stories behind the music

01 Rebirth

The first piece on Almost There was actually inspired by someone who inspired a piece on my last album.

I lived in Rome for three years, and for about one year I was a tour guide. The tour company that I worked for had a great marketing strategy; we would offer free tours of the Coliseum as a way to promote other paid tours that we provided throughout Rome.

I would arrive at the Coliseum at about 8:30-9:00 in the morning. I would then provide a free 45-minute tour every hour, on the hour, all day long. Ours wasn’t the only tour company that used this free tour strategy, so there were always at least 4-8 tour guides sitting near the Coliseum entrance awaiting their turn to give a tour.

The area in which we waited was called the “dugout”. We all sat on a white travertine slab of marble just inside the entrance. The slab of marble upon which we sat was an old section of Coliseum seating- it was basically a 2,000 year old bleacher seat covered in Latin graffiti, and just to the left of the dugout was a fallen Corinthian capital. Upon this capital sat a big fat white cat. This cat sat up on that capital every day-lord of all that he surveyed. It was as if we were all there only at his discretion—he could have us removed at any moment.

I had only been on the job for about 3 weeks when a tiny little cat appeared. He was a calico cat and seemed to be about 2 months old. He showed up one day late in the afternoon, stopped right in front of me, and looked up at the big fat white cat sitting on the capital. The little cat crouched, coiled up, and launched himself up at the big fat white cat. The two cats fought savagely, howling and screaming and slashing at each other and quickly the little calico cat was hurled from the capital to the ground, whereupon he immediately sprinted away.

My friends Luigina and Rosa, who sold cameras and watercolors outside of the Coliseum entrance, named the calico cat Brunino. Brunino appeared everyday at 4:00 p.m. He was the most punctual cat I’ve ever met in my entire life. In fact, he’s the most punctual being I’ve ever met, feline or otherwise. Those of you who have been to Italy know how ironic it is that the most punctual being I’ve ever met is an Italian cat, because nothing in Italy is on time, ever.

Brunino was so reliable that if for some reason I was not in the Coliseum, if I were giving a tour up in Venice, or Florence or down in Ostia Antica, I would call one of my friends in the Coliseum and he or she would offer me a play by play of Brunino launching himself up onto the capital to fight the big fat white cat. Everyday it was the same: Brunino would hurl himself at the big fat white cat, they would fight ferociously, and Brunino would be thrown pell-mell from the capital down to the ground.

This went on for over a year until finally one day I was sitting in the Coliseum and again Brunino showed up. It had been a hard year on Brunino. His ribs poked out from under his skin, he had a scar that ran down the entire length of the right side of his body, and his left eye was almost completely red. It was scorching hot. Rome in early October is still very hot, and the Coliseum is made entirely of brick, mortar, cement, and marble; so although the Coliseum is beautiful, and an exhilarating piece of architecture, when you’ve been inside the Coliseum all day long it’s as if you have been walking and sitting and conversing—and occasionally raising your voice—in a massive pizza oven.

Brunino stopped in front of me. The Coliseum was ablaze with heat. I was stunned. I had had it. I wanted to reach down and grab Brunino and say: “You stupid cat. When is enough, enough. It’s 105 degrees, and you’re never going to beat the big fat white cat.” But before I could interfere Brunino went into his coil and crouch and he waited, he waited for the perfect moment—the moment that only Brunino seemed able to determine—and he pounced. He and the big fat white cat tore at each other maniacally, howling and screaming—and then it happened—I’ll never forget this for as long as I live—the cat went flying while doing a cartwheel in the air with all four limbs spread out. He landed right in front of me. I looked down and saw the big fat white cat.

Everybody was going wild. All the other tour guides and the staff that worked at the Coliseum were cheering. My friends Luigina and Rosa were shouting “Bravo Brunino!” “Bravo Bello!” I forgot to mention something about my friend Lugina—she didn’t paint the watercolors that she sold—and she was so engrossed in Brunino that she was giving that away. Luigina would sit at the entrance of the Coliseum all day long and pretend to be painting watercolors of different street scenes in Rome, when in fact she would buy the watercolors from other artists in the city and then pass them off as her own. She would spend all day jabbing a dry paintbrush all over an already finished painting. Luigina was leaning over from her seat and easel waving her dry paintbrush around in front of the watercolor cheering for Brunino.

We now all were waiting for Brunino’s reaction. Would he meow really loud? Would he claw the sky? What would he do? This is what Brunino did: he looked to his left, he looked to his right, he looked straight ahead, and then he sat down. He simply sat down. He sat down as if to say: “I knew I would do it. It took a while, but I knew I’d get up here.” What class. What style. That’s where the lesson of his story and this piece exploded for me. No matter what happens. No matter what life gives you. Just keep trying, because if you have a solid plan and the belief to carry it through, you will succeed. Brunino remained on top of that capital for the rest of my time in Rome, and he was still there when I went back to visit 2 years later. Never give up.

01 rebirth

02 metro

03 remember

04 amici

05 the gift

06 run child run

07 almost there

08 goodbye

09 echo

click track above for mp3 sample

02 Metro

This piece was inspired by riding the subway in Rome. I lived in Rome for 3-½ years, and one of my favorite things to do was to take the subway home at night after working all day. Oftentimes I would be on the subway late at night, at about 12:30 or 1:00 in the morning, coming home from work as a tour guide. The subway car wouldn’t be crowded, and it would be perfectly quiet; what few people that were on the subway would be exhausted and in no mood for conversation.

The ride home on the subway was the most peaceful time of day for me. I would slouch into my seat on the subway and stare back at my reflection in the window across from me. The subway would plunge through the tunnel, and I would unwind from the day. Whenever I am in a difficult situation, or I need to regain my center, I imagine myself on the subway in Rome late at night, looking around at the people on the car with me, or feeling the rhythmic jostling of the subway car as it hurtles underneath Rome.

“Metro” is an attempt to recreate my late night subway rides in Rome. Imagining myself sitting on the Metropolitana in Rome late at night is my “happy place”. I know it sounds crazy; for most people, when they imagine themselves in their “happy place”, they’re on a deserted beach in the Caribbean, or nestled along the edge of a mountain; but for me, my happy place is sitting on a half empty subway car in Rome at 1:00 in the morning.

03 Remember

This piece is a response to a question that I or any other musician has been asked countless times: what do you think about while you’re playing? For me, the answer isn’t what I am thinking about, but what I am seeing. And while I’m playing (and it’s been like this for me ever since I was a little boy and first started playing) what I see is my entire life. While I’m playing piano everything I’ve ever known or seen or done rushes before me, and so obviously playing piano for is me is a kind of remembrance-a memory of everything-good and bad. There are times while I’m playing when the memories are horrible and sad, and there are moments while I’m playing when the memories are exhilarating and deliriously happy. This piece has taught me that all memory is entwined. Life can be difficult when horrendous or compromising memory overwhelms everything else, and in fact it can lead to debilitating sadness, but you cannot block out awful memories, if you do, those memories take root in other places and explode unexpectedly. I’ve found that you have to journey through bad memory, because inevitably, on the dying fringes of horrible memory, the greatness of what you have seen and done emerges and brings peace to your soul- and balance to what you see.

04 Amici

Coming Soon

05 The Gift

During the day I am a special education teacher in the Chicago Public Schools, and this piece was inspired by my students. I was a special education student myself while growing up, and I never had any success in school, so it means a lot to me to be able to work with children who struggle in school. I know the confusion and frustration special ed. students face as they watch everybody else completely understand what is going on, and effortlessly engage their environment. For me, and now for my special education students, the classroom environment is a bewildering maze. The questions are asked and answered too fast, the assignments don’t make sense, and we never have the right answer. As special ed. students get more and more lost, oftentimes certain teachers start to look at us as a burden-as people that are holding everything up and that need to be yelled at and pushed along, or just let go and ignored. I cherish my time spent with my fellow special ed. students, and the insights they offer me, and the kindness and joy they are able to create through striving and exceeding peoples conceptions and expectations are exhilarating. I try to let my students know that they are a gift to me everyday. My students live in this piece.

06 Run Child Run

Another piece inspired by the students – especially the younger students- at the school where I teach. In the morning before school all of the students gather on the playground just in back of the school to await entry for the school day. And while I’m on duty or just looking out the window there are always at least a third of the children running around, playing tag, chasing each other—or literally just running around—for no reason—just running around and giggling like mad. Children running everywhere live in this piece, and as “Run Child Run” was taking shape a moment kept flashing before me. One day after dropping off my students somewhere in the building, I was walking back toward my room through the empty, murmuring, silent hallways (all of the classrooms were in session with their doors closed) and I heard, just faintly at first, skipity skop skitpity skop—and then it became louder and louder—skipity skop skipity skop skipity skop SKIPITY SKOP SKIPITY SKOP SKIPITY SKOP and two first grade girls came around the corner skipping. One of them was holding their hall pass and they were on their way to deliver a message to the office. They were skipping the entire way there. They were both smiling broadly and they waved to me as they went skipping past. I was supposed to stop them because running in the halls at school isn’t allowed, and technically skipping is form of running, but I couldn’t. I just stood there as they went skipping past, through the hallway doors, and through the lobby to the office. I thought to myself “Man, that’s the way to live.”

07 Almost There

I lived in Rome for a little over three years, while living there I worked many different jobs: from playing piano in restaurants to tour guiding. I also lived in many different apartments, a journey that took me all over Rome, and one apartment I had was in the back of an Anglican Church on Via Nazionale in a semi- dorm called a collegio. In fact it was a dorm, but I was lucky, I had the only apartment on the floor. The apartment was perfect, without boring you with details about the layout I’ll just tell you that it was the most fabulous apartment I’ve ever had; for those of you who may be interested in the apartment and the neighborhood, send me an email and I’ll tell you all about it.

Anyway, the Church in whose coleggio I was living operated a refugee center for people escaping Afghanistan or leaving Iran. We weren’t allowed any contact with the refugees, because while almost all of them were fantastic people, they were desperate, and as with anyone who is desperate they were liable to do anything. So to make sure that nothing bad happened we were not allowed any contact with the refugees. However, one exception was made by accident. One day coming home from work I heard someone playing guitar in the choir rehearsal room off of the lobby of the coleggio entrance. It was an Iranian man playing Persian music on the guitar. I sat down at the piano and played along with him. We were only able to play a few more times together before he ended up leaving the refugee center. I don’t know where he went, but one day he was just gone, and while we’d spoken a little—I don’t speak Farsi and he could only say a few words in Italian—we knew nothing about each other.

I was sad when I’d found out that he’d gone. It was fascinating to play with him, and our sessions were never planned, they always took place by accident, it was as if we had an accidental communication. I think for me, the times we played together were so meaningful because I often found myself in ferocious political arguments with Palestinians or Arabs living in my neighborhood. And while my friend playing the guitar was Persian—not Arab or Palestinian—his country of origin obviously has no love for the United States, and so the music we created seemed to obliterate political, emotional, and cultural conflict born out of misunderstanding. For the Persian guy it may have been different, it may have been cool just to sit and play for an hour or so every couple of days with a bald American piano player. But for me, the few times we could sit and play together were monumental. Music for me, at times, is an echo, a voice that may have first been uttered centuries before but is now finally just being heard. For that hour or so every couple of days that we played, all other architecture seemed to drop away; the architecture of cultural view, political position, economic advantage and disadvantage, state or regional interest, religious distrust, conspiracy. We understood each other, and I was reminded that the world is made up of 4 billion people that just want to live and form friendships and love. There are only a few people out there blustering, insulting, and agitating in everybody else’s name.

I wrote this piece as a way of understanding.

08 Goodbye

I was engaged to be married to a woman a few years ago, and it eventually did not work out. Before the engagement was finally broken off, there were over a years worth of weeks and months of trouble. It was toward the end of these difficult months that it became achingly clear that the relationship would not work. I was profoundly sad, we both knew that our relationship—born of such hope—was going to die, or at best change. I wrote this piece while embroiled in the tumult of the final months of our relationship as a way to see through the confusion and anger, as a way to try to communicate with love and understanding.

09 Echo

This piece flows almost directly out of the previous piece—“Goodbye”. I wrote it during a phone conversation with the woman from “Goodbye”. We were talking on the phone about a year and a half after we broke off our engagement, and our conversation contained the last echo of our former intimacy. I knew that after that phone conversation our dialogue and interaction with each other would never be what it was—that from then on our voices would not contain the same intimate timbre, and that our actions would not carry the same song toward each other. I knew from then on that we would know each other in a more cold and distant way; our lives would in some way be shrouded in mystery from each other.