ability != talent

For the uninitiated, the symbols “ != “ in the title, when used together, are a programming operator that means “Not Equal To”.  The title tells you kind of where I intend to go, but I should forewarn you, gentle reader- this entry is probably one of my most opinionated offerings, and you should take it worth a grain of salt.

Years ago, the late, great jazz bassist Charlie Haden made some statements regarding artistic integrity.  (I tried to find the quote on the internet, but failed to do so.)  Basically, Mr. Haden did not cotton to artists taking money for art, because it cheapened the whole experience and corrupted the noble expression made by an artist.

While I find that the ultimate end of that statement to be a little naive – we all need to make money to live – there is some truth in it.  In fact, there’s a lot of truth in it.

In days gone by, for an artist to be successful meant a lot of work on their part.  Practice, practice and more practice and then the application of that practice were commonplace.  No artist would ever have thought to watch a 5 minute video on something and claim to be an expert- not just from the standpoint of there were no 5 minute videos to watch, but because just doing something by wrote and imitating others is not a personal statement.  Audiences of the day were keen to pick up the lack of depth that comes from efforts like this, because they didn’t have a constant barrage of “new and improved” whatever to try and take in.  People like John Coltrane and Miles Davis would push the edges of what they did by trial and error.  This didn’t just happen in jazz circles, either- the whole Rock And Roll world did it, too, and McCartney, Lennon, Jagger, Plant, Page, Beck and more would reinvent themselves by listening to others and then applying it to what they did, rather than to become the others.  Record companies rewarded this kind of forward thinking by putting money behind the projects and inventing marketing campaigns to move these folks into the spotlight.

No, it wasn’t perfect.  Lots of artists ended up losing their shirts in the deal through corruption and bad contracts – some died penniless, too.  I had an occasion many years ago in Nashville to engineer on a session with the great Dee Murray, the bassist for Elton John.  Murray had played on all John’s early hits like “Philadelphia Freedom” and “Goodbye Yellow Brick Road” – and at that time, he was living under a freeway bridge along I-65 near Berry Hill.  He didn’t even own a bass anymore, and I had to lend him mine for the session.  He was brilliant during that session, but he was also very sick and had absolutely no money or a way to get the care he needed.  I bought him lunch and dinner that day (the first “meals” he had had in almost a week, he said) and gave him a couch in the apartment I was renting at the time to sleep on for 2 nights.  Dee suffered a massive stroke about 3 months after that session and died without so much as two dimes to rub together.  While it would be easy to blame John for Murray’s plight, it wasn’t all his fault- the label insisted that John make changes in his band several times over his career, and John wasn’t in a position to refuse.

But, I digress from the point I’m trying to make.

Today, the “machines” that propel an artist forward are in place way before the artist is found.  If you remember the Brady Bunch episode where Greg becomes “Johnny Bravo”, you remember that the only reason he made it was because he “fit the suit” and the producers really didn’t care if Greg could sing or not.  In the movie “Rock Star”, Mark Wahlberg becomes “Izzy” of the band Steel Dragon largely because of the same reason.  Yes, those are fictional accounts, but nowadays it is common practice and quite real.

Technology has had a hand in this paradigm shift, too.  Anyone with a computer and Garage Band is now a “producer”, and fairly decent sounding tunes can be made with absolutely no one playing any instruments at all.  Singers who can’t sing are autotuned to get them into pitch – something that wasn’t possible 20 years ago.   It’s very common for players who do actually play on tracks to have played together with other players they’ve never actually met.  (That has happened to me so many times, I’ve stopped counting the occasions.)

So what the heck does all this have to do with ability not equaling talent?

I wanted to try and give context before going into what I’m getting at.

Let’s take the strange case of Justin Bieber.  Bieber was “discovered” by Ray Braun, a “producer” who was looking through videos on YouTube for new talent, and stumbled across him accidentally.  He was impressed enough to sign Bieber to a record contract based on those videos.

STOP RIGHT THERE.

Ray Braun signs someone because he accidentally stumbles across a video of some kid?  Oh, sure- I’ll bet there was at least one meeting between the two of them to find out if the kid could do what was on the videos- maybe.  Let’s say that did happen.  What are Braun’s qualifications for knowing what constitutes talent?  Who else has he worked with?  What else has he done?

(In the not-to-distant past, to get signed to a record label took a lot of work- showcases, gigs, try-outs, refusals, schmoozing- and many, many talented bands never got them at all.)

Turns out that Braun founded his “record label” to promote his son.   Did his son have any talent?  Probably not- can you name his son?  I bet you can’t.  Braun saw dollar signs, and Bieber bit.

Bieber can play drums (fairly well, actually) and guitar (if you like nothing but barre chords) and he can dance (quite well) and his singing voice is so-so.  His real appeal to Braun was no doubt his looks.  Braun’s marketing department pushed only a few of those things and hired “songwriters” (people with GarageBand that know how to drag and drop) to “write” (read: program) songs for him, but Bieber didn’t actually write them.  (How do I know this?  If you look at the song credits, they are listed as “Words and Music by xxxx, yyyy and Justin Bieber” – whenever the artist is listed last, it means they didn’t write it- they bought it.)

What this means is that it was never about Bieber’s talent- it was about his ability and availability.  The talent is in the marketing team that saturates the marketplace.  If you want “talent” in this equation, it starts and stops with Braun, but I wouldn’t really call it that.  I’d call it "a seized opportunity". (There probably is talent in being able to recognize when to do that.)

And, since the market is saturated, the audience just assumes that there is something to this equation.  People who don’t know better automatically assume that since this kid is everywhere, that he is “talented” and lack the critical thinking to think otherwise.  (yeah.  Lack of critical thinking ability is something of a trigger for me.)  It doesn’t even matter if it’s good press or bad press- it’s just press, and you eat it up.

In recent days, I’ve gotten into several “debates” with people online about what constitutes talent, and more than a few of them have confused “ability” with “talent”, and they aren’t the same thing at all.  When I offer them my side of it, they rail against it, because they think I’m calling them stupid because they can’t tell the difference.

Let me be clear: I am calling them stupid.  Because they are.

The very second that Mr. Bieber becomes not-popular, he will be jettisoned regardless of his so-called talent.  And, when he’s jettisoned, the press will have a field day and everyone who was a Belieber will say things like, “Yeah.  I knew it.  He was a flash in the pan.”  But they didn’t know it, and they didn’t admit it, and they are about as talented at discerning these things as Mr. Bieber is without his autotune and without his marketing machine.

Don’t confuse “ability” with “talent”.   This is actually a little more important than you might think- it doesn’t extend just to art.  It extends to many more important things.  Take the POTUS race we’re in right now- Mr. Trump has ability in the form of a marketing machine that pushes him forward, but no talent where it’s gonna count in being a statesman.  Mrs. Clinton has ability in the form of being able to say the right thing at the right time, no talent where it’s gonna count in having integrity with the US citizenry.  This confusion has brought us nothing but problems in the recent past, and if we can’t identify this when it comes to something like art, music and dance, then we’re gonna have real problems discerning this difference on anything important.  If you are one of these people that watches “The Voice”, “America’s Got Talent” or “American Idol” and truly believes that you are seeing talented people, then you are part of the problem.  If you are one of the people who actually cares about what Kim Kardashian, Caitlin Jenner or any other reality show celebrity has to say about things that matter, you are part of the problem.  (Personally, I think that if you watch reality TV, you shouldn’t be allowed to vote.)  The people you are watching on these shows have the ability to get on a show, but no talent to make the world a better place.

my dad

This past weekend, we had my father's memorial service at Anaheim United Methodist Church in Anaheim, California.  I had prepared a eulogy for him, but since I'm such an absolute cry-baby, I asked my good friend, Kieran Scott, to read what I had written, since I knew I wouldn't get through it without completely losing it.  It took me quite awhile to figure out what to write- what does one write about someone you've known your entire life to sum them up?  In the end, I just decided to start writing and see where it took me, and just held my breath and hoped for the best.  Kieran read this masterfully - as I knew he would - and it seemed to go over quite well.

But I really wasn't prepared for the reviews I did get.  I was truly astounded - one of my cousins, a woman who has known my dad FAR longer than I have said that I wrote the things she thought of - a compliment of the highest order for any writer. Several people wanted copies.  Instead of sending them out, I thought I would just use my blog and share it with everyone.  I hope you all enjoy it.

---

When eulogizing one’s father, there is a temptation for one to go through the person’s life and give a recounting of everything that this person meant to you.  It’s a tried and true technique, although it can be a somewhat tiresome practice.

Let me assure you that I will not be bucking this tradition.

As all of you know, my dad was a very intelligent man.  He grasped some very heady concepts, and could make salient and cohesive arguments on a great many topics.  Broad topics like history, politics and the US Constitution were his playground, and more specific topics such as the reasons for the beginnings of World War II, the lives of the actors in the Civil Rights Movement of the 1960’s were his swing set and monkey bars on that playground.  He could internalize these periods of historic movement and could add color and richness to them in a way that most can never do.  He read voraciously about these and many, many other topics- not only to be informed, but to challenge himself and his beliefs.  He would even occasionally change his mind and stance on these items.

But, what separated my father from a host of other pseudo-intellectuals was his ability to relate to people and find those things that would resonate in their hearts; to appeal to that without making them feel uncomfortable.  He could find that area – no matter how small – and place those topics inside others as to be able to give them a desire to find out more.

You see, Dad wasn’t just intelligent - he was smart.  Intelligence is the measure of being able to retain and recall facts and data, but smart is the ability to know when, where and to whom to do that with.  This not only made him a fantastic conversationalist, but it propelled him to the very top of his chosen profession, that of a teacher of children.

As his child, I can tell you that to be in his house and have those conversations was a sometimes daunting task.  My father was not just talkative and inquisitive – a sometimes defeating personal trait when you’re 16 and trying to pull the wool over his eyes – but also he also had the innate ability to tell when you didn’t know your stuff.  And, he would mercilessly call you on it, as some of his students who are here today can readily attest to.  If you hadn’t studied the topic you were talking about, he would know immediately, and then propel the discussion headlong in to the very thing you knew the least about.  God help you.

But, here’s the thing- right behind his having caught you would come the forgiveness.  If you didn’t see it, he would offer it first, and then show you the error you had made in a way that made you want to do better.

My father taught me many, many things.  Oh, sure- he taught me things like how to ride a bike, how to build a model airplane, how to train our dog- all the “Dad Things” – and he would make those terrible “Dad Jokes” we all know about.  He taught me scholastic things like history and helped me with US Government classes in high school – how could he not? – and even went as far as to enlist help from his teacher friends on topics that I didn’t understand well like math and science.  He did all that, as any good father would do.  In my early life, my mother and father divorced, and he taught me how to move on from something traumatic, merely by his being “present” and engaged.  When I rebelled (which I did a lot) he taught me that he wasn’t interested in being my friend; rather, he taught me the value of being my father, something I did with my own children.  All of these things are the stuff of a “good father”, but there was one thing my father taught me that supersedes all others, and unfortunately it is something that I don’t see much of these days.

My father taught me that the true measure of a man is doing the right thing even when no one is looking.

This means that it really doesn’t matter what visual trappings your life may have.  Having the appearance of being protective and nurturing means absolutely nothing if you can’t do it when there is no one around to see it.  This means that, to be a man, you have to not only provide, but to do so authentically and without reservation.  You always put others first, and you never ask for consideration above anyone else.  Failures will happen, and when they do, it is your election, and your election alone to either dwell on them or to see them as lessons to learn from, for life is a series of lessons that no one truly ever arrives at a final destination.  Material possession, money, fame and power are fleeting things, and at the end of the day, all one really has is their own personal integrity.

This lesson is one that I learned over time.  To be honest, I did not embrace it right away.  And, even though it was paramount to my father, he never berated me for it.  He was patient with me - yes, I did frustrate him many, many times – and sometimes that frustration came out at higher volume – but there is no doubt in my mind that my dad ever did anything other than to love and accept me – even though and especially when I did not deserve it- because, you see that is part of the “do the right thing even though no one is looking” process.  Now that I am much older, I do understand this and I attempt to do this very thing each and every day.

My dad taught me that people matter.  Their well-being is something that we each should be constantly aware of.  This isn’t to garner favor with them , but rather it is just the right thing to do all the time.  Consistently.  Without fail.  Without a personal safety net, but with complete and total abandon.  Do the right thing and let the chips fall where they may.

And, through all of this his cornball sense of wit would never diminish. Everyone here remembers his Nebraska Cornhusker and Northwestern hats, and his shirts emblazoned with “Bald Guys Rule” or “Ugly, Mean and Nasty”.  And he always had metaphors for whatever was happening that would defy description – and there was no end to them, either. He had a quip for all occasions.  My father had a truly unique sense of humor, even in the oddest of times.  I’ll finish with a personal story to illustrate:

One night, when I was about 17, I did the typical rebellious youth thing of going out and partying with friends.  I returned home at about 2AM, and let’s just say that I wasn’t shy about consuming some “adult beverages” at that party.  I stood on the front stoop of my house, popping breath mints at an alarming rate so as to cover my “Eau de Pabst Blue Ribbon” cologne.  I thought I was completely cool and in control, when in fact I was wavering around like I had been spun in a centrifuge, and my voice, while normally coherent, now sounded like Floyd the Barber from the Andy Griffith Show.  I unlocked the door and stepped in the house, intending to just go to my room and go to bed.

Instead, I’m met just inside the door by my father.  He’s in his bathrobe, leaning in the kitchen doorway.

“You mind telling me where you’ve been?” he asked, flatly.

“Oh.  I was out with friends and lost track of time.” I thought I said.  What I really said was unintelligible.

“Fine.  Go to bed.”, he answered.

That was it!  I had escaped.  Except…….

The next morning at about 6:30AM,  I awoke to the sensation that someone was in my room.  My head felt like I had been hit by a Louisville slugger, and my stomach was deciding which direction to push everything to- it felt like all directions.  As I opened my eyes, I saw my dad standing in my doorway, and he’s holding a small saucepan and a wooden spoon in his hand.  Before I can say anything, he literally leaps on to my bed, pinning my arms at my side.  With a quick hand motion, he runs my window shade up with a “WHACK!”, and sunlight immediately fills my room and my stomach begins to take flight.  He then takes the saucepan and holds it right in front of my eyes, and starts hitting it with the wooden spoon – it’s like a jackhammer in my head.  He then drops the pan and spoon, and covers my rapidly filling mouth with his hand.

“GOOD MORNING!” he yells in my face.  He’s got the most evil grin you’ve ever seen.

“Don’t you barf on me.  And don’t you believe for one second that I’m dumb enough to believe that you ‘lost track of time’ last night.”, he says.   And then he sits there, smiling at me, for almost a full minute.  He finally let me up, and I raced to the bathroom.  When I came back to my room, he was just sitting on the edge of my bed.  I could tell that he had been laughing, but when he sees me he gets a stern look on his face.

“If you want to go drinking with your buddies, I can’t really stop you.  But I can tell you that you had better not lie to me about it again.”, was all he said, and he stood up and walked out of the room.

Years later, he and I recalled that morning.  At first, he didn’t remember it, but as he did he told me that his first thought when I returned home was, “Oh, thank God he’s ok”.  His second thought was that this was a “teachable moment” (he actually used that term before Mr. Obama did) but he knew that he’d have to pick his time to teach it, and judging from the shape I was in that wasn’t it.  He went to bed not really knowing what he was going to do, and only formulated his response when he woke up that morning.  I asked him why he did that, and his response was priceless:

“Because I wanted to make sure that you understand that I loved you, and that wasn’t something I really approved of.  Acting like a kid is one thing, but lying about it isn’t something that a real man would do.”

And, right there, is why I love my Dad and will always aspire to be like him.

what's in a name?

Since my email address is 'prezbass', I get asked all the time the significance of that alias.  I usually tell people that it's a long story and that I don't come out well in the story.  I also get told that I need to write a book about experiences I've had a a musician on the road- and perhaps I will one day, but it's high time I at least told the story behind that alias.  And, bonus: it's actually two stories in one.  Buckle up.

Way back in 1987, while living in Southern California, I got hired to play with a band from South Africa.  Their bassist had had an accident (I believe it was skiing- he had never seen snow before) and I got hired with just a few weeks notice before they were to begin a tour of the western US.  Our buses were filled with various sizes of water bottles- pretty much strewn everywhere, and it wasn't uncommon for folks to just reach between seats and find (and drink) whatever they found there.  (When you're in close quarters, hygiene becomes secondary quite quickly)

We had just finished playing a gig in Denver, Colorado very late on a Saturday night and were headed back to our accommodations for the evening.  I was in the equipment van (which was in the lead of a small convoy), sitting in the passenger seat, with our local contact, Laura, driving the van.  The rest of the band was in a car following the van.  All of us were dog tired from the day.  It had begun to snow lightly, and we were trying to keep the other car in view so they wouldn't get lost.  We had just passed through an intersection, and the car didn't make the light, so Laura stopped the van under a freeway bridge to wait for the car.  As we waited, I reached under the seat and pulled out a bottle of water, and while Laura and I chatted, I took a drink.

My first thought was, "Wow.  Who brought booze?"  The underside of the bridge had made the inside of the van very dark.  I took another, larger drink.  And then another.  The van moved forward as the light behind us changed.  I took another drink.  We went directly under a streetlamp, and in the glow I could see the bottle.

I had just taken several huge gulps of anti-freeze.  Being an ex-medic, I knew that I needed to remain calm to keep the ethylene glycol from getting into my system too fast.  I turned to Laura- who was still talking, and I interrupted her.

"Uh, Laura.  We've got a problem.  I just drank a whole bunch of this," and I showed her the bottle.

Laura stepped on the gas and we were flying down the road.  We had no cell phones in that day, so all the car behind us could do was to try and keep up without knowing the reason why.  Laura knew her way around the area, and she was headed to the nearest emergency room.  Trouble was, the anti-freeze was going to work very quickly, and I quickly started getting extremely light-headed.  We went roaring by a Denver police car, who immediately went to lights and sirens and pulled us over, and Laura quickly jumped out of the van and ran to the police cruiser.

At this point, I decided it would be a good idea to induce vomiting, so I opened the door and jammed my finger down my throat- and that didn't work.  I kept trying, all the way up until the Denver paramedics showed up.   I scratched the inside of my throat with my fingernail, and started coughing blood.   By this time, I'm getting pretty out of it- my speech is getting really slurry and I can't keep my eyes open.  I'm also not entirely sure where I am- you see, ethylene glycol causes blood to turn to the consistency of jelly in your veins.  I was becoming hypoxic from lack of oxygen to my brain- I was dying.

The medics got me on their gurney, placed oxygen on my face and then started putting me in restraints.  I was not combative at all, so this confused me further.  The Denver cop then comes and hovers over my face and starts telling me, "You have a lot to live for" and "Why do you want to hurt yourself?" - he thought I was suicidal.  Laura corrected him as they loaded me in to the ambulance and we went to the ER.  Once we arrived, they started treating me with heavy oxygen flows, IV's and activated charcoal to neutralize the toxins.  I would be ok, but the doc said, "You're going to have the hangover from hell in the morning" - and he was RIGHT.  I felt like I had been hit with a shovel the next morning- and the band had a gig the following Sunday morning.  (That gig is story #2)

When I told this story to my good friend, trumpet player Ron Cole some 20 years ago, he started calling me "Prestone".  This eventually (de)evolved into "Prez-Bass" and thus, the alias was born.

I did tell you I didn't come out well in the story.

On to story #2.

The very next morning, the band was to play at the original Vineyard Church in - I think Lakewood, Colorado - which, at the time was being housed in a former liquor warehouse.  (You can't make this stuff up.)  This church was one of the band's sponsors in the US, and it was a huge "church-in-the-round" sanctuary, with the stage in the middle of the room, kind of like a boxing ring.  We played- I had to sit down to play because I felt like......death might be preferable.....- and we sat down to hear the pastor deliver his message.  While cradling my hurting head and rising stomach, during that sermon, that's when it happened-

There was a trucker who couldn't be too far away who's CB radio burst in to the PA.  And he was cursing something awful, and it was VERY clear to the congregation.  Before anyone could do anything, a guy stood up about halfway back in the sanctuary and started yelling.

"IN THE NAME OF JESUS CHRIST, I REBUKE YOU...."

The pastor stopped his sermon as the soundman dropped the mains.

"We are not rebuking inanimate objects.  Sit down." said the pastor, who was clearly miffed.

The man sat down, and the sermon continued for a few seconds.  The trucker breaks in again, cursing wildly.  The man stands back up, his arms in the air.

"IN THE NAME OF GOD THE FATHER, I REBUKE YOU...." he yelled.  The soundman dropped the mains again.

"Look.  I already told you to sit down once and stop that.  If I have to do it again, I'm going to have to ask you to leave." said the pastor, sternly.  "Let's just try to do the rest of the sermon without the PA." he went on.

All the while, I'm in so much agony I just want to leave and go to bed.  Forever.

The pastor got perhaps 5 minutes in to his sermon without the PA, but his voice just couldn't take trying to make it go to the back of the room that size.

"That guy is probably gone by now.  Let's turn the PA back on." says the pastor, motioning to the soundman.

I swear that within 15 seconds, the trucker is back, badder and louder than ever.  The man stands up, again-and this time, he's really into it.

"SHE-KANDA ZOOM GLORY SHEKINA IN ALEHU!" he screams. Oh, good Lord.  He's rebuking in tongues now.  As the mains come down again, the pastor motions for 2 of the ushers to come down and remove the screaming man from the sanctuary.  Since I'm sitting the front row where everyone can see me, I'm doing everything I can to not throw up onto the stage, and my skin color is alternating green and purple while my head feels like it's in a slowly tightening vice.

As the ushers reach the screaming man, one of them reaches out and touches his upraised elbow.  The screaming man wrenches his elbow away suddenly, spins around in the row a full 360 degrees, and when he returns to his original position, he hits the usher with his fully balled up fist, dead in the middle of the face of the usher.  The usher goes down, hard.  The second usher literally vaults the row he's in (which is full of people) and performs a forearm smash to the back of the screaming man's head and shoulders, pushing him over the first (dropped) usher and fully into the row behind the fallen man, knocking over at least 4 people that I could count.  He barely stays down for a second, hops to his feet and charges usher #2 - still screaming in tongues (I believe he was now rebuking the usher, but I can't be sure- there was no one around to translate....ahem......) - and grabs him by the necktie and begins raining down blows on usher #2.  Usher #2 manages to grab the screaming man's belt while being punched and spins him around while he begins kidney punching the screaming man.  Both men are now cursing wildly.  At this point, usher #1 regains consciousness and stumbles out of the row, bleeding pretty profusely from his nose and mouth and collapses about 10 feet away from me.

All of this happens in mere seconds.

And, the congregation is totally silent for those seconds.

"WILL SOMEBODY GET THOSE GUYS OUT OF HERE??!??" yells the shocked pastor.

Several large men lurch forward and grab these two men - who are now in what looks like a hockey fight - and literally throws them out the front door of the church and into the parking lot - where they continue to fight and yell vile curses at each other.  And the police arrive.  And, when the police arrive, pretty much the entire congregation goes to the windows on the front of the church or leaves it entirely to watch the fight.

The service has come to a monumental, completely unceremonious end, and all the while, I just sit in the front row- now completely alone, save for the dazed usher - and try not to throw up.

I was not successful.

As luck would have it, that day was the last leg of that particular part of the tour, and I returned home to Southern California.

Thank God.

a dying art

Today, while perusing Facebook, a friend had posted a link to a story about a Baptist minister who was telling his congregation that the shootings in Orlando this past weekend were a good thing.

 Here's that story- please watch the video for context.

I have many, many friends that I love dearly that are atheists and agnostics.  Some of these friends are even a little hostile where the church is concerned, and I try very hard to assure them that 99.9% of Christians are not the hate-filled, hyper-judgemental jerks that the media would have them believe they are.  This guy makes that job even harder.  Having said that, it is to my agnostic/atheist friends that I write this blog entry- if you are a Believer, this might not interest you all that much.

For some strange reason, the Christian church has created a lot of terms for things that seem to require a ton of research in order to fully understand.  As an atheist or agnostic, this probably fuels your fire as there really isn't much of a reason for you to do that research.  Surprisingly, as a Christian, I actually agree with you on that- it just shouldn't be that difficult and a lot of it is total nonsense.  It seems like as soon as you've drawn a bead on one groups beliefs, something else comes along and negates everything, and confusion reigns supreme.  This kind of story comes along, and all of the sudden you get the idea that since this is a "Baptist" church, it's like the Baptist church that is on your nearest street corner, so that means that all Baptist churches will be in agreement with the "pastor" in this story.

I want to assure you that I completely and totally understand why you might think that.  I also want to assure you that nothing could be farther from the truth.  Or, let me put it another way: this "pastor" no more represents Christianity than the Islamic extremists represent Islam as a whole.

But, I digress.

The media, in it's absolutely relentless attack on "hateful Christians" has done you a vast disservice here.  I know you have heard that kind of statement before from Christians about an attack on our faith, but that doesn't change the truth of the matter.  It is happening, but it isn't due to Starbucks Christmas cups or anything like that- this is real, and this story is proof of that.  Since this "church" calls themselves a ""Baptist church", the media- who did no homework on the topic at all- has tried to lump this group into the well of the Baptist denomination, and some will immediately jump to the conclusion that all "Baptist churches" fall in line with this group.  I do not blame you for thinking that.  In order to discern what is truly real, we have to embrace some of these "terms" I mentioned earlier, and we need to do some Critical Thinking.  So let's do that, and I'll do the work for you to show you what I mean.  I'll even cite sources for you.

On the Verity Baptist Church web site, there is a section that tells what they believe.  They would have you believe that they are a strict, no-nonsense, Bible-Only-Believing fellowship.  We'll take them at their word here- and, that means that everything they believe must be Biblical, and that will be our basis of thought and postulation of all arguments made.

The 3rd line of their belief statement:

"* We believe that the King James Bible is the Word of God. We believe God inspired and preserved it. "

The King James Version Bible was written in 1611 AD.  (Some scholars believe that William Shakespeare had a hand in writing it, too.)  The texts used in the Bible existed before that, and the KJV is a translation of the original text.  If we take this church at their word here, this would mean that the translation was made from a non-God inspired and non-God preserved text.  The Bible says that:

John 14:6 KJV
"Jesus saith unto him, I am the way, the truth, and the life: no man cometh unto the Father, but by me."

And, since Jesus is God, that means that God is truth, and truth cannot lie.  Therefore, according to Verity's own words, they contradict their own statement of the veracity of Scripture.

But, there's more:

"* We believe in the autonomy of the local church. This means that we are independent of all denominations, conventions, and fellowships. We have Jesus Christ and the Bible as the head of our church and not some Pope, Prophet, President, or Board of directors.
* We believe in the “local church” we reject the teaching of the “universal church”. " 

This text is very telling- they admit here that they do NOT line up with any denomination, and that would include the Baptist Church- the one on your street corner, or even the one Donald Trump might visit next week.  Further, since they have no other governing body other than the Bible, and the pastor is the leader of this church, this pastor has no one to "check" him or sources. That is an extremely dangerous thing:

Acts 17:10-12 KJV
"And the brethren immediately sent away Paul and Silas by night unto Berea: who coming thither went into the synagogue of the Jews. These were more noble than those in Thessalonica, in that they received the word with all readiness of mind, and searched the scriptures daily, whether those things were so. Therefore many of them believed; also of honourable women which were Greeks, and of men, not a few. "

What's happening in the above passage is that the Bereans basically heard what St. Paul and Silas were preaching, and then double checked everything that was said.  They did not take the word of the very men who were the de-facto scholars of the day.  And, Paul refers to them as "honorable" because they did that.  If Verity was truly Biblical, they would have some kind of check/balance system (which most churches do have) instead of leaving it to one man's interpretation.

"* We believe that church membership is a privilege and not a right and church members are subject to be removed from membership and not allowed to attend the services if they violate the qualifications of church membership as set forth in the Holy Scriptures and the by-laws of Verity Baptist Church. "

This one is interesting- it seems that you have to "apply" to be a member.  Nowhere in the Bible does it say that membership of a church is required, nor does the Bible say that membership is even important.  The early Christian church was a community of Believers with no membership.

"* We reject the teaching of Calvinism and believe that God wants everyone to be saved."

I'll stop short of saying that Calvinism is something they must believe in (I am a Calvinist, btw) but, the idea that God doesn't want everyone to be saved is actually very anti-Christian:

Matthew 28:19 KJV:
"Go ye therefore, and teach all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost"

That text says "All" and if God wasn't interested in "all" we wouldn't have been commanded that way.

And finally, there's this:

"* We believe that sodomy (homosexuality) is a sin and an abomination before God which God punishes with the death penalty. No sodomite (homosexual) will be allowed to attend or join Verity Baptist Church. "

This one is very interesting in its sub-text.  The Bible is very clear that sin is not measured in degrees- no sin is worse than any other sin,  and sin is what separates us from God.  The rules of that separation and the definition of sin are found all over the Old Testament- most notably in the 10 Commandments - and are referred to as "Mosaic Law" or simply "the law".  It is impossible for man to not sin according to this law, and that is why we, as Christians, believe that Jesus Christ came to save us from it and redeem us.  Again, from the same Bible that Verity Baptist says is the unerrant word of God, and these are the words that Jesus said:

Matthew 5:17 KJV
"Think not that I am come to destroy the law, or the prophets: I am not come to destroy, but to fulfil."

This means, plainly and simply- Jesus fulfilled the requirements of the law, and the law is no longer in effect as it was.  The law is still in place, but the punishment for not obeying it is no longer required.  The really interesting part of the topic of sodomy is that it isn't the only sin.  Murder, gossip, being mean, cheating, lying, being disrespectful of your mother and father - all of those are sins as well, and Jesus' death on the Cross paid for all of them, but Verity singles out sodomy as something that is at another level and requires the sinner to die for it- that is patently un-Biblical.  This tells me several things, chief among them is what you are thinking, too- somebody probably has something to hide.  And, while it might be fun to point a finger at these folks and yell "hypocrite!", if it were anyone else hiding their sexuality like this, you would say it's sad.  Let's do this instead- let's agree that it's also sad that the members of Verity having to hide whatever is going on in their own bedrooms is just as sad, and we'll just leave it to God to judge them.

I think I'll stop there.

Here's the deal- I don't want the media to have to become theologians in order to write a story, but I do want them to have some responsibility when they just write a story in such a way to defame the 99.9% of Christians that don't believe the way these people do.  All they would have to do is call someone who is a theologian to vet their story - like they do for darned near anything else - and they would have realized that these people are a cult, and not write the story this way.  But, in the media, "if it bleeds, it reads" and we as the public are given a shoddy, over-generalized statement that would make you believe that all Christians are homophobic.  And, we are not.

What I'm really getting at here is this: Critical Thinking, as an art form, is dying.  We just accept all the drivel that is handed to us and we have lost our ability to ask questions and discern what is real and what is truth.  You may not believe in God, and that is your right- and I, personally, would defend to my death your right to believe that way - but those of us that do believe in God are not the enemy.  The Christian Homophobes are in the vast minority in Christendom.  When you read these stories, do yourself a favor: suspend your beliefs for a minute and check things out for yourself or feel free to drop me a line and I'll be happy to help.

You never know- you might learn something.

build-out blog #1

About 18 years ago, I started getting asked to record an awful lot again.  This was about 3 years after leaving California for Seattle, and I hadn't really anticipated building another studio in my house (neither had my wife.....ahem......) but it seemed it was inevitable.

After much cajoling, I decided to add on to the back of our garage in our home- not a ton, but enough to have a single performance room and a very small "control room" to sit a mixing board and some Tascam DA-88's in, and that would be enough.  Over a very short amount of time, I outgrew that and needed more room, so my performance room became the control room and I built out my now-famous drum room, much to the chagrin of my wife and neighbors......actually, my neighbors have never complained.

It was a pretty simple plan, but I designed the drum room to have no square walls (alleviates standing waves) and a cantilevered ceiling (more squashing of standing waves).  I added a 5' x 3' window, ran 16 channels of XLR to it along with 8 channels of foldback (to a small Mackie mixer for a headphone box) and voila!  We're in business!  To date, I've produced somewhere in the neighborhood of 65 albums using that room, and have received rave reviews from drummers around town- their kits sound amazing- and, I've even recorded 3 top-10 singles and won an award for Best Produced Independent Christian Record in 2005 for Todd Koeppen's "No Ladder" album.  Very cool- the room has worked like a charm - so well, in fact, that I didn't even put treatment up in that room for almost 10 years because I really liked the way it sounded.  (It sounds even better now that it's treated.)

But- there's a problem.  Because of my studio layout, it's nearly impossible for me to record a live group here.  I'd have to remotely record bands at other, larger studios in town- but that got really expensive and added quite a bit of hassle for me, since there would have to be audio conversion.  I kind of got used to it, but then a really unfortunate thing happened- one of the main studios that I used frequently for live tracking had to move and scale down, and became more of a "post-production" studio.  No big drum room and a really strange layout.......darn it.

Since I really don't advertise my studio all that much, it wasn't really a problem for me.  I could just do what I always did and track a drummer and maybe myself on bass and a keyboard player for basic tracks and overdub like a mad man.  That works, but it makes scheduling a PITA since I have to do multiple sessions for each instrument/vocal.

But, in mid-2014, the word got out that the stuff that was coming out of my studio sounded really good, and I got busier.  Juggling the logistics of a small room and a large amount of work meant that a breaking point was soon to happen.  It was just a matter of when.  When my good friend, Mark Bittler (he and I played in the funk band, "Bump Kitchen" for a few years together)  recorded his first album, "My Name Is Mark" here, we encountered a lot of space issues- which I worked around, but the hassle factor was pretty high.  Mark's album marked a milestone for me, personally, as I think it's probably the best sounding record I've done to date, and it turns out that others have really latched onto it.  So much so, that Mark scored a label deal with a small, boutique local label here in Seattle, and the album is already doing very well, in spite of the fact that it was just released a few weeks ago.

And, here comes the breaking point: people have noticed that record.  I've been getting absolutely hammered by people asking me to produce them- which is great!!!  But, I'm out of space.

So- I'm going to have to expand.  I posted on Facebook the other day that I am expanding and had a bunch of friends start deluging me with questions, so I posted something today to show what I'm going to be doing and got asked to write a blog about the expansion- so, here we go on that.

I'm posting pictures here to show you just how crowded it's become in here- remember, that I work out of this studio all day, every day- for both music and my day-job as a developer for a "somewhat large software company in Redmond that you may have heard of before" so making this space work for double-duty is pretty taxing.  There's SO much stuff- it's stupid.  Maybe if I can spread out a little, I can get even more work done!

Enjoy the pictures, folks- these are the "before" sets.  I'll try and post the "during" when we start the construction in about 2 weeks.

Here's the control room as of today.  Note the headphone distro box sitting on top of the near-field.  Not optimal.

Another view of the control room.  It's a disaster in here.

My "vocal booth" which right now serves as storage for amps, mikes, tools- everything but vocals.

This is outside the drum room- and where the new room will be built.

The other side of where the new room will be- hopefully a better place for my Hammond M3.

The drum room- acting as storage for my kit- because I had to track a vocal in there the other day and there's nowhere else to put the kit!

More of the drum room with crap everywhere.

New floor plan.  The new room is the 12' x 12' on the upper right.

Rendition of looking from the new room into the drum room.

Rendition of looking from the control room through the drum room into the new room.

Looking from the drum room into the new room.  Control room is on the right.

Leaving the control room into the new room.  Drum room is behind the sliding glass door.

Wider angle from inside the new room.  Door on the left is into the control room, with the drum room to the right behind the sliding glass door.

shut up

A couple of weeks ago, I did an interview with AXS about competition within the context of being a jazz player.  Believe it or not, as gregarious an individual as I am, I really don’t like doing interviews- I always think I have to say something really deep and meaningful- I mean, why else would they want to interview ME?  I’m nobody.  But, I’m already starting to digress……

SQUIRREL!

The interview went well, and it seems like what I had to say on the matter had an effect on one friend of mine who is a very well thought of bassist who lives in Nashville- he read the article and then did a gig later that same day that started going badly because some of the players were rusty.  Instead of getting “cranky”, he decided to try what I had said would be a better alternative, and lo and behold the gig was saved and everyone had a good time- including my friend.  From my POV, that is extremely cool.  I made a little bit of a difference in someone’s life, and others benefitted from it.  Couldn’t ask for anything better in my book.

Which leads me to writing this blog entry.

When I was much younger, I had this penchant for wanting to always make a “statement” whenever I played.  More often than not, this meant that I was always pushing the boundaries of whatever I was doing.  Weird rhythms, lots of “blue notes” and tension and my idea of what constituted groove – regardless of what was going on – were the hallmark of my playing.  I had no shortage of work, and I attributed it to my sheer and unadulterated brilliance of what I was bringing to the table. 

On one occasion shortly after getting to college, I did 4 recording sessions in one day, and one of them (the second one of that day) was to cover 4-6 old Motown/R&B tunes for a singer, and a girl that I was seeing at the time was the drummer on that one gig.  I did my thing, left, and promptly forgot about it upon arriving at the next session.  And, I mean I really forgot about it- didn’t remember what the tunes were or what I played within hours, and after 1 day the whole experience was wiped from my memory.

About a week later, while at dinner, my girlfriend brought up that she had received a new cassette that she wanted me to hear.  She put it on and asked me what I thought.  The first thing that came out of my mouth was “that rhythm section is TIGHT!”.  She looked at me funny and asked, “You really think so? Listen carefully and then tell me what you think.”  She rewound the tape and started it over again, and the tune was “Papa Was A Rolling Stone”- and that’s when – you guessed it – I released it was her and I on the recording.  And, when I listened critically to everything, I was shocked. 

I was terrible.  I mean- truly awful.

My sense of time was non-existent.  My note choices, while interesting, were wholly incorrect, and the “interesting” quality of what I was doing was doing nothing more than removing direction to what mattered- the vocals and all the other instruments.  All I could concentrate on was what I was doing, no matter how hard I tried to listen to anyone else.

Before I could say anything, she stopped the tape and took it out and produced another tape.  She put that in and hit play, and it was the same song, but it wasn’t me on bass.  It was MUCH better- cleaner execution and it sounded right.  That’s when she said it- “Marc.  That’s me on bass.”

I was dumbstruck.  I had never seen her play bass- she had never done it in front of me.  I didn’t know she knew how- and she confessed that she didn’t.  She learned that tune just so she could fix the part, and had gone back to the studio at the artist’s request to salvage what I had done- or, not done more accurately.

Honestly, this hurt far more than you can imagine- it wasn’t my pride that was hurt so much (it was, but…) so much as it was that I hadn’t done my job, promptly forgot about it and someone with one week of learning had a better result.  (maybe that is pride?)  I didn’t say anything.  I just stared at the floor- I wonder how many times something like this was happening and I never knew?

“I wasn’t sure how to tell you.  I seriously considered not telling you, but that would be a really shitty thing to do.  Are you mad?”, she asked.

“No.  I’m not mad.  But I don’t think I can show my face in there again.” I said.  I couldn’t even tell her how great a job she had done, because I was so self-absorbed.

“I told them you showed me how to play the line.  They like you, but, well….. I’m not sure you really ever listen to what’s going on around you.  You really need to learn how to suit the tune.” She said.

SUIT.  THE.  TUNE.  That hit me like a ton of bricks.

Up until that time, I was really taken by players who had a ton of chops.  I listened to things like Frank Zappa, Weather Report, Yes, Kansas, Genesis, King Crimson and Return To Forever almost exclusively.  Anything that didn’t have a ton of changes or just stayed in 4/4 just bored the heck out of me.  I was constantly dissecting tunes and players by how difficult passages were- a lot of musicians do this – but what I realized in an instant was that I actually wasn’t internalizing anything.  I was in to “shock and awe” and really not a whole lot more.  Even the things I said I “loved” held no real meaning for me- the intricacy would register for a minute, the rest deflected off and back into space.  I knew the somatic of what constituted “groove” and I could do it (and did on lots of occasions) but it never really resonated.  And I really wanted it to, and had absolutely no idea how to do that.

As musicians, all of us at one time or another are taken with “shock and awe” at some level.  It’s really inevitable, and it’s not a bad thing, necessarily.  Sometimes it takes the form of HAVING to be able to play a million miles an hour, and sometimes it takes the form of HAVING to have someone’s tone or gear.  Or both.  Or that and more.  Again- there’s nothing wrong with that kind of a goal, but it’s completely another thing to inflict that at a musical level on others- or worse- to laud your speed and/or gear and/or prowess over others.  That desire to laud those things over others is the hallmark of the competitive spirit that I was being interviewed for, but that’s not what this blog entry is about- I want to get more granular than that.

What I’m getting at is that – now, get this- chops mean nothing. (if you’re not a musician, “chops” refer to ability on an instrument)  It has taken me years to understand this (and I still struggle with it), and if you’re having trouble understanding or internalizing this, I’d like to help and offer a tangible way to look at this:

It doesn’t matter what instrument you play or hit- or if you sing.  Regardless of style, all music is a collaborative effort.  As such, your very first job – even before fingerboard memorization or scale studies or breathing for support when singing – is to be supportive.  Let that sink in for a minute.  Being supportive means to have the actual mindset of “I am not the most important thing here” or “I am not the star”.  That has to be forefront in your mind, and it needs to be the guiding force in doing what you do.  I am not talking about modesty here- I am talking about literally trying to make everyone else around you sound better before you try to sound better yourself.  To do this properly really requires a paradigm shift in your thinking.  It requires you to physically and critically listen to everything around you before you start adding your own voice to the din.  That might even mean that you don’t play at all. 

It also means that you have to play with other people.  You HAVE TO.  These days, the internet is rife with people playing along with tracks while confronted with a GoPro- kids, that ain’t making music.  That’s just televised wanking.  As a bass player, we are confronted with a myriad of players who show off ridiculous slap chops (almost always in the key of E major) – and it’s jarring to watch if you don’t have those.  The next time you see that, ask yourself when playing like that is appropriate?  I’ll give you a hint- it isn’t and never is.  And don’t be fooled into thinking that if you have those kinds of chops you can elect not to use them- that is a fool’s errand.  Don’t think that way, and don’t think less of yourself because you can’t do it.  I’ve actually gotten to the point where I never watch these wankfests. 

Music is, without a doubt, one of God’s most alluring and deep creations, as it has the ability to speak to others in a way most of us cannot.  It touches the heart and soul as that “international language” we’ve all heard about because it can make us hear, feel, see and smell things on all levels.  Notice in that statement that it doesn’t imbue “speaking” those things – and that’s an interesting point.  We do much better at all things in life if we don’t speak, but rather depend on those other senses to tell us what’s what, and the same is true in music.

I don’t want to give the impression that bands and musicians who can exhibit chops are bad- they aren’t.  But, there comes a time in all things artistic that too much is just too much, and there really needs to be balance and growth.  That rarely happens when bands or musicians just stay on a single path – fast or slow – in that they get recognized by that part of the public for a single thing and they elect to just keep repeating it over and over again.

When I heard that recording of myself on that session, I was 19 or 20 years old.  I just turned 52 last week, and I am still learning how to listen more and how to speak less.  It’s a journey, and it’s one that is very well worth the constant effort.  I still have bad habits when I play and record, and I spend a lot of time trying to rectify that, but I have to say that I am now in a place where I actually like to hear myself on someone’s record, and that hasn’t always been the case.  I love working with artists on all levels and just about any style of music, and I treat every occasion that I get to play for anyone as an immense honor that I have been bestowed- that artist has asked me to be part of an intensely personal statement that they want to make, and that’s very, very cool of them to do.

So- next time you pick up and instrument or a microphone- ask yourself: What am I going to NOT do this time?  The vibe and depth of the music you make will shock you.

why am i surprised?

It was late December, 1992 -almost 2 years to the day we had lost our son, Stephen.  My wife calls me:

“I’ve got this weird sensation like there’s a butterfly in my stomach.  No pain.  Just weird.”, she says.

“Well, you’re going in for another ultrasound tomorrow- why don’t you call the doc and see what he says?” I answered.

So she does.  The doc’s office says “it’s probably nothing, but why don’t you come in and we’ll check it”, and she calls me back and I say I’ll meet her at St. Joseph’s Hospital in downtown Orange, California.

My wife was about 22 weeks pregnant.  Prior to this, we had lost our son, Stephen, who was born alive but way too premature (at about 22 weeks), and had suffered a subsequent miscarriage (at about 16 weeks) from another pregnancy- I almost lost her on that one due to a horrific hemorrhage that followed.  We were advised to not get pregnant again.  When we did get pregnant again in the summer of ’92, our doctors suggested we abort because it just wasn’t probably going to viable, but we couldn’t do that.  We enlisted a new OB who performed surgery, giving my wife a “cerclage” which is stitches in her uterus to keep premature labor from happening- and, he put her under a rigor of almost constant monitoring.

They begin the exam- my wife is no longer having that sensation, and the nurses are joking with us as they start.  As soon as the nurse gets the ultra-sound scanner on my wife’s belly, the whole tone of the room changes.  The nurse picks up the phone and says something so quietly I can’t hear her.  The OB comes into the room in just a few seconds, and they start looking at the scan.  Then the doctor utters the words we really didn’t want to hear.

“Debi.  You are in active labor, and the stitches have torn.”  And, just like that we start.  They kick the bed she’s laying on up, backwards so her feet are in the air.  They hang an IV of magnesium sulfate and get that going.  I looked at the scan, and it says “4cm”- holy shit.  Here we go.

They admit my wife to St. Joseph’s, but the only bed that is available with this amount of notice is in the Post-Partum ward- we’re about to lose another baby and she gets checked into a room that holds women who have just had a baby.  So cruel.  They’re telling us that it doesn’t look good- there’s a ton of damage to her cervix from the cerclage and now she’s bleeding pretty badly.  Whatever happens, she’s admitted and she’s not leaving the hospital until she delivers- whatever that may mean.

In other words- alive or dead.

I won’t go into all the details that followed, but suffice it to say that since I have a 5-year old son at home and a very busy work schedule, I become very dependent upon friends and family to help me- and, oh baby- did we have a support mechanism!  It functions like a well-oiled machine, and I get lots of time to get to be at the hospital while my wife goes in and out of various stages of labor for the next 2 MONTHS.

Yeah, you read that right.  Moms, take note: my wife was having labor pains for 2 months straight.  Let that sink in for a minute.  And all in “Reverse Trendelenburg” position.  (She was basically standing on her head for 2 months.)

On March 1, 1993, my wife came home, still pregnant.  She’s put on 100% bed rest and has an intra-uterine monitor implanted that connects to a telephone jack and regularly dials our OB’s office to send monitoring strips in.  (That was the weirdest freaking thing you ever saw.)  She’s home for 2 days, and goes into labor again- so off we go to the hospital.  My wife’s OB isn’t there, and the on-call takes one look at my wife’s chart and says, “This is NOT happening on my watch.”, and starts the magnesium sulfate/terbutaline all over again to stop the labor- and it does.  She comes back home the next day.

In the evening of March 9, it happens again.  We call the doctor, and her OB says, “This is getting ridiculous.  You’re about 30 weeks, which is early, but I don’t think we should keep putting you under stress.  Let’s do this.”  Off we go again- we’re going to have a baby!

We get to the hospital around 10PM.  We go into L&D and they are getting ready for a “High Risk Delivery”, which means that the delivery room is right next to an operating room.  The OB is there, and he is the absolute 5-star General of the “Not Screwing Around Crew”.  Monitors go on.  Sarah’s heart is doing well- a little high, but not un-normal.  Debi is prepped for surgery to remove the cerclage. And, that’s when it happens- Sarah’s heart monitor goes flat.  Asystole. 

The whole room stops.  Then it starts beating again after a few seconds.

OB: “If that f****ng happens again, we’re going to the OR.”

As soon as he finishes that statement, it happens again.

I’m immediately pushed out of the room, and a nurse literally throws a gown and mask at me in the hallway- “Put those on right now!”, she barks.  As the door closes, I see the crew start moving my wife to an adjoining operating room.

For those that don’t know, Caesarean’s come in 2 flavors: the “nice” version where a cut about 6 inches is done just below the belly button, resulting in not much scarring.  And, there’s the other kind, which is what they did to my wife: it’s basically a gigantic cut to allow unfettered access to the issue at hand.  One cut that goes through EVERYTHING- quick and decisive.

I enter the OR.  My wife has been given a local (spinal block) and she’s draped just below her chest.  They guide me to the head of the bed.  My wife is crying- she’s scared (I am, too) and she’s being rocked up and down on the table as the OB tries to gain a foothold. 

“I’d really like to know what they’re doing down there”, my wife says.

I look on the other side of the drape, and reply, “No.  You really don’t.”  I saw parts of my wife I never knew were there.

All of the sudden, at 12:10AM on March 10, 1993, Sarah is there.  But something is wrong.  She’s dark blue and non-responsive.  They suction her.  Nothing.  No breath sounds, and a heartbeat that isn’t workable.  They start working on her, and Deb and I cannot hold her or touch her.  Sarah is whisked out of the room while the OB literally removes my wife’s uterus, holds it in mid-air, turns it inside-out, pulls out what’s left of the cerclage from her cervix and very unceremoniously shoves it back inside.  Yes, I saw the whole thing.  Yes, I almost fainted- and remember that I am a former first-responder.  That visual really rocked me.

My wife is moved to the Post-Partum ward, but there will be no baby visits.  The doctors come in and tell us that it doesn’t look good.  Sarah was much earlier along than previously thought (about 28 weeks) and while her vitals are improving, she’s still non-responsive. She won’t wake up, and she won’t eat.  They’re pretty sure she was oxygen deprived too long, and has suffered a potentially profound brain injury.   She is in the NICU and we should prepare for the worst.

After all that.  We’re gonna lose.  Again.

I begin making the phone calls to family and friends at 1AM.

I probably don’t need to tell you what’s going through our minds.  We’ve come so far; we’ve done absolutely everything that can be done.  We’re thinking that our first OB was right- we should have aborted.  Now, we’re going to have – at best – a brain damaged child that is going to need constant care, or – at worst – another funeral.  I’m not angry.  I’m just numb, and I mean REALLY numb.  It’s all clear to me, but I don’t pray or cry out to God- I just can’t.  There’s nothing left to say or implore. 

After the phone calls, I go back into my wife’s room, and she’s asleep (“passed out” is more like it) because of the stress.  I left the hospital and went home around 2AM and stayed up most of the night talking with our then roommate (and drummer in my current band), Gary Zdenek.  It’s weird- I’m partially relieved that this chapter is closed and another is starting, but I’m scared to death about what’s next.  I don’t pray- I don’t want to.  God feels very far from me right now.   I think I got about an hour of “sleep” and got back up to go back to the hospital.

I got to the hospital around 7AM and went to my wife’s room.  She’s not there.  I go back to the nurse’s station and ask where she is.

“Are you Debi Miller’s husband?” she asks with a stern look on her face.

“Yes, I am.”, I reply dumbly.

“Listen.  I don’t know if you know this or not, but you’re married to Rambo.  She woke up this morning and demanded that her PAA (Patient Administered Anesthetic) be removed and she be taken to the NICU.  I got the PAA out, but when I went to get her a wheelchair, she had already gotten up and walked to the elevator and went to the NICU by herself.”, she tells me. (This is a literal quote.)

Remember- my wife had had her abdominal muscles cut during the procedure the night before.  For her to get and walk was next to impossible and almost certainly excruciatingly painful.  And, she has no painkillers with her!

I get down to the NICU- and I cannot believe my eyes.  My wife is breast-feeding my daughter!  She is awake and looking at mom!  The whole NICU is just completely dumbfounded, as she apparently woke up as soon as my wife touched her, and she was hungry.  This shouldn’t be happening, and more than one nurse comes to tell me things like “I have never seen something like this happen before” or “This is a miracle”- and, I have to wholeheartedly agree.

Still, there is a road to hoe.  We should be prepared for a substantially brain-damaged child; she’s going to have developmental issues; she’s going to have physical issues like lung and heart problems – I DON’T CARE!!!  SHE’S ALIVE AND WE’LL JUST DEAL WITH IT!!!!

After 2 weeks in the NICU, we brought Sarah home.  And, here’s the best part of all- she’s fine.  No brain damage.  No developmental issues.  No heart and lung problems- she’s a perfectly normal, healthy girl who is the light of her daddy’s eye.

So, there you have it.  God provided again.  Why should I be surprised by that?