I started playing guitar just after Nixon defeated Humphrey, so it was a long time ago. I learned some Beatles tunes, some basic finger-picking from Peter Paul and Mary and some pretty good strummn' from Bob Dylan. I put a few songs together, found a couple coffee houses and spend time 'playing out', but the coffee houses closed, I got tired of playing other people's music, and getting college credits became more important than picking out Neil Young songs. This malaise went on for a few years until I heard the music of John Fahey, and I knew I was home. I became a converted instrumentalist, deeply studying his music, and that of Leo Kottke's and Stefan Grossman. It was a wonderful time-I became deeply attached to the guitar as a source of comfort and peace and played long into the night in the perfect reverb of the den, needing no audience. Then, about four years ago, I was searching through the note cards of my brain for a particular blues lick to go with the blues verse that was also stuck in my head. Eventually I found both, and wrote out the verse so I wouldn't forget it. Then I remembered another verse, then another, and finally the whole song was there. And then I realized something very important-The blues song was not some distant memory but a set of lyrics that I had just come up with, seemingly out of nowhere. "Well damn," I thought, "that was a lot of fun." So, with nothing to lose except time and some paper and pencil lead, I started writing.
And I haven't stopped. I have been very fortunate the last four years-there have been wonderful places to play; I've meet some terrific people (not the least of whom would be Tim Moyer, without whom, I'd still be jotting down musing in my living room, playing for the dogs. They're a good audience, but they don't tip worth a damn.) played more places than I could have imagined, recorded an album and am making plans for a second. And now I'm going to be on the radio.