It’s been some time since I was the editor of this publication, and Tom has certainly done an exemplary job as Editor-in-Chief. One thing I was consistent about, maybe even persistent about when I was editor, was reminding readers that I did not enter this universe from their side of the podium.
I grew up poor, neglected and unsure where my next meal would come from. Every school I attended was a Title I school.
The only thing that got me to go to school was music.
My elementary school music teacher, Mrs. Henrietta Sullivan, told me I could sing when I was in first grade. And I did. I sang the solo for “Up on the Housetop” in the Christmas program that year. The applause was life-changing, confirming and strangely intriguing for a small child.
I nurtured that interest by joining choral programs because we really didn’t have money to buy instruments.
I did get a guitar for my birthday as I was entering fourth grade. By sixth grade, I was booking my first gig. Somewhere deep down, I knew music was going to be my ticket out of poverty and beyond the limits of a small town. It was the thing I clung to most for hope.
On nights when I went to bed without enough to eat, my guitar was in bed next to me. Those tough days pushed me to put my thoughts into lyrics and keep working toward my dreams.
Like a scene straight from Pink Floyd’s “The Wall,” I distinctly remember a P.E. coach grabbing my lyrics and reading them aloud to the class. I was in elementary school, sitting alone against a tree during recess, furiously scribbling down my rhymes. (Sixteen years after that, I was hanging out with Pink Floyd in three cities on their final tour in 1994.)
As I got into middle school and later high school, my music programs got progressively worse. Poorer districts can produce poorer programs and struggle to recruit or retain great music educators. This was 40 years ago. OK, a bit longer. In the programs I attended, if you weren’t on a path to becoming a choral director or band director, your interest in music simply wasn’t taken seriously.
I could not have been more serious about music. I just had to finagle my way into becoming a professional musician without much encouragement from the people I thought would understand.
I won’t give you the entire bio here. There’s not enough room. But I could have been crushed by the lack of encouragement. I couldn’t seem to get across to my teachers and counselors that this was going to be my vocation.
They would ask what I would do if it didn’t work out. I didn’t understand the question. I could play shows at the Holiday Inn. I could work in a music store or for a music manufacturer. There were all kinds of things I could do. Why were they trying to discourage me?
By 16, my parents were divorced, and things had gotten even harder. So I earned my GED, went on the road and pursued my dream.
That dream led me to performing with heroes of mine from the Grateful Dead, Fleetwood Mac and Jefferson Airplane and more—people I had never dreamed of meeting. I became a trustee and governor of the Recording Academy. I still perform 30 shows a year and write and record with my heroes.
I published more than 200 books and videos on audio and music production, launching the writing careers of authors who became bestsellers in the field. I signed Quincy Jones to write his music production memoir. I did the same with Ken Scott, who engineered recordings for the Beatles.
I’m telling you this because the child sitting in your class who seems unruly or isn’t paying attention may only be coming to school because you’re there. What you offer may be the one thing that child looks forward to.
There’s no way my teachers could have known what my life would look like 40 years later. I don’t judge them. I’m not bitter. I want to use my position now to help the kids like me sitting in your classroom. Mrs. Sullivan probably had no idea what she set in motion when she told a first grader he could sing. I’m still telling people about it.
I am here to tell you, kids like me, we are legion. You can make or break us.
I encourage you to be one of the ones who makes us.