Art continues when the soundtrack ends.
I put myself through college on scholarships and playing music at night in venues all over Oregon. Music performance began for me in a coffeehouse down the street from Ashland's Shakespearean Theater when I was 15. Singing was a familiar way to socialize after growing up singing descant to my mother's coloratura soprano. I am and will die a harmonizing machine who can track intervals like a bat using sonar. (Even Deafened, I anchor onto a visual cue to pitch or the left hand of the rhythm guitarist and know by muscle memory where my position has to be. It makes for wicked party tricks with hearing friends which admittedly pleases me in some perverse way). I played with Emy Phelps, then Chris Miller and crew, pictured above in our early band Frankly Scarlet in the late 1970's. I loved music, but I was not cut out for the male climate of the music industry, with its penchant for booze, drugs and behavior that left kids stranded on the road of parental pursuits. I had an early and dreadful wake-up call, chose to clean up my act and worked at becoming present, to bring shared music into my children's lives as the first and main priority. Music is a friend not to be taken for granted. It can keep others alive for a lifetime and longer.
I found plenty of ways to swim the rivers of sound along the way with back-up vocal and guitar work for a variety of bluegrass, newgrass, folk and country performers, including Baila Dworsky, and others. Happily, my family could be part of this world, where singing stretches its arms equally around sorrow and enchantment. .
There is a joy to rich harmonies that ripple outward from some visceral connection into clouds of sound. Sing with others and they remain kindred whether personalities fit or not. One of the above band members from the 1970's turned up a few years back fighting cancer which was threatening his sight, and got in touch after learning I'd been Deafened. What I know is that we all change with time. We keep nothing as we fade but people who remember us and encourage us that none of what changes is really personal. We let go of one precious thing after another, moving toward our personal horizonline, like sunlight, slipping up or down with timing ordained by larger forces. A few days ago, musician Mark Bosworth went missing during Cycle Oregon and has been the focus of a statewide search, as his condition appears to have worsened, causing diminished capacity. His family struggles to find him and he has simply vanished. He was a tenor whose love of harmony characterized his backup guitar riffs and vocals from folk rock to choral music. Backup work was a particular niche in the field we both understood and were best at. One of his favorite songs was "Home", recorded by Bonnie Raitt, and tonight, Deafened or not, I will sing this tune again as a prayer that he will find his way Home in the Way the universe deems best.