This is a work in progress. I suppose it always will be.

My first guitar was given to me by my maternal grandmother. The story goes that she found it in a dumpster. I would trade any guitar I have today to have that one back. I remember it was a hollow-body electric, maybe sunburst, and it had no strings. I would play it like I was Jimi Hendrix in my room for thousands of adoring fans, shredding licks on imaginary strings, and cranking the volume knob all the way up. I was about nine years old. When I finally received a “real” guitar from Santa Claus (which I still have), it was a student classical guitar. I let it sit in a cardboard box in my closet for a couple of years. It threatened me with real practice. It taunted me as a door to an alternative universe. I eventually opened that door. But I never would have found it without my grandmother’s dumpster dive. Thanks, grandma, wherever you are.

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We all have joy. We all have wounds. Music is the suture by which to bind all of that together and more. Scars or seams and the spaces in between shape our lives. Sometimes I write a song that holds my life together. Other times, silly absurdities. I don’t have the courage to share all of it at once. So whatever brought you here, thanks for listening.

JB