in the face and canceling out the sound of the band. Being an accompanist by nature, it's more important to hear the other player(s) than it is to hear myself, because what I'm playing is entirely connected to, even dependent on, what everyone else is doing. What to do? I realized that the several additional piano folders (in addition to the main book) could be put to good use (bottom picture). Problem solved. But now most in the audience saw it, which I was made aware of after our set. So now, perhaps I buy some additional colorful folders and make this my signature look. ;)"

Also, the night before, the band had a late evening set at one of the smaller venues, where an electric piano was in place. The pianist in the band prior to us had the volume way up. It wasn't quite deafening from the audience, but certainly noticeable (and to me, distracting). When it was time to reset the stage before we went on, I discovered that the monitor speaker was actually behind the pianist, facing the audience (which is the wrong direction) and the source of much of the volume. I immediately understood why the band before us was not playing cohesively, as if they weren't listening to each other (I know that I wouldn't have been able to hear much of anything beyond myself if I had play in that circumstance). I didn't think much of it in the moment of readjustment, other than to make sure my speaker situation was adjusted to something appropriate (for which another musician in the band thanked me, once we started playing). But pondering later on these 2 situations brought me to realize (even more so than I had already) just how much of an accompanist/collaborator I am.

 Something I always say, when setting the stage to play behind singers, is that I can't accompany what I can't hear. Until now, I wouldn't have thought about myself as an accompanist (at least in the same way) inside the rhythm section of a band, but really, isn't that exactly what it is? My job is to be in the collective moment at all times, right? Of course, I understand that you have to be able to hear yourself on stage, which was the motivation for the well meaning woodworker to surgically alter (or mutilate) the piano casing. But you also have to clearly hear everyone else, or at least I do. I'm still working on the more global takeaway from this, but what is clear to me (and perhaps all that really can be) is the reinforcement of who I am and what I'm about (and what music is all about, Charlie Brown): connection. Connection with the music, with the other musicians on stage, with the audience, and ultimately, all that makes it go. 

 Haven't had much to say here lately about the status of the Blossom Dearie project with Sharon Sable, so it's time for an update, as things are gearing up. We have now, finally, put the physical CD in for manufacturing, which, when completed, will allow us to begin our 3 month promotional campaign, leading up to the official release this Spring. We were all set to release the album last fall, even to the point of securing the venue for a release concert. Then (and yes, at the absolute last minute), we finally succumbed to engaging a publicist. This is something neither of us have done before (with many self-releases between us), and was no small decision. The bottom line, for both of us, is our sense that this project is an important marker; individually, on our separate paths, and as a statement of our shared path. We are proud of it, and are looking forward to the major publication reviews and national radio play that the promotional campaign will generate. This project deserves that. We are excited for you all to hear it.  Soon  :)

This Spring also begins the season for concerts in support of the project. 2 are already scheduled; in West Chester, PA in March and Mt.Vernon OH in April, with more to come. Details on these shows will soon be available on our schedule web pages. Stay tuned  :)

In some ways, this is like a new adventure into the unknown. In other ways, it's like a trip that has been well thought through and prepared for. Kind of like we don't know quite where we are going, though we have some sense of what clothes to pack. Or some analogy like that. Wherever the adventure will take us, we are grateful, and looking forward to it    :)   

    

What does it mean when "the moment comes"? If the operative word is "the", the answer may be rather evident, until it is elusive. If "moment", then something else altogether, and a place we can live, or at least purpose to. The elusive moment is the particular one we (decide we) are looking for. Or worse, trying to recreate. The moment in which we can live is the one that we embrace, (perhaps paradoxically) by releasing to it's entering. We do not find moments. Moments are there to be found, not because we are looking, but because we leave the doors and windows open, along with leaving our minds/thoughts in another part of the house. And although we might wish or desire for something particular to enter, we embrace that which does. When I worked at the Showboat in Atlantic City, for example, I would be working there, until I wouldn't be. What got me there was certainly not worrying about getting there, or in my case, even thinking about it at all. Being who I am got me there. But that didn't stop me, once there, from trying to preserve the moment, or the circumstance, by continually drawing my attention (or, distracting myself) toward what I needed to do to get that next contract extension. In other words, concern over being able to keep the gig was the mental focus that sometimes kept the deeper artistic moments more out of reach. And ultimately, didn't keep me there any longer than simply continuing to do what got me there in the first place; being myself. And it strikes me that I am particularly blessed in that being myself has pretty much become my life's purpose. Or, how I purposely life my life, which allows my life to create it's larger purpose. The words of one reviewer, some years ago, of a solo piano concert, seem to ring true today to those encounter it, which validates them within me: "(Joe) has found the elusive balance sought by all jazz musicians: the balance between the craft of performing music that is recognizable as being in the traditions of jazz, and the artistry of creating a very personal expression within those same traditions. He is the genuine article, an artiste, whose work is a reflection and an extension of who he is".

I am who I am, uniquely so. When I embrace this, fully, I am free to be my unique, live-in-the -moment self. When I forget this, I can immediately become intimidated inside the awareness of all the things I am not. It's when you can fully let go that you can fully embrace what you actually have, or better, who you are   :)

 

My friend, Beth McDonald Boger and I have travelled a long and winding road of a musical path over the last two decades or so. Travelling less to chase or to find something, more to follow it. In the promo copy we wrote for a show a few years ago, a line reads: "What might seem on the surface as an odd pairing has been called musical magic". The odd, or dissimilar part, is also the part that is exactly the same (Beth and I both appreciate paradoxes, so this works for us). To continue to quote the promo copy: "A reviewer once likened Beth to Miss Peggy Lee, calling her “almost....almost unapproachable.” In contrast to: "Joe, on the other hand, could be called “almost unrestrained”.

The photo above is from our recent appearance at the Stoltz Listening Room of the Avalon Theatre, in Easton, MD. We've played there together at least a half dozen times, and the theatre's promo for this last show called us the "beloved duo", which warmed our hearts. What started out as me simply being Beth's accompanist (including for a time in a jazz band in which she was the vocalist) has evolved into most of our performances as double billed shows (reference the marquis in the above photo). It is a true collaboration, and our programs these days are more of a weaving of the two of us together.  Not a balancing act so much, more as a balance between us, that is greater than the sum of the individual parts. There was actually a specific point in time, years ago, where we understood (or perhaps better, acknowledged) that there was a specific path given for us to follow, and we committed ourselves to it; a shared path, facilitated by music, weaving music and friendship into a tie that binds.

 When I settled back into college, in my early 20's (after dropping out and gigging full time for a couple of years), I soon adjusted my major to what would be the practical equivalent of basket weaving: General Music. Not music education, or performance, or production, or anything remotely useful. It was more of a liberal arts degree, with ample opportunity to peruse electives of choice. And I did.  Doing so was an eyes wide open embracing of what I purposed my return to college to be; an opportunity to learn. Because of my General Music track, I had ample freedom of electives be able to study what I was actually interested in learning, both within, and outside of music. When I knew I was ready to return to college was when I knew I was ready to take learning seriously, with grateful acceptance that this opportunity was available. Not that I thought about in those terms so much, though. It was, instead, the lack of thought, away from the dread of disciplines and task management, that brought me to acceptance. Or put another way, I knew when I wasn't ready, and (later) knew when I was ready to accept the responsibility of learning. This responsibility goes without saying (at least for me), having 40+ years to continue to travel that road.  But as I step back and think about it, I may have failed to acknowledge, or grasp, that this isn't necessarily true for many people; musicians or otherwise. I suppose it could be considered judgmental to be disappointed in people who rode out the pandemic entirely on their Netfilx subscription, or whatever else it might have been. But maybe it's really more of being disappointed for them, not seeming to have a sense of inner purpose or direction to guide them in otherwise troubling times. I suppose I never really made the connection until just now that my attitude of embracing the pandemic as the gift of a sabbatical was actually the fruit of the tree that was planted back when I returned to college. Nor have I been sufficiently thankful for the gift of the attitude adjustment (along with the opportunity to receive it) back in 1981. I'm sitting here now rather amazed, and grateful, to see how so much in the path of my life can be traced back to that. I am blessed, indeed.    

 

 

Small venues. Intimate performance spaces. These have always been comfort zones, and all totaled over the years, or at least in recent years, my circumstance more often than not. It's beginning to strike me in a different way, though; a reality check of sorts, as I press onward and look forward. There was a time, maybe until 20 or so years ago, that my musical center of gravity still maintained a connection to the culture at large, even if only tangentially. If nothing else, it remained the case that the Great American Songbook and Big Band eras (running concurrently) maintained a first hand connection to a portion of the population, large and vital enough to support it, at least to some degree. Even so, those of us (musicians) who were living the "old soul" life were witnessing that population decline, year after year. And now, although there are still some folks around who spent their teenage and college (era) years dancing to the big bands, they are very likely no longer going to dances. This is a reality that I've been making adjustments toward (as best I can, while maintaining my own center of gravity) for decades. Nothing new here for me, though I am feeling those winds of change from a bit of a different angle now. I've always considered myself in the category of a potential "discovery"; off the beaten path of the general culture, and a potential portal into the larger realm of "arts" music. But having what was left of the population that embraced my musical center of gravity as their own culture almost completely evaporate impresses on me that I now have nowhere to hide. And although I can find many subtle meanings in what I just wrote, what I mean primarily (I think) is that I can no longer rely primarily on a first hand cultural connection to guarantee a connection with those around me, as I make music. The analysis could become complicated and an general consensus on it all potentially elusive. But what it means, on a practical level, seems relatively clear. If my primary audience was a niche market 20 or 30 years ago, it is even more so now. I don't know if I'd agree with those who characterize me (particularly in recent years) as one who is continually "reinventing himself". I'd like to think I'm the same musician I've always been, just further along the path of growth and discovery. And perhaps (or hopefully), these days, a bit more open minded   :)              

It's that time again. Every 5 years I have the opportunity to renew my Board Certification in Music Therapy (MT-BC). The alternative to accepting (and meeting) the opportunity is to lose my certification, which is something (even though I don't actively practice now as a music therapist, or even use the certification at all) that I don't want to allow to happen. I am proud of having accomplished this, and to have lived this mid-life side trip for over 25 years. But it goes beyond that. Having this path arise for me was directly related to coming to understand my actual purpose to being a performing musician; beginning with a realization, when working at the Showboat in Atlantic City in the '90s, that music making, for me, is about far more than just pleasing myself. And, as just about everything with me can be boiled down to (or rest upon) a simple idea or premise (am reluctant to use the word concept, in general) it is the acknowledgement that my purpose as a musician is to connect with people. Or (speaking a little more like a therapist), to create connections with people, for a positive purpose. The acknowledgement that music making is not simply about me is the common lens through which I see these things. In it's essence, it all originates from the same space. 

The Music Therapy world has recently provided us (who are Board Certified Music Therapists) a virtual badge to hang on our virtual walls, or wear on our virtual sleeves. I imagine the intent is to aid Music Therapists in their promotion, particularly on their websites. Since I have never promoted myself as a music therapist, the badge doesn't serve much of a purpose, except to make a statement of who I am. Which is not so much a music therapist, at least in a clinical sense. Neither is it so much a performer, in the acclaim and accolades sense. It's a guy, who continues to learn to use what he has, purposing to stay out of the way of himself in the process. And believing in it.