I’ve played piano for as long as I’ve known how to breathe, sometimes better. (I’m allergic to the entire state of Oklahoma.) I was classically trained from childhood, but no one ever taught me how to feel music the way I did. I played by ear before I could name the notes. It was instinct, compulsion, sanctuary.
My first piano came from a sweet Southern Baptist couple who had no idea what they were setting in motion. It was big, barroom-style, heavy, and sounded like it belonged in a basement with a Prohibition-era whiskey still. I lost that one in a move (long story). The Wurlitzer that later replaced it — a 1969 console from Shields’ Piano, bought by my grandmother — stayed with me. It still does. It’s got some chipped keys, some busted veneer, and more truth in it than most people I’ve met, but it still plays, just like I do.
I trained with true professionals: Robyn Barbour, Donald Ryan, Ed West, Thomas Lanners, and Michael Kirkendoll. The kind of pianist that could play rings around you but still taught with patience. I competed, always scored high. Got invited to play a jazz version of “Flight of the Bumblebee” at the Miss Claremore Beauty Pageant when I was 14. (She didn’t win, but I did.) I have had the opportunity to play on everything from Steinway Model Ds to the Bösendorfer housed in the Austrian Embassy.
I never went the concert pianist route. That was never the dream. The piano is my space. It’s where I go to be quiet, to disappear. If I turned it into a job, it would stop being that for me. While I have played for ambassadors, opera singers, gospel royalty, a few old Hollywood types, and one Marvel legend, I have done it all without recognition. Most people don’t know I play. That’s how I like it. This is my own private Idaho. I don’t need to explain it. I just need to be there, and I am.
Musically, I listen to everything from Mongolian morin khuur solos, Kiri Te Kanawa, Joan Sutherland, Aretha Franklin, the Caravan Sisters, Charlotte Cardin, Kristin Chenoweth, anything French (and I mean anything), 1980s synth pop, choral requiems, UK Garage, gospel, Broadway, minimalist piano, you name it. If it’s good, I listen. I don’t care if I understand the lyrics. The music is enough.
When it comes to playing, my approach is similar, but with a twist. I can switch from 10,000 Maniacs to Pentecost-styled hymns of yesteryear without thinking twice. For example, I respect Bach’s brilliance, but I don’t enjoy playing him. I’d rather wrestle Rachmaninoff with my stubby Fred Flintstone fingers and come out triumphant. Romantic-era dramatics speak to me. Gospel preaches. Jazz intellectualizes. That kind of overly-embellished love and hate, joy and sorrow that can be found in the ivories is more my vibe. Give me soul, give me stretch, give me raw emotion over intellect every time. I will always take ferocity and flaws over form and finesse. Because that’s what music should be—human to the core.
What you’ll find below isn’t a showcase. It’s not a brand. It’s just a playlist. It’s music.