Not long ago, I had the chance to talk with a childhood friend. We started reminiscing about school—the teachers who shaped us, the friends we made, and the moments that stuck with us. Some of our classmates are still around, while others have passed on. We talked about our kids and grandkids and how our interests changed as we got older.
At some point, we landed on music. It has always been a big part of our lives. In our county, there wasn’t enough funding for each school to have its band director, so one teacher handled them all—Mr. Dryden. He was passionate about his work and introduced many kids to music, including me.
In fifth grade, we all took a music test. It covered basic concepts and a bit of composer history. I didn’t know much about theory then, but something about the questions made sense. After passing, I was invited to meet with Mr. Dryden the next day in the library.
I saw a table filled with brass, woodwinds, and percussion instruments. The idea was to try them out and see what fit. First up were the brass instruments. I tried the mouthpiece, but it didn’t spark my interest. Then came the woodwinds, which worked a little differently. The sound came from a vibrating reed. I tried the clarinet and immediately produced a clear tone. That moment set me on a path I would follow for years.
We met once a week for lessons, learning scales, études, and patterns like the circle of fifths. I even played in front of my class while waiting for the buses to arrive. That was a fun experience—seeing my classmates’ reactions as I played.
After two years, I wanted to push myself further. I reached out to the high school band director, Mr. Corda. He had performed in several symphonies, including the one in Cincinnati. He also played at bullfights in Mexico and spoke fluent Spanish. I asked if I could join the high school band, even though I was still in junior high. Since our schools shared a cafeteria, my lunch period didn’t overlap with theirs, making it possible.
He agreed to hear me play after school. After running through a few pieces, he invited me to join the high school symphonic band. That meant giving up my lunch period, but it was worth it to sit among experienced musicians.
Mr. Corda had a strong presence. He was incredibly knowledgeable, an artist at heart, and a photographer. But if you got on his bad side, he would let you have it—in Spanish. None of us knew what he was saying, but we got the message.
I later found out he had taught both my mom and my aunt when they were in high school. He had been there for quite a while. Just before I moved up to high school, he retired. That’s when Mr. Dryden, my first music teacher, stepped in as the new band director. It was great reconnecting with him in a new setting, where the expectations were higher, and the experience felt more professional.
Beyond school, Mr. Dryden was also my youth pastor at River Valley Baptist Church. Occasionally, we played music during services. In those high school years, he opened the door to many opportunities—honors bands, performances, and events that expanded my understanding of music.
Even though I spent countless hours practicing, I eventually realized my true interest wasn’t just in playing—it was in the technical side of sound. The science behind audio, electronic music, and engineering fascinated me. That interest grew stronger when I took computer science classes in my last two high school years. I even created a program that helped students learn about composers by playing a short music section and having them guess who wrote it.
Discovering the World of Sound
During high school, my parents bought a Commodore 64, which opened a new door for me. I started experimenting with creating music on it, fascinated by what could be done with technology. Later, they got me a tiny Casio keyboard. It wasn’t anything fancy—just a simple model that let me record a few measures at a time. Memory limitations kept me from doing much, but it was still exciting to have the ability to layer sounds, even in a fundamental way.
Then, one summer, I made a purchase that changed everything—a Fostex four-track recorder. That device felt like a breakthrough. Suddenly, I could record four separate tracks onto a cassette. To me, it seemed like limitless recording. I spent hours layering sounds, crafting new melodies, and experimenting with arrangements.
At the same time, I started checking out conductor scores from the library. Seeing all the individual parts on one page—where some instruments rested while others carried the melody, where counter-melodies weaved in and out, and how percussion added drive to it all—was eye-opening. It gave me a deeper understanding of how music was built. Even with my four-track recorder, I could imitate those structures, layering different lines and hearing how they worked together.
One of the best parts was the library’s collection of classical music cassettes. I could check out a score and listen to the music simultaneously, following along as each section came to life. Seeing the notes on the page while hearing them played was incredible.
During my first year of college, I had the chance to arrange a few pieces for my high school band director, Mr. Dryden. That was a thrill, even though I didn’t get everything right. I had to make some adjustments—especially for transposition. (That’s the word you were looking for! It’s when music is rewritten for different instruments that play in various keys, like moving apart from piano to a horn section.) It was a great learning experience, and even though my arrangements weren’t perfect, Mr. Dryden was patient, letting me refine them until they worked.
Around that same time, I also had the opportunity to return to my old high school band on certain days and sit in with the students, even though I was in college. It was always fun to walk in, grab my instrument, and sit alongside musicians, starting the same journey I had begun years earlier. Some students were there because they loved music and were eager to improve and challenge themselves. Others had signed up to avoid another class or earn an easy credit—but they never stayed long. The grading system and the pressure of performing in front of peers ensured that. If you didn’t put in the practice, it showed, and those who weren’t serious about it eventually stepped out.
Looking back, those years shaped what I love about music—not just playing it but understanding the technical side of how it all fits together.
The First Week of College and a Musical Awakening
My first week of college was unforgettable. Stepping into the symphonic band for the first time, I found my seat, opened my music, and felt excited. As we began warm-ups, I was in awe. Everyone was perfectly in tune, blending in a way I had never experienced before. It wasn’t like junior high or high school band—this was entirely different. It gave me chills.
For the first time, I could genuinely hear each section with clarity. The flutes sat to my right, the clarinets to my left. Behind me, the trombones and trumpets filled the space with rich harmonies while the percussion stood in the back, keeping everything grounded. The director had an incredible presence—his eyes alone could command the room. With the slightest movement of his hands, he shaped the sound, guiding every musician as if he knew exactly what each of us was thinking.
And that was just the warm-up.
I could hardly wait to play the first piece. Then came the downbeat. The moment the music started, it was unlike anything I had ever been a part of. The power, balance, and sheer energy of the group were incredible. We made it through several measures before the director stopped us. I couldn’t immediately tell what was wrong, but he precisely explained it. We weren’t expressing ourselves fully in one section, and our dynamics didn’t match what he was shaping with his baton. How he described it made perfect sense, and when we picked up again, I could hear the difference.
Then, just like that, the hour was over.
I sat there, stunned at how fast time had passed. I didn’t want to leave. I didn’t want to go to math class. I didn’t want to sit through general studies. I just wanted to stay in the music department, move on to the next class, and absorb everything I could about the world of sound.
Jazz Band: A Whole New Experience
After completing general studies that day, my last class was jazz band. I had played jazz in high school, and at the time, I thought we sounded pretty good. But I was still learning the art of improvisation—how to take a set of chord changes and turn them into something uniquely my own. It was intimidating to see musicians in this group for years, players who could take a solo without hesitation, weaving melodies out of thin air. I knew I wasn’t at their level, but I was eager to be part of it, push myself, and see what I could do.
Jazz band felt different from anything I had experienced before. The room had a specific energy, an electricity that wasn’t present in a symphonic setting. This was more than just music on a page—this was about feel, groove, and conversation between instruments. Unlike symphonic band, where parts were often shared, every musician carried their weight here. If you missed a note, everyone knew. If you didn’t lock in with the rhythm section, it showed. But that was the beauty of it—there was nowhere to hide, which made every moment more alive.
The first thing I noticed was the drummer, Joe. He was something else. I had played with good drummers before, but Joe had a way of making the music breathe. He wasn’t just keeping time—he was driving the entire band forward, reacting to every note, shaping the piece's energy. When someone took a solo, he listened, adding just the right accents to push the soloist along. He knew exactly where you wanted to go before you even got there.
Then, we started playing “Love for Sale”—a Buddy Rich arrangement. Buddy Rich, one of the greatest jazz drummers of all time, was known for his incredible speed and precision. His version of “Love for Sale” was fast, intricate, and relentless. The brass stabs hit hard, the saxophone section wove in and out of the melody, and Joe was on fire behind the drum kit, keeping everything moving at a breakneck pace.
And then came my solo.
I had never seen this music before. I had been glancing ahead, trying to prepare myself, but I could not fully anticipate what was coming. The rhythm section dropped back when the moment arrived, leaving space for me.
For a brief second, time slowed.
I took a breath and jumped in.
Some of it was written, guiding me through, but then came the open section—the part where I had to go for it. I didn’t think, I didn’t analyze—I just played. The notes weren’t perfect, but they were mine. I felt Joe behind me, pushing me forward, responding to my phrasing, filling in the spaces between my lines. It was like we were conversing, each note building on the last.
And for the first time, I truly understood what jazz was.
It wasn’t about getting every note right. It wasn’t about perfection. It was about letting go, trusting the moment, and speaking through music in a way that words never could.
By the time my solo ended, my heart was racing. The band jumped back in, the brass section hit hard, and the piece roared to its finish. I put my horn down, barely able to process what happened.
I knew then—without a doubt—that this was precisely where I was supposed to be.
The thing about being in a band is that no matter how different everyone is outside of rehearsal, once the music starts, something changes. Personalities, backgrounds, experiences—all of that fades. When we played, we became one. Whether we were first-year students or seniors, music majors, or just taking the class for fun didn't matter. We were in sync the moment we picked up our instruments, moving together, feeling the same pulse, locked into something bigger than any of us.
That first day of jazz band wasn’t just another class but a moment of clarity.
And I never wanted it to end.
Stepping into the Big Leagues: Playing with Seasoned Musicians
By my second year of college, music had taken me in directions I never could have imagined. One day, my friend Sherry told me about an opportunity I hadn’t even known existed—a chance to play with a group of highly skilled local musicians who gathered at Bluefield State College’s (now Bluefield University’s) band room for rehearsals.
This wasn’t an official college jazz band. It was a collective of experienced musicians—many of them band directors, private instructors, and professionals who had spent decades playing in orchestras, jazz bands, and various ensembles. These were players with thirty or more years of experience, musicians who had dedicated their lives to their craft. I had only played for eight years then, and most of that experience had been alongside nonprofessional musicians like myself. I had never been surrounded by this level of talent before.
But something happens when you play with professionals.
You start playing better. You stay in tune more. You absorb new rhythms, develop better timing, and push yourself in ways you never had before. In grade school and high school, there were moments when we learned new pieces, but sight-reading was rare, and the expectation of precision wasn’t as high. In this band, though, sight-reading was essential. There was no time to fumble through a part over and over until you figured it out—you had to read, process, and play on the spot.
It was a completely different experience.
Sometimes, when I hear a high school band play, I can’t help but cringe a little—not because they aren’t trying, but because I know what’s ahead for those who stick with it. High school musicians are still learning how to listen, stay in tune, and blend with others. But if they keep going, there’s a moment—an eye-opening, or maybe an ear-opening experience—when everything clicks. When they sit in with a truly in-sync and genuinely polished group, they hear music played at a completely different level. That experience changes everything. It reshapes how you hear, how you play, and how you think about music forever.
And that’s precisely what happened to me.
And then came the best part—I had the opportunity to play baritone saxophone.
I had played alto and tenor for years, but the baritone was entirely different. It was the biggest instrument I had ever carried, and transporting it was challenging. When I was younger, I had to walk to school carrying my saxophone through the freezing winters, but even that was nothing compared to hauling a baritone sax. It wouldn’t fit in my trunk—I had to shove it into the back seat to get it to rehearsals. But once I started playing, its weight didn’t matter. The sound was rich, complete, and powerful. It felt like the band's foundation, adding depth to the section I had never experienced before.
Since this wasn’t a formal class, we didn’t have a strict weekly schedule. We met about once a month or maybe every other week—it’s hard to remember exactly—but it was an entirely different level of musicianship whenever we got together. The setlists were challenging and filled with complex jazz arrangements that required focus, feel, and precision. The instrumentation was incredible—trumpets, trombones, saxophones, a full rhythm section, and some of the best jazz players I had ever sat beside.
The Rush of Sight-Reading and the Joy of Connection
One of the most exhilarating experiences of playing baritone saxophone in this group was the sight-reading sessions. Unlike in school bands, where we would practice a piece for weeks, refining every section before performing it, this band approached music differently.
The director would hand out a brand-new chart—something I had never seen before. No warm-up, no run-throughs. Just straight into the music.
The count-off would begin, and suddenly, we were off. There is no stopping, no second chances. We played it all through, from the first note to the last.
And just like that, it was over.
I sat there, thinking, Wait a minute—let’s go back! I missed a note! Sometimes, I just started falling in love with the groove, the chord progression, and the way the rhythms locked together. I wanted another shot at it, to feel that moment again.
But there was no going back.
The director would nod and say, “Great! Moving on!” And before I could even process what had just happened, we were sight-reading another piece.
I quickly learned that in this environment, you had to focus, absorb, and adapt—fast. There was no time to hesitate. You had to trust your instincts, follow the music, and let go of perfection.
When we finished our session, we would stay after rehearsal, talking about music, sharing stories, and enjoying that connection that only musicians truly understand. There was something special about being in a room full of people who spoke the same musical language.
Even now, one of my favorite things is meeting other musicians and hearing about their journeys—how they started, what drew them to music, and what they love most. No matter how different our paths may be, there’s always that shared passion, that unspoken understanding of what it feels like to be part of something bigger than yourself.
Running Sound: A New Perspective on Music
One night, I had a chance to experience the Bluefield musicians’ group from an entirely different angle—not as a performer, but as a sound engineer.
It was my first time behind a professional soundboard, responsible for balancing the entire mix of a live jazz band. The challenge was enormous. The setup included over 15 microphones, each capturing a different instrument and needing to be fine-tuned in real time. The drums had to be appropriately gated, meaning their levels had to be controlled to avoid unwanted noise. Every horn section needed the right balance to create a complete but clear sound.
And there was no room for mistakes.
We didn’t have a multi-track recording setup so that I could adjust things later. Whatever I mixed live would be recorded onto the cassette tape next to the board. If something was off, there was no fixing it later. I had to think ahead, adjusting levels on the fly. I started panning the instruments—placing the trumpets slightly to the left in the mix and trombones a little to the right, creating space so that everything didn’t blend into one wall of sound.
When the performance started, I locked in.
As I worked the soundboard, I realized something—I loved this just as much as playing—maybe even more. There was something incredible about shaping the sound, ensuring each musician could be heard at just the right level and that the music came across exactly the way it was meant to.
That night changed everything.
I had always been drawn to music, but now I saw another path—sound engineering. It combined my love of music with the technical side of things and felt completely natural. That passion stayed with me, guiding me toward a more profound interest in sound design and recording, which still influences what I do today.
A Mentor’s Prayer and the Lord’s Provision
Growing up in a small town of about 1,500 people, I was fortunate to have a neighbor just a few houses down who played a significant role in my musical journey. His name was Bill Briers. He was an architect by profession, but his true passion was music. His home was filled with instruments of every kind, and he loved arranging music for the First Baptist church in town.
Bill often invited me to come over and play music with his family. His son and daughter could practically play any instrument, and they had a natural gift for music. Being around them was inspiring. It wasn’t just about playing notes but about understanding music, feeling the rhythm, and learning how different instruments blended. Occasionally, I would attend their church and play in their small ensemble. Many of my high school bandmates were also part of this group, so it almost felt like an extension of band class, except with a different purpose.
But what stood out the most about Bill wasn’t just his musical influence but also his faith and love for Jesus Christ.
He always prayed for me, asking the Lord to guide my steps, whether that meant a future in music or something else entirely. He encouraged me to use my talents to serve the Lord however He desired. Before I went to college, Bill would pray with me—many times—specifically asking that if it were God’s will, I would receive a scholarship to help with my education. Growing up, we didn’t have much money, and any financial assistance would be a blessing.
And I am so thankful that the Lord provided.
Through scholarships and financial assistance, I could attend college and pursue the opportunities that shaped my life. Looking back, I see how the Lord used people like Bill to encourage and direct me. His prayers weren’t just words—they were a reminder that God establishes our steps, even when we don’t see the complete picture.
Bill’s mentorship and faithfulness were part of that plan. And for that, I am forever grateful.
A Lifelong Love for Music and a Greater Purpose
Those years of playing in symphonic bands, jazz ensembles, and running sound for live performances shaped who I am. There was something special about sitting in a room full of musicians from different backgrounds and walks of life—but the moment we picked up our instruments, we were in sync. The music became more significant than any one of us.
Even now, I miss it.
I miss playing in jazz bands, symphonic bands, and community ensembles. I miss the feeling of hearing a band tune up, the way the sound settles into perfect harmony. I miss the rush of a first downbeat, the improvisation of a jazz solo, and the thrill of watching a song come together in a way only musicians truly understand.
Music brings people together, uniting different voices, blending talents, and creating something extraordinary. It isn’t just about notes on a page—it’s about expression, connection, and something more significant than the individual parts.
And while my love for performing is still strong, I’m so thankful that the Lord has opened doors for me to serve Him in other ways. I could have continued down this path and honored Him through music, but He had something else in store that filled my life with purpose and joy. I’m grateful for the people He placed in my life, the ones who encouraged me, guided me, and helped me see the direction He was leading me. Every step of the way, He has been there, shaping my journey, and for that, I give Him all the glory.
Proverbs 16:9: “The heart of man plans his way, but the Lord establishes his steps.”
