"Mockingbirds don’t do one thing except make music for us to enjoy. They don’t eat up people’s gardens, don’t nest in corn cribs, they don’t do one thing but sing their hearts out for us. That’s why it’s a sin to kill a mockingbird.”
He would sing at night while I slept, he would play during movies, ball games and in hotel rooms til the front desk called. He didn’t have an angelic voice, he had his voice. He asked a 100 times what does it sound like and I would always say “like you.”
He was always most happy talking about music, writing about music and singing about music. He loved to talk to my clients about it, talk to his friends about it and make mix music Cds to share what he thought was the best. He would come back with some kind of insight from talking my clients and I’d share it with my then boss, and we’d understand our work a little easier. He was still doing that til that Tuesday morning hours before he died while editing a press release.
At times, music had to be put on the back burner for it wasn’t a smart choice at the time for a full time occupation but he kept writing and dreaming of the day he would he get his music heard by all. He wanted validation that he was good like of us, approval from other musicians counted. He would dissect their opinions and read between the lines.
A legendary music producer told him once, ‘never put two songs in the same key in sequence” and then something that was so abstract, til the day he died he still couldn’t figure it out. I told him, he liked it. I promise, that’s his way of telling stuff. He had praise from around the world but still at times, he felt like no one liked it. A true artist is never satisfied with anything.
I remember he had sold all his guitars, mandolins, amps, pedals cause his job had given the staff a pay cut, a 30% one but I made him keep one acoustic. I always made him keep one. He wanted to smash it, kill it and not look at it. There were days he didn’t want to believe he could do it. I told him no that’s like cutting off your left hand; you have to have it to write.
He told stories, jokes and one off comments. We were in Macon, GA, at a client’s show and as we talked to the side of the stage in the back he told the cop who questioned us, back there he was a serial killer…
He could talk your ear off with music and baseball and always leave you with your hat in your hands when came to politics and religion. Not to prove he was right, he had a way of showing you how to look at it.
He had a wealth of knowledge for he told me “If I could be a professional party goer – I would.”