What on earth are you doing playing the saxophone?

Consequently the most effective question of my middle school years. My band teacher said I should quit saxophone and audition for District Choir. Shy kid singing with no one around — or so I thought. I took his advice, and call it beginner’s luck, a keen ear or both, I won First Chair. 

I started performing out at 14, and at 15, earned the Maine State “Best Jazz Vocalist” award. Quitting the saxophone was turning out to be good.

Sometimes, you get lucky when a teacher sees something before you do.

After receiving a B.A. in English and in Music, I moved to Boston and coached hundreds of singers, fronted a band that performed around the Northeast, recorded an album in a bathroom, and earned TV placements for my songs in Germany.

I had a vision for New York. I knew I could build a teaching practice there, and become an artist amidst the city canvas. My move was funded by an I.T. company, but after the music-loving CEO hosted a karaoke night, I had it coming:

What on earth are you doing selling I.T. services?

That got me thinking. I learned of a professor at Columbia University who had collaborated with Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi, which was enough to get me to apply. I was accepted with a scholarship, and I.T was out. 

This began the journey of Compass Music Lab; a rival mix of methodic experiments and true-north intuition.

I started traveling between family homes, testing ideas with curious learners while earning an M.A. in Music & Music Education.

After graduation and in the margins between work and teaching, my lunch break became a music learning process lab. A 30-day street performance experiment in Central Park led me to a 365-day music-making challenge in the practice rooms at 92NY, down the hall from my office. One day, a knock.

Why on earth haven’t you recorded these songs?

Said renowned jazz artist, Brian Landrus in the doorway on his surprise visit. Later while upstate over New Year’s, I asked my host if I could play the piano. That was GRAMMY-winner Malcolm Burn, who invited me to his studio the next day. Maritime Cowboy was praised by a Sony Music Executives, The Juilliard School, a Nobel Peace Prize Nominee. A slew of listeners and my student’s families funded the work. Things were starting to intertwine. The following year, one hundred six-year-olds became my choir.

Suddenly, I had a powerful glimpse; I could see the dots between music, play, and cognition.

To that end, I spent the better part of the pandemic creating a music composition game called Mystery Mashup. I was 10,000 hours in, and had spent nearly a decade investigating how to transform the applied music experience for young learners.