Some people don’t tell you the whole truth about who they are, and so you’re left to fill in the blanks. As a storyteller, filling in the blanks is my personal specialty, so I actually like a little mystery in relationships. The unfolding of a person as you learn him/her is a beautiful process, and the process of allowing someone else to see and become apart of your story is just as beautiful- you let your crazy out a little at a time, and by the time your friends see how nuts you actually are, they’re in too deep.

TJ was one of the most compartmentalized people I’ve ever met. He had several circles which never interacted, and the parts of himself he’d share with some, he’d never show to others. He was the Director of Contemporary Worship at Bel Air Presbyterian, and the reason I got back into leading at churches.

I was 24, and dating Erica at the time, a girlfriend I don’t think my mother ever forgave me for letting go of. She was a Pilates & Yoga instructor while she attended the Masters program at UCLA with Glenn. Erica had a tendency to chase philosophies all the way down the rabbit hole, and while usually it was about intake or exercise, one night I found a copy of the Bhagavad Gita on her nightstand, and I was surprised how much it bothered me. I had sworn off churches some time ago, but my faith remained in tact, and something about Erica reading that book really got to me. I told her, honestly and openly, how I was feeling.

“I’ve read the Vedas,” I said, “and I don’t think they’re dangerous or anything. In fact I think it’s important to read ancient wisdom literature. I don’t know why babe, but it’s bothering me.”

She looked thoughtful, but not defensive or combative. “Why do you think it’s bothering you?”

“I just…” I paused, then continued. “I’ve studied the major religions and spent a lot of time with different philosophies. I just think Christianity is the only one that gets at the heart of life’s important parts. And all the meaning I’ve found in other faiths, I’ve also found in the bible. I don’t know… It’s like Christianity encompasses and includes all the wisdom from other religions. And leaves behind a lot of the weird stuff, and goes farther into the things that matter.” She was gentle and attentive.

“I think all that makes sense. When I was going to youth group at First Christian in High School, I felt very… connected. And my time going to mass with my Mom and sister was always very life-giving.” We looked at each other. I was grateful but uncertain. She said, “Let’s find a church then.”

Our first time at Bel Air Pres was a revelation. Every church I’d ever attended was starved for talent, and for funding. Bel Air had an embarrassment of riches in both areas. In fact, it’s my understanding that they had a one-year attendance prerequisite for all volunteers. I’d never been to a church service that didn’t need help, but this service was banging on all cylinders. Lights, cameras, jumbotron, 6-piece band playing cutting edge church music- and it all looked believable. It wasn’t a production; it was a service. In medieval times, peasants would come to the cathedrals to hear the mass spoken in Latin, to experience the presence of God in a place that was built to glorify Him. That’s how Bel Air felt on that first Sunday: unimpeachable. And I was grateful to be in a church that didn’t need me. Like attending a dinner party and not having to bring anything, where you just get fed and enjoy the company.

In my experience, most churches care more about a person’s “heart” than they do about talent or skill level, and seemingly, more about what a person says than a person’s actual character. My father has led countless volunteer worship teams, and requires them first to believe in Jesus, to “not be living in sin,” and to have a heart for worship. Talent and skillset aren’t even prerequisites, (though he’d much prefer there be some modicum of musicianship.) But EVERYONE that goes to church has a heart for worship. Music is often the most enjoyable part of the service, and the only place many people ever see live music. We then endure the sermon like eating our vegetables. I was surprised and delighted that the band at Bel Air were all talented, skilled, professional musicians, and the sermon was almost equally engaging.

So when the band announced they would be holding auditions, I was torn. I enjoyed so much not having any responsibilities besides showing up, but also I’m a musician- and after a while not playing music takes effort. Ultimately I decided to audition, and let someone else decide if I should play with the band.

During the audition, I stood in the back with my guitar and watched the other candidates. Most were amateurs, hobbyists. As my heart started to thunk-THUNK in my chest, I realized it was something I actually really wanted.

They called my name, and walked up onto the stage, plugged my guitar in, and turned to TJ.

“Alright, go ahead man,” he said.

I looked at him and said, “How do you wanna handle this?” He blinked.

“What do you mean?”

“I can play the intro and you sing, and I’ll sing harmony? Or you want me to sing lead? You wanna play the guitar part and I can play lead along with you?” TJ blinked again, raised an eyebrow and smirked.

“Whatever you wanna do man.” TJ and I would go on to have that exact conversation regularly for the next 6 years.

TJ was subversively charismatic. Quiet, but decidedly charming when he wanted to be, aloof, even brooding. He was tall and built like a professional athlete, scriptures in Greek tattooed on his arms, curly, sun bleached hair like Bodhi from Point Break, but he wore boots, jeans, and plaid snap-button shirts rolled up to his biceps, which were impressive. He walked slowly, bow-legged and self-assured, long arms swinging easily at his sides. He was quick with a smile, but lurking beneath it was an every-ready exasperation, an annoyance that would find cause for appearance several times a rehearsal, sound-check, show, or service. Over the course of our years playing at church, starting a band, recording 4 albums, touring the world, TJ became my best friend. I would come to find out, however, that I wasn’t his.

Playing music with someone creates a bond, an imprint that is almost immediate. The unspoken communication that can happen with a total stranger is akin to sexual intimacy- listening not just to the music but to body movements, to intention. And while you feed on another’s energy, you change it with your own, and like a great flock of birds that unanimously and instantaneously change directions mid-flight, there is no lag or talk needed to make decisions. It’s a communal flow-state which I’ve never experienced outside of music or sex.

There’s just not enough time in life to choose colleagues and friends; who you work with is who you live with. So the people I make music with are my friends, and my family. We spend holidays together, we celebrate and mourn together, we sit with each other through our darkness and lead each other back to the light, we invest our very souls in the each other’s well being. Being in a band means being a band of brothers, and sisters.

Countless 10pm texts between TJ and I read simply, “Smoke break?” And I’d make the short drive to his place where we’d sit on the porch and smoke cigarettes and drink whiskey or Diet Coke and talk, or not talk. We’d have family cookouts where I’d prep food and TJ would grill and we’d have the whole gang over to do nothing but be together. And after rehearsals, when everyone else had left, TJ and I would stay up late into the night taking ideas apart and putting them back together, wiser for the understanding we gained of each other, and of the world because of each other.

TJ and Angela starting dating in December of the same year we started our band, Uncle Daddy. I met her at the annual Bel Air Band Christmas party that TJ hosted, where she, my little brother Jeremy, and I, sat behind the couch and got to know each other. She felt shunned by the girls in the band, and Jeremy and I took it upon ourselves to make her feel welcome. And we liked her. We would go on to spend time as a trio years later. TJ still had a wedding ring tattoo that he had gotten during his last engagement, and was in the process of having it removed while he and Angela dated. One Sunday evening I got a text from him saying simply, “Hang at the house tonight. Come over.” I couldn’t make it or didn’t want to, so I made up some excuse about why I wouldn’t be there. I’d find out on Facebook that he had asked Angela to marry him that night. The tattoo was still very visible when TJ proposed, and I was surprised that he didn’t wait till the tattoo was fully removed. I asked him about that and he responded flippantly, “I don’t care about that man.” I took him at his word.

They got married on October 25th, the same day as Glenn & Sarah. TJ and Angela asked me to play “Pure Imagination” during the ceremony, which was an honor, not just to be asked by someone who had a huge circle of incredibly talented and successful musicians as friends, but because that was my favorite song from my favorite movie. It was heartbreaking when I had to say no because I had already committed to Glenn. But I told them that as soon as Glenn’s ceremony ended, I’d drive the 2.5 hours from Orange County to Oxnard to be there for their reception. I did. And I danced my heart out.

• .
• I had been a second call for the Bel Air band for a few months when I was became friends with Sacha, an unbelievably beautiful woman who went to Bel Air Pres, and was acquainted with TJ and some of the other people in the band. I remember the first day I saw her at church: she was wearing a loose fitting cream colored blouse and jeans, with bright eyes and dark hair falling wildly, and precisely, around her shoulders. I was on stage playing bass with the band when she walked down the isle between the pews and effectively ruined my concentration, even with the giant disco ball of a diamond on her left hand. I later told my friend Eric about seeing this woman, completely out of my league and already engaged. Eric looked at me frankly and said, “We’re guys, no one is out of our league. If you want her, pray that God will get that ring off her finger and walk her down the isle to you!” I laughed that off, but secretly, I held out a hope.
• In our first interaction, Sacha friended me on Facebook with a note saying she was attempting to put together a Facebook group for the people who were going to China later that year. The note was friendly, but businesslike. I responded with a witty, less businesslike, “I’d’ve been your friend anyway.” She complimented my inventive contraction, and we proceeded to banter for a while. We got along famously. She was as sharp as she was beautiful, and she shared my penchant for the inappropriate. We also had a shared love for food, and I told her my idea for a Food Network style cooking show, which she fell in love with. We decided we should team up and film a pilot.
• “I don’t know how to go about that,” I told her. “Where do we even start?”
• She was, as ever, totally self-assured. “We start by making a lot of meals together. Let’s build some chemistry!”
• I was ecstatic, but I my girlfriend Ginny was not. Ginny, whom I had been dating for a matter of weeks, told me she didn’t trust Sacha and didn’t want me spending time with her. For me, there are two ways to get me to do something- tell me I can, and tell me I can’t. Also, because my career was, and always had been, my top priority, I broke up with Ginny over it. Many of my relationships have ended over my love affair with music, but I can’t honestly say that it was 100% about that; there may have still been a lingering and underlying hope for Sacha.
• In fact, at our first dinner party, of which there have been many over the years, I forgot her husband’s name during a toast I gave to honor them both for hosting such a fantastic evening. In my defense, I’d only really spoken a few words to him, and I had no conscious ill will or even jealousy toward him. I genuinely thought he must’ve been an incredible person to lock down a goddess like Sacha. But there it is again, that evidence of unconscious, subconscious, hope.
• Much like ideas, though, our feelings about people can change as we explore them. And as Sacha and I got closer, and my feelings for her grew, they grew more platonic. She became one of my closest friends and confidants, someone I could tell everything to and not feel judged, only known. We talked about our relationships and our hopes, our struggles and our fears. I think there are people in my life who’ve always believed I was in love with Sacha, but I can say truthfully that my love for her and my attraction to her grew in inverse proportion. The more I loved her, the less I was attracted to her, and I loved her greatly.
• It came as a huge surprise to me when, over Thai food in West LA, Sacha told me that she and TJ had been having an affair. The first week into their marriage, Angela, who was an actress and a singer, had been in a music video shoot for Blake Shelton, and TJ had reason to believe she and Blake had slept together. In response, TJ came to Sacha, with whom he’d had a long, secret friendship, saying that he liked the idea of having a mistress, and they began an affair that lasted the length of TJ’s marriage, and without ever coming to light, was the driving factor behind Sacha and Richard’s divorce. I bare no shame in saying I was rooting for TJ and Sacha, my two best friends, to get together. They didn’t.
• I had just rented my first one-bedroom apartment and was living alone when TJ left Angela. I remember my first day in that apartment, empty save for the kitchen and bedroom, borrowed bean-bag chair and two lamps which Sacha had given me, thinking that it was a glut of space that I didn’t deserve. I cried to myself and prayed, “God, make me worthy of this.” It should be noted that my apartment was tiny, with stained brown carpet and cheap paint on the walls, dirty venetian blinds and cabinet doors that never fully closed. But it was my tiny fiefdom, and I was grateful. God answered my prayer when TJ came to stay with me and I realized the space wasn’t mine to have, but mine to give. TJ never told me about Sacha, but one night, sitting on my chairless balcony smoking cigarettes, I told him that I knew. I told him I understood the timeline, and that there was no judgment, only a desire to be a good friend to both he and Sacha, and even Angela, though in TJ’s eyes she was the true villain in the story. I’ve been in the middle my whole life, and I felt uniquely suited to live in the tension, and hold onto each without letting go of the other. I found out that while maybe I could do that, no one else could.
• During all of this I was falling in and out of love with Caitlin, a singer on the worship team whose solo record I produced. Caitlin and I had become great friends, and her, TJ and I spent a great deal of time together just the 3 of us, including on our trip to China. But she and I had a tumultuous relationship, full of deep conversations and passionate sexual encounters, which were always followed by days of radio silence and discomfort. I wanted Caitlin always, but I could only have her sometimes, and at the time I never understood why. It wasn’t until later that I found out. While I had been hoping TJ and Sacha would find each other, TJ and Caitlin were sleeping together. And I think the way Caitlin had treated me, TJ had treated her. In some ways I can’t fault Caitlin for her duplicitousness- she had confided in me that the first time she laid eyes on TJ at 16 she told her sister, “That’s the man I’m going to marry.” I had my suspicions about two of them, and in a parking lot walking into a bowling alley TJ got tired of my skirting ever closer to that subject.
• “Go ahead and ask me man. Say what you’ve been wanting to say.” His eyes were bright, and a grin that was akin to a snarl was waxing around his lips. It wasn’t evil or malicious, it was more like he was psyching himself up for a fight- an alpha wolf that sensed his dominance was about to be tested.
• I was shaky, full of unfocused adrenaline, unsure of myself. “Have you slept with Caitlin?”
• “YES. Dude, finally.” He went on to say it had happened once, and he told her it couldn’t happen again. It was a lie, but I didn’t know it.
• I didn’t understand how my best friend, someone to whom I had told every dark and embarrassing secret, including my relationship with Caitlin, would keep something so heavy between us a secret. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
• “It wasn’t your business. I’ve known Caitlin a long time, dude. That was between us.” And with that response, my understanding of my relationship with TJ, and my beliefs in general about loyalty and friendship, were unseated.
• But I didn’t know it. At that time I was grateful to be back in the fold, back in his confidence, and I took it as a sign of friendship that he was honest with me, though I would find out later that his honesty was only partial, and so a further betrayal. We bowled, we wrote, we toured, we finished the record we had started.
• It was perhaps a year later, Uncle Daddy was playing an acoustic show at Hotel Café, when I first saw Adelaide. While we were preforming, she and I caught eyes for one exquisite, painfully brief moment, but from that moment throughout the evening I was aware of her like gravity. She came to Swingers after the show, where the band and some of our friends were having a meal, and though I tried surreptitiously to end up at the same table as her, I failed. It wasn’t until everyone was ready to head home that I finally had the opportunity to speak with her. We were donning our scarves and coats, standing up from the table when I moved stand next to her. Facing her obliquely I said, “We’ve been near each other all night, but we haven’t met. I’m Noah.”
• Her hair was raven and fell long and straight down her chest and back, her skin was translucent and coral and rose. Her eyes, which were slightly too far apart, sparkled blue like calm waters in sunlight. Her eyelashes were impossibly long. She wore a hound’s-tooth pea coat, and after adjusting the billowy scarf around her neck, she shoved her hands in the pockets of the jacket and looked at me. She was perfect.
• “Oh. I’m Adelaide,” and her cheeks raised as a smile creased her eyes, her red, red, red lips parted so that two rows of toothpaste-commercial white teeth showed. She had a dimple on her right cheek. She was perfect. And that was all that was spoken.
• Tj left the church almost exactly a year later, and at his last 6pm service as a Worship Leader, I noticed Adelaide sitting in a pew in the rear of the sanctuary. I sat in the pew in front of her, and made an opportunity to speak with her after the service. We sat on the pews and talked for too long- about The Hunger Games mostly, but about anything and everything that would come up. We had a chemistry that was tentative, playful, like static electricity in your favorite blanket. We friended on Facebook and she sent me a private message, saying that any time I wanted to talk about The Hunger Games, about anything really, she’d be down. So we set a coffee date for the following week.
• We sat at Intelligentsia on Abbot Kinney in Venice the next Tuesday morning and talked about all the things. She was married, but unfulfilled. I was single, but happy. She was an Aesthetician like my mother and was best friends with Megan Fox. She was in yoga pants and a loose fitting sweatshirt. It wasn’t a date, but we had an unrelenting connection. My friendship with Sacha as justification, I told myself I could be friends with her.
• For those of you who are unfamiliar, The Hunger Games is a post-apocalyptic, dystopian future trilogy with a heroine named Katniss. In addition to saving the world, one of the many plot points she has to navigate is deciding between two suitors- Peetah, and Gayle. Much like Twilight fans, readers became obsessed with this part of the book, even though it took up relatively little of the overarching story. “Are you Team Peetah or Team Gayle?” Adelaide asked me that first Sunday night at Bel Air.
• I shrugged. “I’m a dude; I never gave it much thought. I was more curious than I was rooting for one or the other.” I went on to tell her what I thought was actually important about the book. Just like a dude, I missed the subtext entirely.
• On her second cup of Intelligentsia’s third wave French press, she brought that question back to the conversation. She was more earnest this time and so I indulged her. During her first cup, she had told me about her relationship with her husband; she married too young, and she knew her on her wedding day that he was wrong for her. Not because he was bad, but because he was good- stalwart, patient, kind. Adelaide told me she was none of these things. She was broken, messy, prone to dark, existential depressions, and manic, fitful obsessions. There were parts of her that he would never understand, or at least she never believed he would. So when she brought the question back up, I started to probe. She spoke of Peetah and Gayle with uncommon insight, reading too deeply into the characters. When she started describing Gayle- wild, dangerous, self-possessed- it snapped into focus for me. When she finished her fitful soliloquy, she looked at me with an almost accusatory question burning in her eyes.
• “You’re Team Gayle, but you married Peetah.” I said.
• She looked at me stunned, lips pulled back in a mirthless grin. She put her cup of coffee down, leaned back in her chair and looked at me. I had gone too far, too soon, exposing a wound she had kept hidden for a long time. I relented, slightly, and tried to ask more questions, but now that the light was let in, she was determined to keep illuminating what had been so long a secret. We talked for too long, again, until walked her to her car, where we exchanged numbers with a promise to do this again, soon.
• We started texting regularly. My text-tone was the signature iPhone “ding,” and whenever it sounded my heart expanded almost imperceptibly in my chest. I took her to House of Thai Taste, where we had the best Roasted Duck Curry in Los Angeles. We got Brazilian Churascaria. She came to my place, and helped me pick out curtains at Ross. She sat obsessively cleaning a red candle-wax stain on my carpet that had been there since the previous Christmas, when I fell asleep on the couch with the candle still burning. She would drink 12 cups of coffee and smoke cigarettes while we talked and talked and talked and talked. We fell in love- a primordial, mystic sea of emotion that tossed me about like the broken pieces of a sunken ship. And while my heart burned in my chest, I never touched her except when we said hello or goodbye, which I always and never wanted to do. Until I did touch her.
• We were sitting on opposite sides my couch late one evening, both leaning back and facing each other. I have no idea what we were talking about when she looked passed me and said, “What’s wrong with your lamp?” I looked behind me at the lamp Sacha had given me, which was in perfect working order, and looked back at her confused. She sat up, climbed up on her knees and leaned forward over me so that her face was inches from mine, reached up and turned out the light. “That’s better,” she said quietly. I rose to meet her lips, sitting all the way up I enfolded her in my arms and lifted her to a standing position as we kissed furiously, as if making up for lost time- time we had wasted, time we would never have, time that was never ours to have in the first place. I took her to my bed with an intensity I never thought possible. We were violent, wild, insatiable. She stayed till daybreak. We didn’t sleep at all.
• My affair with a married woman lasted about a month, and TJ was the only person I could talk to about it. And I told him everything.
• Shortly after it ended, Caitlin and Sacha finally told each other their stories. Then they came to me. Then they went to the church, and things started to fall apart. I had stopped attending Bel Air regularly some time previous, and TJ had already resigned, so we muddled our way through and missed the vast majority of shrapnel. I tried to remain a good friend to TJ through the process, but my loyalties had shifted- not toward anyone, but rather away from everyone. I would eventually leave Uncle Daddy, under the pretext of needing to be a solo artist and not a sideman.
• In the year that followed my leaving, I released an album called Mad King, a 5-song poem about Tj, Adelaide, and the darkness that attended my heart so diligently during that season. I also found Emily and began Anchor + Bell, which would be the great joy of my artistic career. Sacha eventually remarried and had a beautiful baby girl. Adelaide also remarried, but I never spoke to her again. Angela moved to Nashville and back to LA and back to Nashville again, eventually leaving music and acting to do make-up. TJ signed a record deal with Sony Extreme, and brought Caitlin in to start a guy/girl a duo called The Rigs. He and I haven’t spoken in 3 years.

Toward the end of my time in Uncle Daddy, I had a conversation I had with my friend and producer Eric Berdon that was totally unexpected and hit me like a ton of bricks.

Eric had produced an EP for me called 6s & 7s, on which were songs about Caitlin and Sacha and Angela. He’d been with me through the whole process, knew everyone involved, and while he always supported my decisions, he had very strong feelings about me leaving the band; he’d been pushing me to do it for a long time.

Eric and I had a habit of finishing our recording sessions early and heading out to his porch, where he’d smoke a cigar and we’d drink scotch and talk about what was wrong with the world, levy our opinions about movies and books, and ask each other for advice about things that mattered. After the record was finished and his evenings had started to get busy with another artist, we took to lunches once a week. He was a vegan and so only a few restaurants would work, and we frequented them often, and rather than splitting the bill each week, we just took turns paying.

One week, he and I were having trouble getting our schedules together. We kept having to move the date and time, and since he was going away for a long weekend, I suggested we just push to the following week. He was adamant about getting together before he left though, so we settled on a Thursday at 11:30am. We were the first two people in El Mariachi, and our server was surprised when Eric ordered two Cadillac Margaritas.

“Celebrating,” he said. She raised an eyebrow and smiled.

‘What are we celebrating?” I asked, she walked away.

“Cadillac Margaritas before noon, that’s reasons enough to celebrate.”

We talked about all of the usual stuff- music, church, His daughter who he’d been seeing less and less of, and we split an order of veggie fajitas, which came out popping and sizzling, adding to the celebration. We finished eating and Eric ordered us a pair of Tecates and asked for the bill. When the bill came he grabbed, slipped his card into the sleeve and handed it back.

“Dude,” I said. “It’s my turn to pay.”

“I know,” he responded, “I’m buying your silence.” I blinked.

“Do you know me?” I was incredulous. “There’s not enough fajitas in the world to shut me up.”

“Well,” he said, “you’re gonna have to keep this quiet. I’m getting engaged this weekend. I mean, if she says yes.” I was doubly incredulous.

Eric and Emily had been dating for a while. In the early years at First Pres Santa Monica, they’d carpool to church to play with me on Sundays, and started working together on some music outside of church. They had assured me that they were just friends until one evening, at a show of mine, Eric asked me to put him on the list plus one, saying he might bring a girl he’d been seeing. When they showed up together I asked him where the new girl was. When all he did was smile, I realized what he meant, and in a pure and unadulterated expression of surprise and joy, I slapped him across the face. Years later, when over oysters and Cakebread Chardonnay, he told me they were pregnant, he and Emily had money on whether or not I’d slap him again.

As I sat across from him at El Mariachi, I was more surprised than anything else.

“I thought you said you weren’t interested in marriage until things settled down with Holiday and your ex?” Holiday is his daughter.

“I know. Things have been pretty hectic, but she’s been there through all of it- keeping me honest, keeping me sane.”

“Your anchor,” I offered.

“Nah,” he shook his head, “She’s been keeping me afloat.”

We had carpooled, and after lunch he drove us back to his place where my car was parked. We got out of the car, hugged, and I wished him all the luck I knew he wouldn’t need. I got in my car as he walked inside, and before I left I took stock of everything that I had learned about friendship over that year. Against the flood of things TJ never told me, Eric stood in stark contrast. I sat in my car and cried.

They got married in Florence, and Steve and Louise gifted me points for the flight so I could make it. I played “La Vie En Rose” at the ceremony, and for the first dance, I sang the song I wrote for them after that lunch with Eric, “Anchor.”

You are the anchor / you are the sea

All the while I felt life drifting, you were holding me

You are my anchor / you are the sea

Jealousy

As a child, meal times were always my favorite times. Hot lunches at the cafeteria or sandwiches my mother packed for me with handwritten notes on napkins, Honey Nut Cheerios for breakfast or Chicken & Dumplings for dinner… I just loved food. And in my house, as in many, we had to finish our plates before we could be excused from the table. Usually that wasn’t a big deal; you didn’t have to tell me twice to eat more. But sometimes I would want to go back outside and play while it was still light out, and my mother would admonish me to finish using the age old, argument: there are starving children in Africa, finish your meal. I’m pretty sure this statement never had an effect on me. Nothing about children starving in Africa held consequence over me eating my mother’s dry Jambalaya in Houston, TX.

But that tactic seems to permeate our culture. As grown ups, we shame each other for complaining about so called “first world problems,” or in response to someone’s issue of having too much on their plate we say “those are good problems to have.” But those statements never hold sway over our feelings, they just add to them some level of shame about having feelings in the first place. We can’t shame ourselves out of having feelings; our hearts, our brains, just don’t work that way.

I’m incapable of feeling relatively. The misfortune of others never makes me feel better about my fortune. But the inverse is strangely very effective: someone else’s prosperity often has a way of making me feel worse about my poverty. There are plenty of people in my life whom I love and whose success makes me feel better about the world, but there are those whom I deem, in my petty, mean heart, as unworthy of their success, and in that I feel worse about myself.

What I’ve learned about my feelings though, my emotions, is that they’re not my best tool for discerning reality. However, they are a very important part of learning about myself, and in learning about myself I’m often, though not always, able to see a reality that exists beyond my own ego. It’s what my friend Bay calls “zooming out;” consistently searching for the larger context in which we exist; learning to view our emotions with curiosity, rather than being a slave to them.

There have been many moments in my life when the pettiness of my heart has been made obvious to me, but few as scathing as when I found out TJ and Caitlin had started a duo. My former band mate and former lover, with whom I’d spent countless hours making music and doing life together, began their project about a year after I started Anchor + Bell, and they already had the support of a label behind them. The first songs they released were in commercials for my favorite TV shows, Parenthood and Walking Dead, among others. TJ always had a way of taking the best of what I had to offer, and for the length of my relationship with him I attributed that to his strong leadership skills- surrounding himself with talented people and inspiring them to do good work. But this felt different.

Anchor + Bell was the first project I’d ever had that elicited the same response from its audience as it did from me. I was in love with the music we made, and those who heard us loved it too. We signed to a big league manager, Joe Simpson, and went to Nashville to take meetings with publishers, labels, and agents, who all responded with obvious enthusiasm about the project. But we had to build our brand before we could enter into any relationships, so we were in a long cycle of recording and releasing cover songs to YouTube and Spotify, while playing small shows and recording an album with our Grammy nominated producer Jon Kaplan. And while we were doing that, Tj & Cait, as they called themselves, synched song after song in television shows and commercials, a racket Anchor + Bell just couldn’t seem to break into.

The moment that set me ablaze was when I found out, on Facebook, that Tj & Cait were playing Live in The Vineyard, a major concert series set in my hometown of Napa, CA. I received not a phone call or text from either of them about it before, during, or after their trip. They had taken my idea to my hometown for an event with famous chefs and winemakers and other musical artists. It was messing me up, and late one night in a fit of masochism, I spent hours scouring their socials, looking for other ways they were succeeding and making it look so easy.

But Anchor + Bell was not the first male/female duo to make music. And further, Tj and Caitlin had been singing together long before I auditioned to be in the Bel-Air Worship band. I was the interloper. And yet here I was, writhing over the perceived successes of my former colleagues, my former friends. No longer having something that was never mine in the first place was a further reminder of my self-possession. I knew that, but it didn’t change the way it felt.

Jealousy can be a good thing- I’m jealous for great music, for beauty, and goodness; I want the world to be full of it. But jealously becomes toxic the moment one person’s heart claims ownership over another, or when anyone lays claim to an open-source media, like art. We own nothing in this world. But we’re responsible for stewarding the things that have been lent to us: our talents, our time, our people, our lives. And as we steward them well, what benefits another can benefit all, if we can “zoom out.”

I’m still seething over Tj & Cait, and I don’t know exactly what will heal me- certainly time has had little effect. But while we can’t control our feelings, we can control our actions, and so I’m focusing on that, reminding myself often of that Lent so many years ago, repeating the mantra: don’t be an asshole, Noah.

I would rather learn than be right. Not that I prefer being wrong, but leaning into personal interactions with an intent to learn, rather than teach or proselytize, has long been a driving force in my relationships, in my life. I’m as opinionated as the next person, perhaps more, but about 7 years ago, I gave up being an asshole for Lent, and what I learned in those 40 days has really stuck with me.

I should mention, before that Lent, I was still lovable. Mostly. It’s just that I would sometimes level my uncoated opinion without an ear to how it would be heard, but rather with a belief that it needed to be said. Having had an asshole for an older brother, unfettered criticism was pretty much how I experienced love, and I wanted to love the world, so I naturally assumed that this was the way to do it. I was the asshole friend- and you either loved me for telling the truth or you weren’t my friend. It served as a fantastic filter, ensuring that all my people were thick skinned and had great senses of humor. But while I was and am a deeply introspective person, I had never truly examined that portion of my ‘personality,’ it was just a role I fell into naturally. What better time to explore it than 40 days of communal fasting?

The Tuesday night before Lent started, I was at a friend’s house celebrating Mardi Gras with ugly beaded necklaces and split pea soup. The whole gang knew what I was giving up, and their collective feeling was a mixture of “yeah right” and “thank God.” It was a potluck type hang, and while I don’t remember what I brought, I do remember what Caitlin brought: her “famous” Spinach and Artichoke Dip. I remember it because it was awful, and standing in the kitchen with TJ, Angela, and Dave, I said so.

“Can we all agree that Caitlin’s dip is terrible?” All three of them burst into laughter.

“I guess it’s not Lent yet.” TJ said.

I was surprised by that response- the dip had no recognizable spinach or artichoke; it was a grainy, overly salted, green-grey soup in a chewy, day-old bread bowl. Why was I the only one of our friends that would admit it? It’s not like I said it to Caitlin’s face. It was then I realized that I might not be fully aware of what I was getting myself into.

It took about a week to truly settle into my fast, as I learned over and over again how many times in a day I had the opportunity to show the world that “love” I was so accustomed to giving. In conversation after conversation, on the tip of my tongue would be a witty retort or an “honest observation” which I would have to curb, pausing to examine it before I let it loose in the room. And almost invariably, as I was deciding if my words would edify, the moment would pass and I would miss my chance to talk at all. Turns out, not being an asshole ultimately boiled down to just talking less.

It was January 19th that my back started hurting, and didn’t stop until I woke up from surgery on July 20th. I had been on the road for months; most of my days included driving 3–4 hours and then getting on stage, and I didn’t take any time to stretch or exercise. When I flew to Colorado Springs the morning of the 18th my back was sore, but we were loading in PA equipment when the acute pain started. I would find out 5 months later that I had severely herniated my l4-l5 disc. I was 31, and it was the first time I’d ever had a pain pill in my life. By the way thank God for hydrocodone.

I managed to get through the weekend event, barefoot when on stage and in bed the rest of the time, icing or heating my back, elevating my legs, and taking a pill every 4 hours on the dot. My band was incredible- I would hobble to the stage and my drummer Nick would reach down and grab my guitar for me; they’d bring food to my room and make sure I was as comfortable as possible; Nicole, my piano player, sang an entire set in my place. I was so grateful for them at the time, but more than that, I was proud of my people- the kind of people who watch and care and step-up when needed.

The pain pills were probably the one thing that allowed me to be a good person despite the pain. I remember sitting side stage between sets, and watching my violist Miguel play an improvised solo piece, being aware of my pain but not a slave to it. I could focus on Miguel’s exquisite artistry and musicianship instead of succumbing to the fear that the pain would kill me, like I would come June, sleepless for 48 hours and sobbing.

I’ve taken on the role of caretaker in the majority of my relationships. I want to be the guy who shows up when you need help moving, who brings food when you’re sick, who you call when you need an ear, or a voice to tell you everything is going to be ok. When I got hurt, I couldn’t do any of that. Even worse, I was the one in need. One evening I was on the phone with a colleague, singer and actor Stephanie Lynn. I apologized for having to cancel a writing session, and was laughing as I told her I couldn’t even do my laundry. She didn’t laugh. Instead she said she’d be by in the morning to pick up my laundry. Keep in mind Stephanie was not a close friend at this point, she was a colleague, someone I’d written with and produced music for. When she said that she was going to come pick up my dirty laundry I burst into tears, not because I was so moved, but because I realized I really needed it. I told her she didn’t have to, voice cracking as I was trying to hold back the emotion, but she told me not to be silly and that she’d see me in the morning. When I hung up, I put the phone down and sobbed.

Even though I was utterly undone, my very identity taken from me, with nothing to offer of myself, an almost stranger came to my house to do my laundry. Denny & Megan White brought dinner over and ate with me. Bo & Karen, my neighbors, came by often to bring me food and check on me. The deacons at First Pres Santa Monica sent flowers and cards. My little brother Jeremy, one night when the pain was overwhelming, drove me to the ER at 2am, and waited there as I got my first hours of sleep in days, on a gurney, after the doctor gave me a healthy dose of Dilaudid. The next morning I had an appointment to see Dr. Moshe Wilker, a well respected orthopedic surgeon in West LA, and Jeremy drove me to that too, after virtually no sleep himself. You may think that would make me feel good- receiving love and care from so many people. But instead, at the root of me there was this holistic and permeating humiliation: I couldn’t take care of myself. And as it turns out, humiliation is worse than a broken heart.

Through all of this, my mind kept returning to the book Tuesdays With Morrie. The story revolves around a man who visits an ailing professor from his days in college, and in the professor’s increasing decrepitude, he had to accept help from his former student in more and more humiliating ways- help eating, help going to the bathroom, help wiping himself afterward. In the story, the way Morrie accepted that help created an opportunity for a much deeper connection between he and his old pupil, and the grace and humor with which they both went through those times was what kept coming to my mind, 10 years after reading it. I wanted to be that gracious. I wanted everyone who offered to help to feel not only appreciated, but loved and cared for in return. I wanted to accept help in such a way that elevated the helper.

I don’t think I succeeded. I would need a lot more practice, and a lot more wisdom, to have done so. But I found out something that still rings true in my life, years later: The root of grace, is humility. I kept thinking that humiliation was the worst thing a person can experience, but that was the wrong perspective. I was mining too much validation from taking care of myself and others; so much so, that it became not only part of my identity, but largely how I measured my self-worth. But that was taken away, and all I had to offer was a “thank you” to those who loved me not for what I could do, but simply for who I was… as if those were two different things. But it seems they are. And all that humiliation, which stripped me of my self-appraised value, gave me something in return that I did not expect: gratitude.

My freshman year in High School, most of my friends from middle school were on the football team; it’s what was expected of everyone. I, having zero desire to play football, joined the wrestling team to appease my friends and my own worried sense of manliness. In my first meet, I lost to an imposing 189lb junior. After the first round, I came off the mat and asked my coach to tape up my pinky, which had gotten jammed. The upper classmen who were cheering me on informed me that if I did tape my finger, my opponent was sure to go for it, ensuring that I’d get hurt worse. As a piano player and guitarist, I was non-plussed. When the match ended, pinned in the second round, I walked off the mat choking back tears. I hated losing, was humiliated. But my coach, Nacho, who was strong, youthful and charismatic, grabbed me by the shoulders and made me look him in the eye

“I know you’re pissed,” he said, gracefully easing my humiliation and gifting me with a masculinity I didn’t feel. “We’ll get ’em next time.”

There was no next time. My father put on a musical at his church and I was singing, playing guitar and trumpet for him. When I told Nacho about the scheduling conflict he told me I couldn’t be on the team if I missed the meet. It wasn’t a decision for me- even at 15, music was my first love, and whatever got in the way inevitably lost. I felt heavy with the weight of I let him down, and he and the rest of the team let me know how disappointed they were in me. Over the years however, they all saw my passion and talent for music blossom, and to this day are fans of the music I make.

* * *

It was my sophomore year that I first heard the Napa High choir sing, and it was a revelation. It was a school assembly and most of my friends were groaning, but I was transfixed; I had never heard a school ensemble actually making music. As everyone was filing out of the auditorium, I walked up to the director, Travis Rogers, and told him I’d like to audition for the choir.

“There are no auditions for Men’s Choir,” he said stoically, “just talk to the counselor about your schedule.”

“I don’t want to be in Men’s Choir,” I said, impetuous and unconcerned. “I want to be in Concert Choir.” There were over 200 kids in the Concert Choir, and they toured the world winning awards at contests and festivals. Travis raised an eyebrow behind his plastic rimmed coke-bottle glasses.

“Alright,” he said. “See me in the music office at lunch today.”

I canceled my plans and met him for a 10-minute audition. We went into the music library and Travis sat at the piano while I sang a cappella, matched pitches, repeated musical phrases, read music, and thanked him for giving me the opportunity. He looked at me with his curious squint and said, “Concert Choir meets Third Period; you’ll need to be at every after school rehearsal and performance; your grade depends on it. Do you have Third Period free?”

I smiled. “I’ll make sure of it.”

“See you Monday,” he said curtly and walked out of the room.

By Christmas I was in the Chamber Choir, 40 or so Juniors and Seniors who were the core of the whole program. Junior year I joined Vocal Music Workshop, the show choir, playing guitar. My Senior year, in addition to VMW, Concert, and Chamber Choirs, I was in a barbershop quartet, Men’s choir, played guitars and hand drums for the women’s choirs, and was Travis’ assistant conductor. The spring concert my senior year, I was apart of all 7 choirs that performed.

Over 400 kids were in the choir program, almost a quarter of the student population, and though I was never one of the popular kids- I didn’t play sports, wasn’t rich or good looking- I was still nominated for Homecoming King. I didn’t win of course.

In my life, I’ve found that real community, real tribe, is born of common efforts, shared goals, and what happens in the trenches working toward those goals. When trying to achieve lofty things, people start to polarize around you- naysayers and cheerleaders, helpers and hinderers. Sometimes the same person can oscillate. When I first decided to move to Los Angeles, my Dad and Step-mom, who have always been my biggest fans, were die-hard in their opposition. I wasn’t ready, I didn’t have a plan or enough money saved, I was being childish, impetuous. They went as far as to cut off money for school- money which I was never entitled to, but which they nevertheless had promised to put toward my education. (Later, at my Step-mom’s urging, they took over my student loans from that period, intent on keeping their word, and also desiring to help me in a life they saw as increasingly fruitful.) But the people with whom you’re in those trenches, whose boots are muddy with the same soil, who’ve seen who you are in your truest, darkest, most heroic moments- these people make up a tribe that girds you throughout your life, both inside and outside the trench.

I was introduced to Jon Kaplan, Grammy Nominated Mixer and Producer, through one of his closest friends, Mike Shimshack. Shack was also a producer, and he was in LA to work with another artist under our manager, Joe Simpson, (of Jessica & Ashley Simpson fame.) I walked in to Joe’s penthouse apartment, on the beach just north of Santa Monica pier, to find him playing Anchor + Bell, my guy/girl duo, on full blast. Shack loved it, and we made plans to write that evening at our studio in Woodland Hills. After a Maker’s & Diet, or two, which Joe literally had on tap, and a lot of music listening, I left to finish my errands for the day and head home. Shack called me with an idea later that afternoon.

“Hey man, I’ve been thinking- I’m staying at my buddy Kaplan’s place. He’s a killer writer and producer and would be a good guy for you to connect with. He’s free this evening and down to write with us. You in?”

“Yeah man. Send me the address and Emily and I will be there with bells on.”

That evening, Emily and I had our first co-write as a duo. Up to that point everything we had written, we had done just the two of us. Even our record had only one other musician on it, whom I hired and worked with without Emily in the studio. We got to the Kaplan’s house in the Hollywood Hills, which was large and beautifully appointed, and met Jon’s wife Rana, who at the time was a VP of Operations at Capitol Records, and his 11 year old son, Rex, an aviation enthusiast and sports fanatic. Rana was in torn jeans and a Led Zeppelin t-shirt, with a kind hospitality and a “don’t f*%$ with me” vibe; Rex was watching an LA Kings game wearinga Dodgers baseball cap, already embracing their newish California lifestyle, after Rana had been relocated from New York to LA a year prior. I loved everything about this place, and these people.

We walked out to the studio, which was in the backyard, and started in right away. Emily and I played a few of our songs for both Kap and Shack, and we got a bead on what kind of song we’d want to write together. It was a slow process, full of fits and starts, restarts and overhauls; some songs come easy, but we earned the song we wrote that night. We recorded a room-mic scratch demo and called it a night. Shimshack headed back to Nashville, and left it to us to finish firming up the details and record the song for real. Over the next couple weeks Kaplan and I got together and spoke often about the production, and fell quickly into a rhythm. We decided we should write again, and so we did, and then we wrote another, and another.

When it was finally time for Anchor + Bell to record our next record, we had Kap over to my place for beers and grilled chicken, to write a song and talk about who should produce the record. We had several names in mind, and we were thinking big since we had a big name manager.

“Oh I should produce it.” He said bluntly, and let that hang in the air. I wasn’t surprised, per say, but I wasn’t quite expecting that response.

“Well alright,” Emily and I said collectively.

In our first pre-production meeting, we met at the studio to play him the records we had been listening to, and share our vision for what our record could sound like. I kid you not, 8 out of the 10 records we shared with him, he’d had a direct or indirect involvement with. I’d say ‘I love the sonics on this record,’ to which he’d respond, ‘Yeah I mixed that.’ Emily would say ‘I love how the vocals sound on this record,’ and Kap would say ‘Yeah I produced that record… I engineered that record… I’m in a band with that guy… I produced their previous record…” It was unbelievable. All these records that I loved, Jon Kaplan had made or helped make. I hadn’t realize it, but I was probably his biggest fan. But I had the benefit of getting to know him without the fanfare or accolades- he was just Kap to me. Sharp witted, unaffected, unimpressed, a usurping sense of humor that stole the self-importance from any moment, he was the hyper-aware overseer of things, the reductionist who forgot a long time ago what romance felt like. But he was making records that I loved, and so during that meeting my respect for him grew, and my excitement about the project did too: I was about to make a record that I would love.

So we decided on songs and set to work. On our first day in the studio, Kap and I sat down to work on a song called “Miss You.” He sat at the desk programming a drum loop to go along with a piano that Emily had already recorded. It wasn’t my first rodeo, and so I sat on the couch quietly observing, allowing my thoughts to collect around me, before I offered any input. After about 20 minutes, I made a suggestion.

“Can we lose the second kick drum in the pattern? It’s making it swing a little too hard.”

Kap slowly turned around in his chair, right ankle on left knee, elbow resting hard on the armrest and hand on his chin. He said deliberately, “Can you let me finish a fucking thought? If this is what it’s gonna be like making a record with you, it’s really gonna suck.”

I blinked. I’m positive that up to that point in my life, I’d never suffered a verbal accosting like that without my hackles rising and my skin turning hot. But for whatever reason, I felt neither shame nor frustration. Perhaps I felt a slight disappointment because I thought it was a good note to give, but none of the “screw this guy” type feeling I probably should have had. Instead, inexplicably and by no virtue of my own, I was calm.

“Sure man, I get it. Keep at it.” I was almost appalled at myself, but Kap turned around to work again, and instead of continuing to complain, he immediately started explain what his thought process was as he was working. It was like two bears stood on their hind legs and looked each other in the eye, each sizing the other up, and then instead of fighting, went back to fishing together. Over the course of making that record, Kap and I went from co-writers to colleagues, from colleagues to friends, from friends to partners on almost every creative project we were involved in, and this past year I rented their guest bedroom, cooked and cleaned and helped Jon & Rana through one of the very toughest seasons of their lives. I left for Nashville 4 weeks ago. Kap and I text almost every day, and Rex & Rana face-timed me last night because they miss me. And I miss them.

I was 21 when I decided to quit college. I had not opted for a traditional college experience in the first place, so it shouldn’t have been a surprise to me that I quit before I got my degree, but it was. Point Loma Nazarene University, where I went to school my freshman year, was not only a gorgeous campus, but the girls who went to school there were unbelievably beautiful. Loma was the obvious choice. Until I got there and realized that it wasn’t. (Honestly, how can any 18 year-old make an intelligent decision about higher education with only a short campus visit and the hope of a hot girlfriend?) Mostly, as I was coming to realize exactly how much of my heart was already given over to music, I found the music department at PLNU underwhelming. They did a few things exceptionally well, but not the things I was looking for. So I left. And instead of finding a music program to adhere to, I did my music studies the old way: I apprenticed under several great musicians. I traveled from one coast to the other and back, studying with brilliant musicians and educators at 4 different colleges, ending up in Los Angeles. But after only one year in LA, I had come to the end of my music studies- I had no more music classes to take and still 2.5 years of general-eds left. I realized then why people don’t do higher education this way.

At my then girlfriend’s urging, I was reading The Fountainhead, (a spectacular and important book for any young artist,) and in the very first chapters of the book, our main character is expelled from the architectural school he is attending. He’s remarkably unconcerned about it, mostly because he knows he has nothing left to learn from his teachers. He then goes on to live a very difficult and complicated life, which at times is undeniably beautiful and fulfilling, and still at other times heart breaking and hopeless. Whatever the outcome, I realized, that was the life I wanted, and somehow, in her flawed and self-possessed logic, Ayn Rand gave me permission to pursue it. I was at my girlfriend’s place when I was on my final pages of the book, and she asked me to read the last page to her aloud. Ever the performer, I obliged. The final page of that book is basically one run-on sentence in which the author describes our main character riding an elevator upwards. Rand is prone to this sort of diatribe. She names almost every building in New York that the elevator rises above, and after a minute I get the point and say “yadah yadah yadah…” as I skim down the page to the next pertinent idea. Megan stopped me and said, “Don’t do that. Read it as the author wrote it.” So, begrudgingly, I did. A funny thing happened as I read through the almost comically long list: I saw Rand’s point. He wasn’t just riding an elevator in a building he designed, he wasn’t just rising above the city; he was transcending it. I finished the last sentence and looked up at her in amazement and appreciation. She smiled at me and said, “You read a book.”

Reading a book, writing a song, making a meal, finishing a workout, getting out of bed- all these things seem so small in the moment, but here’s the thing: how you spend your moments is how you spend your days, and how you spend your days is how you live your life.

Marianne Williamson said once that we’re not truly afraid of failure, but rather that we’re actually afraid of success. I’ve heard people say that so many times, meme it and post and share the quote over a pretty picture, but I can’t help but think that it’s complete bullshit. Perhaps we have a penchant for self-sabotage, but that’s not from fear of success. As long as we stay out of the ring, as long as we don’t give it our all, we can always claim the reason for our failure as a choice, saying, “I wish I really went for it.” Because let’s face it- actually giving your best and failing means you’re required to acknowledge your shortcoming, and often in a spectacularly public forum. Being a musician, I have seen this over and over. My heroes have almost all one by one fallen off the mountain, and taken up the mantle of a more reasonable life.

The first glass of wine I ever truly enjoyed was a Merlot, sitting on the back porch at Bay’s house. The wine was made by Bay’s father, Kirk, from the 3 acres of vines behind the 100 year-old barn on their property. Dr. Kirk Reid was a family physician in Napa, and Karen, his wife, ran the office for his sizeable practice. Bay was the youngest of three, and became my friend the way he became everyone’s friend- he walked up to me as a complete stranger and made me feel like I mattered. I joined choir in high school almost entirely at his suggestion, and he and I were inseparable during my sophomore and junior years. He was a year ahead of me in school, but in life, he was much farther. Bay was 5’6”, with watery blue eyes and a Norse blonde tousle of hair that was always expertly coifed, would go home with unattainable girls not because he was tall or good looking, but because he was fearless. Or he would go home alone with no bitterness; “Can’t win ’em all, Needleman.” He taught me how to sing harmony, how to perform, how to light up a room and empower people to be themselves. I was in awe of Bay at most times, and it showed. I think even Bay knew it, and that’s why he spent so much time with me. I was convinced that Bay would conquer the world. But ultimately, that rock star life I aspired to was not Bay’s dream. Studying music at University of Miami sucked the joy out of it for him, and when he came home, he bounced around a bit before finally settling into the wine business. And the same wine that his father once made for fun, Bay now sells by the case, making a visit to Reid Family Vineyards one of Napa’s truly special experiences.

Tony is an actor. He’s been a guest star on countless TV shows, including Ghost Whisperer, and How To Get Away With Murder, but most fun was watching him in JJ Abrams’ Star Trek reboot. Tony is one of my closest friends- we’ve spent many holidays together, I hosted his bachelor party and officiated his wedding to Leena, and we went away together for a weekend after he spent a harrowing 72 hours in the psych ward at an LA County hospital during a rough bout with OCD. But we hated each other when we first met working as servers at The Cheesecake Factory, a job I’m simultaneously embarrassed by, and very grateful to have had.

Tony is uncommonly handsome- strong square jaw covered in a perpetual shadow, thick eyebrows over deep set dark eyes, with a resonant baritone speaking voice that sometimes cracks when telling a story, but rings with bell-like tones when he sings. His Arnold impression is spot on, and the way his chin quivers when he simulates crying is disarming in the most surprising way. I’ll often ask him to sing American pop songs in Spanish, which he does with a twinkle in his eye while I laugh and laugh. But despite all his bravado and Latin machismo, he’s always suffered from a lack of self-confidence, which manifests itself like arrogance in a man as good looking as Tony. Myself on the other hand, I actually was arrogant in my time at The Cheesecake Factory. I had been trained as a server at a fine-dining restaurant in the Napa Valley, and though I needed my gig at The Cheesecake Factory, I resented it. While most of the servers complained about poor tips, but I’d boast about a 20% tip average and piss off everyone I worked with, including Tony.

It wasn’t until one Saturday evening, to help pass the time the staff was casting each other in a fictional Bond film. I think I ended up cast as either the villain or the villain’s main henchman, which I was happy about. But standing at the line, grabbing plates to bring to a table, I looked at Tony, sized him up and said, “You’d definitely be Bond.” He looked up at me in open surprise.

“Really?” he said, obviously flattered.

To me, it wasn’t a compliment; the Hero is usually the least interesting character in the story. But seeing how it affected him, his superior attitude pulled into focus for me and I saw him for who he was- gentle, sensitive, hopeful. And while I wasn’t trying to compliment him, I was grateful he took it that way; we can trace our entire friendship back to that moment. I’ve been cheering Tony on since then, celebrating his films and mourning the missed chances. But the misses have weighed on Tony, soft hearted as he is, and over the years he’s had to find things that are more emotionally rewarding to pour himself into. I once heard Mickey Roark describe acting as so lonely as to be likened to hauling a load of bricks to a building site, only to come back and see the building finished a year later. So even when Tony did get cast, I don’t think the work was satisfying enough to keep him going. He took up Kenpo as a marketable acting skill, but it quickly turned into a passion. Now Tony has taken a step back from acting and is focusing on practicing and teaching the martial art, and he’s more fulfilled, and more himself. Also his physique is getting ridiculous.

So Tony and Bay have found their lane, and aspire to a greatness that is less public than they original dreamed. They dared greatly, and found out they weren’t as well suited to path they were on, but in their failures, they found themselves. Chasing your dreams puts you on a winding, crooked road that constantly offers opportunities to turn around and find new paths. There’s nothing wrong about taking one of these off ramps. John Mayer used to say that it was his failure to be Jimi Hendrix that revealed his own voice. But sometimes, sticking it out pays off.

“Sleep Without You” went to number one on Country Radio November 28th, 2016. 18 months earlier, Brett Young inked a deal with Big Machine Label Group. 11 years before that, Brett’s promising Baseball career ended in a debilitating injury. He was a server, a bar tender, a personal trainer, all while playing music in bars, restaurants, and hotels. He wears his 6’6” athletic frame with benevolence, towering over his friends but never looming. He talks loud, gestures broadly, drinks too much, and lavishes his good nature on everyone in his life. He’s a fun-pusher. Brett is easily one of my favorite songwriters, with an ability to cut right to the heart with the simplest of lyrics. In songwriting sessions, he’ll shoot down any lyric that he wouldn’t say in regular conversation. “Too poetic” is a regular complaint from him. But despite his aversion to poetry, he manages to use poetic device in subversively intelligent ways. “Pretend I Never Loved You” was the song that made me a believer.

I’m gonna smoke anything that burns / drink anything they serve

set ’em up and knock ’em down and just forget you

I’ll go numb to all this hurt / drown the memory of what we were

In the bottom of this bottle if I have to / I’ll pretend I never loved you

Brett was a fan of my record 6s & 7s, but when he heard the Mad King EP he asked me to produce an acoustic record for him, as he made his crossover to Country music. Broken Down made it onto the iTunes top 100, and started him on what would be a relatively quick rise to Country Music stardom. The irony of all this is that I hate Country music. Up to that point, he’d always planted his music firmly in the Singer/Songwriter category, like John Mayer or Gavin DeGraw, influences we both had in common. But when Brett moved to Nashville, he set out to go full Country. He would send me three songs a month to produce demos for, and I kid you not, they were embarrassingly bad. He sent me songs with titles like “Sunday On The Lake,” trying so hard to assimilate into the current radio climate, what was called Bro Country. I hate the format wholly, but the songs Brett was sending were bad versions of a bad trend. I loved him, though, and he was paying me a bit, so I kept at it. But over time, his commitment to assimilate brought him beyond mere regurgitation of the current memes. He began writing songs that would work on the radio, but transcended the mere stylistic tendencies. Rather than assimilating himself into the genre, he assimilated the music into his own style- that true honesty that I fell in love with in the first place. And even though he was writing Country music, I fell in love with the songs he sent me. And I wasn’t the only one. He caught the ears of A&R Rep Laurel Kittelson, who brought his music to the label head Jimmy Harnen, with whom Brett would sign a multi-record deal. I’d say the rest is history, but with just one #1 under his belt, I think his story is just getting started.

We each of us have certain strong suits- talents or skills that we lean on in our lives. My mother was a singer, my father a guitarist, my aunt was a singer-songwriter, and my older brother played guitar too, so you can guess why music has always come easy to me. But there’s an issue with things that come easy: there will always come a point where to get better, you have to work. And you’d think, having had all the encouragement of that natural talent, it would be easy to dig in and do the hard work to overcome whatever plateau you’ve reached, but it’s not. When you haven’t needed the work ethic to achieve your current state, figuring out how to transcend it is like anyone’s guess. That how is the question that everyone wants answered quickly. We scan YouTube for tutorials and use our Phone-A-Friend lifeline, whatever it takes to find out how much work it will be, and if it’s worth it. But if you have a why, the questions of how become less of an obstacle, and more of an opportunity.

When I was 14, just learning how to play guitar, I was obsessed with Jimi Hendrix. I had an Olympic white Stratocaster just like he did, (purely coincidence, but I liked to think it was providence,) and I was learning how to play “Hey Joe.” It’s not the most difficult of his songs, but it’s not simple either. My older brother had a friend, Delaney, who was also a student of Hendrix. He had been kicked out of his house for one of the reasons teenage boys get kicked out of houses, and was sleeping in Adam’s room for a while. I remember sitting on the floor in the bedroom asking Delaney to show me how to play that song. He was patient enough with me as I fumbled through, intent on getting it right, even now I can feel my wide eyes and worried lower lip as I watched him model the part.

“Show me again,” I said. “Again.” … “One more time, please.”

He looked at me with glazed eyes and said thickly, “You’ll never be as good at guitar as me.”

I looked blankly back at him, blinked, and said, “Ok. Show me again?”

At the time, I was utterly unconcerned with being better than Delaney; I was concerned with being able to play that song. I was very competitive with my older brother, and trying to best him and earn his respect was a large part of my desire for growth. But while Delaney’s comment registered, it didn’t phase me in the slightest, as long as he’d keep teaching me what I needed to know. Years later, at 22, in the year I came back to Napa after college, I ran into Delaney at a party. He had a guitar in hand and was futzing around when he saw me.

“Needleman!” He said, too loud. “You still playing guitar?” He stretched out his arm to offer me his.

“Yeah man.” I took the guitar, sat down, and played the intro to “Little Wing,” another Hendrix song that’s much more beautiful, and more difficult, than “Hey Joe.”

He looked at me, then down at the guitar, then back up at me. “Holy shit,” he said.

When I was learning, I wasn’t worried about being better than Delaney, but there was an undeniable satisfaction in finding out that the time I had put in on the instrument had yielded such a fantastic come-uppance. That moment wasn’t the reason I put the time in though, it was a symptom of it. And the same is true for applause, and accolades.

Sitting on a bus with Shauna Niequist, speaker and bestselling author, heading back to the hotel after the wrap party for the 2016 Belong Tour, she told me she’d rather wrap cables and tear down the stage after a show than stand in a signing line.

“It stresses me out,” she said. “Why would you want to talk to me? I’d rather make sandwiches, or even clean toilets for people.” She understands that this is where she’s needed, that it’s part of the job, but I thought her stress was actually a symptom of a culture of false humility. Not false because people are fake, but because we haven’t taught humility correctly. So, after four Moscow mules and a two-champagne toast, I was sure Shauna wanted to hear exactly all of my thoughts on this.

“I was in choir when I was in high school,” I told her, “and most of the older classmen thought I was arrogant. But I never saw myself as more important than anyone else, and I never willfully put people down, I was just obsessed with making the music great. I sort of stepped on people because I didn’t see anyone else’s ego, I only saw a shared goal, a common cause. But I definitely saw how that focus lost me the support of the upper class-men, so I spent forever trying ‘put my ego in check.’ I started speaking softer and self-deprecating, and warred inside between my desire to do great things and still treat people in such a way to make them feel good about me. It wasn’t until much later, through years of intentioned thought and reflection that I came to a deep understanding of humility… only to find out that my newfound wisdom wasn’t new at all. I was so sure I had cracked one of humanities unbreakable codes until Curt Thompson said, ‘Oh yeah, that’s the basic understanding of humility the ancient Hebrews had.’ I was totally vindicated and totally annoyed. Couldn’t someone have told me this years ago? So here it is: true humility is an honest understanding of who you are, and who you are not.” Sometimes, in order to make one point I have to tell three stories. So I went on, and Shauna was attentive and thoughtful and responsive because she’s patient, and kind, and lovely.

“We get compliments everyday; it’s part of our job right?” She nodded. “Our daily lives include people clapping for us, and that totally goes against our basic Christian idea of humility. But here’s the thing, performing isn’t about demanding attention, it’s not about ‘watch me do this thing and then applaud me because I’m awesome.’ It’s about facilitating a moment. All of us, those on stage and those in the crowd, we’re in this thing together, this moment isn’t mine, it’s ours. And the applause aren’t the end goal, they’re the recognition of the moment we all shared.”

She nodded. “I like that; that makes sense to me.” I was on a roll so I kept at it.

“Ok so long way around, to come back to your original point: taking pictures and signing autographs isn’t about us, it’s about how we made people feel known. The moments we facilitate make people feel known, and so in turn they feel they know us, or that they want to know us, or at least to let us know they felt known. And it’s actually generous of you to stand there and take it. Maybe especially because it makes you uncomfortable.”

She, generous as ever, nodded her head and said, “Yeah I just hate that part of the job. I’d rather be wrapping cables.” No wonder people love her so.

“… the Grinch’s small heart grew three sizes that day.” –Dr. Suess

My mother told me once about talking to her mom when she was first pregnant with me. They were sitting together and my mom was expressing some doubts.

“I just love Adam so much,” she said. “I never thought I’d love anything as much as I love him. How am I ever going to love this kid that much?”

My grandma, who’d had 4 children herself, said simply, “Your heart gets bigger.”

I’ve never had any children of my own, though I have mentored a few. Kate has gone from guitar student to music mentee to best friend in the 7 years that I’ve known her. Her mother, Suzanne, brought her into the music studio where I taught guitar when she was 10. The studio booked the lesson not knowing that I had a 12 & up policy, and I had to explain to Suzanne why children under 12 should be starting on Piano and not guitar.

After a quick introduction I told her, “The dexterity required for your hands to engage in two completely different movements at the same time is a little intense for a 10 year old. It hurts to contort your wrist and it hurts to press your fingers down on the metal strings. It’s just tough. But learning piano is easier on the hands, and it’s a great introduction to how music works.”

“Ok,” she said. “Kate is really into guitar music though, and not so much piano. She’s also really smart, and the challenge might be good for her.” That’s what every parent says.

“Alright,” I said. “Since you’re already here, we’ll do a lesson, and if she takes the guitar home and plays a bunch this week, we’ll do another lesson next week and see how it feels. How does that sound?” Suzanne was happy with that answer.

“Perfect. Thank you!” She said. “Kate, say hi to Mr. Noah. He’ll be giving you you’re guitar lesson today.”

Kate and I smiled at each other. “Just call me Noah.”

As it turned out, “really smart” was an understatement. Kate was precocious, familiar, curious, demanding, buoyant in her demeanor but prone to fits of depression. In lessons, when she focused on moving her hands into the correct position her bottom lip would purse out, pink and puffy and endearing. She was blond, not fat but not skinny, with ears that stuck out and sparkling blue eyes that shone with hope and skepticism everywhere she looked. She wore baseball tees, jeans, and chucks at all times. She had a tendency to explore matters of everyone’s hearts, letting herself love and lose and explore the world through stories she read and people she knew. She saw deep into things at too young an age, and I almost immediately forgot that she was a child; she became one my favorite people. I think Kate appreciated being spoken to like a person and not a kid, and she reciprocated by speaking to me as a peer. She called me ‘Weird Beard’ and drew caricatures of me on the dry-erase board in the teaching studio. We would get ice cream with her father Rick and her little brother Jack, and her mother and I would talk for too long about Kate and music and movies and life while my other students were waiting.

In our first lesson, I taught Kate the first two chords to Weezer’s “Beverly Hills.” She came back the next week having taught herself the third, and sang me the whole song, pursing her bottom lip as she struggled with the hand positions. Like most rules, my 12 & up policy didn’t apply to Kate.

By the time Kate was 12 she was writing songs and performing at school talent shows. A listening room that I loved to play in Venice called Witzend was having a “Beatles Night.” 20 or so artists would play one original song and one Beatles cover. I called Jeb, the owner, and told him about Kate.

“She’s spectacular,” I said. “She’ll bring the house down.”

“You don’t have to sell it, Noah,” Jeb responded with an audible smirk. “I trust you.”

The showcase that night was a blast. So many of my favorite local singer/songwriters were on the bill, and a few bigger names were in the crowd just to hang. At Kate’s request, I sang a song I wrote called “You Make Everything Alright,” which was her favorite, and “Norwegian Wood.” When I finished, I introduced Kate, not telling anyone her age, just saying that this was her first time ever playing a club. I adjusted the mic down about a foot for her, handed her my guitar, and sat on the side of the stage as she played “Golden Slumbers.” It was pin-drop silent in the room. I could hear a touch of nerves in her voice, but she was hyper-focused, staring straight through the crowd to the back of the room as she sang, as I sat there trying to make sense of what was happening in my heart. She nailed her performance, and when she finished, the entire room of 150 people or so erupted for her. Every capillary in her face erupted in response; even her ears were beet red. I was drunk with pride and excitement for her. I stood up, grabbed the guitar and played with her as she sang a song she wrote with my friend and producer Eric Berdon, called “Smooth Sailing.” Witzend stood in unison when we finished, drowning her with loved.

Afterward, I went outside to have a cigarette and talk to Suzanne.

“I don’t know how you stand it,” I said. “She’s not even my niece, let alone my daughter, and I about burst when she was playing.”

Suzanne smiled proudly, but with a sardonic edge as she said, “You didn’t have to change her diapers, or listen to her scream her head off all night long as a baby. And trust me, she’s brilliant, but raising a teenage girl is no cakewalk.” And at once I understood my mother.

The nuances of relationship are the subject of every work of art, be it book, painting, song or symphony, and yet somehow communication is still a complete mystery. We are born into and live our lives in community and yet we still feel somehow alone, incapable of sharing clearly the world through our eyes, or understanding the world through someone else’s. This is why compassion is a virtue that’s so difficult to cultivate- it requires communication, which is a skillset that only a minute fraction of the population has any real grasp over. Even as a writer, I feel ill-equipped to the task most all of the time, and I struggle to wrap words around matters of the heart, even though it’s literally my job.

When my nephew was born, I thought I’d have a clearer understanding of why people want to have children so bad- every uncle or aunt I know is over the moon for their nieces and nephews. There are three children I’ve met that I’ve had a real love-at-first-sight connection with. And my nephew was not one of them.

Micah was 2 years old, the son of Keenan, a Pastor I worked with at Bel Air Pres. I was the Worship Director for their 20s & 30s group for about a year, and the leadership was having a retreat at Keenan’s place. Keenan had three children, and Micah was the youngest. They were all towheaded, well behaved, dressed in J Crew. But Micah had a wild look about him. Spikey hair and wide, pale blue eyes that told stories of mischief, even though he himself couldn’t yet speak. He was getting cochlear implants, and he still communicated mostly through grunts and laughter. When I walked into the house, Micah was standing with his father, staring at me. He’d seen me play music and may have been a little star struck, but most star-struck children run and hide, or at least turn their faces away when I speak to them. Not Micah, though. He stared at me not in awe, but in a connective, skeptical embrace, as if he was asking me, “Are you my people?” I smiled at him and hugged his father as we walked to the living room where we would all gather.

There were more people than places to sit, so pulled up some carpet and sat with my back against the wall. Micah came running into the room and sat right next to me, looked up at me without smiling, then turned his attention to the room. He and I spent the rest of the day in lock-step. Yes Micah, I am your people.

My mother’s friend Gayle used to be in the music business, and she was a fan of my work, so when she came through LA and wanted to meet me, I was amenable. The night before we were to have breakfast, my mom told me she’d be bringing her son Drake, who was 9 years old and had Down syndrome. I panicked a little.

Growing up, I was always uncomfortable around differently abled people, and the developmentally disabled were the hardest for me. I felt deeply sorry for them, and felt bad about that feeling, and in my pity for them and frustration with myself, I didn’t understand how to interact. Also as an adult, I never really liked kids. I’m still learning how to talk to grown-ups, so many of whom still act like children- being around people with a legitimate excuse for their immaturity just seems exhausting to me. So when my mom told me that I would be walking into a business meeting with a stranger and her 9 year-old, with Down syndrome, I was understandably nervous.

On the way to breakfast, I was praying. It was a simple prayer: “God, please help me manage my discomfort in a professional manner. Help me to not be offensive in any way.” I must’ve prayed that 30 times heading over the Sepulveda Pass from the West Side to Sherman Oaks, where we’d be having breakfast at Mel’s Diner on Ventura Blvd.

I got there first, found a booth and sat facing the door while I toyed with my iPhone. When Gayle and Drake walked in the door, I stood up, anxious. But as they walked over, both smiling, something happened that I didn’t expect. Drake locked eyes with me in a playful and curious way, and I was immediately endeared to him. His Downs wasn’t a distance between us, it was just apart of who he was, and I wanted to know him. He was carrying a People magazine and a size 7 striped sock, both of which he would give to me over the course of breakfast. While Gayle and I talked about music, Drake and I connected over smiles and winks, Sandra Bullock and a clean sock. We sat in Gayle’s car afterward and listened to the album I was recording while Drake sat in my lap and kissed my cheek. It was a fantastic morning.

Alia was 3 days old when I fell in love with her. Andrew, my band mate and friend, invited me over to meet the new addition to his family, but I couldn’t get over until late. By the time I arrived she was asleep in her crib, knees tucked under her and head turned away from where I stood 5 feet away trying not to breathe too loudly. Her skin was covered in neonatal acne, and all I could really see was a tiny lump of red flesh, but somehow, I didn’t just see her, I felt her. My heart covered the distance between us and attached itself to Alia. Over the next year we would have rehearsals and writing sessions at Andrew’s place where I would sit in front of her baby seat and sing while she looked up at me from under impossibly long eyelashes, stormy grey eyes sparkling. Andrew brought Alia on tour, and I’d hold her every chance I got. It didn’t help that by the time she was 3 weeks old she looked like the Gerber baby. I was smitten.

So when I met Max, my nephew, who was 8 days old and fully asleep when I first held him, I was expecting something similar. It wasn’t. I held Max in my arms, and looked down at him, eyes closed tightly, head still deformed from just getting squeezed out of a vagina, and while I knew I loved him, I didn’t feel an instant connection. I did notice that his squished head didn’t affect me. Whereas usually the cuteness of a child has everything to do with my affection for it, I noticed that my feelings were undeterred. And it wasn’t so much a love I felt blooming for the kid as much as a pride and excitement for my older brother, who wore fatherhood so lightly. Adam was going to be a great dad, if only for his ease and discernment. And the sleeping child in my arms would one day look to me for the advice that Adam could not give him, not because Adam would be incapable, but because some things are easier to believe from an uncle than from your father. While maybe I wasn’t falling in love, I was taking stock of the future of my family, and my role in it. I spend most of my time on the road, but I’ve been home more than ever this year to bear witness to the little guy’s first year, a year of firsts. The last two visits home Max would barely let me hold him, but he was generous with his smiles while I played music, or peekaboo, and his laugh sounded like tiny sneezes when I tickled him.

Rev. David McDonald was my mother and step-dad’s pastor. He married them when I was six, and we would spend holiday weekends with their family. I remember sleepovers with his son Billy, who was a little older than me, when we’d stay up all night watching Technicolor pirate movies and building forts and writing songs, playing one note at a time on my Casio keyboard. I was 8 when David died of cancer.

At his wake with a great many friends and family, Billy and I were out in the front yard alone, skipping from one walking stone to another, talking.

“My dad would tuck me in every night,” he said, almost out of the blue, “and tell me he loved me. And now he’s not around to tell me he loves me anymore.” His blue eyes welled up with tears as he jumped to the next stone, one foot following the other, the only thing that still made sense. I stopped where I was, unsure of what to say or do. I did what any child might do: I walked inside and shut the door behind me without saying a word.

To this day, obeying the fear of that moment is one of my greatest regrets. But there’s no script for this sort of thing, outside of “I’m sorry for your loss,” which is a platitude unfit for true friendship. I don’t feel guilty about what I did, as much as I feel sad about missing an opportunity to care for my friend, who was in great need. But what I didn’t understand then, what I’m still working out now, is that words don’t really matter that much- people rarely remember the things you said. You can imagine how that’s especially difficult for a writer to admit. I’ve always taken the artist’s responsibility as my own, trying to bear the weight of the world on what feel like strong, capable shoulders. But the shoulders of that child who ran from his friend are still inside me, and every time someone I love suffers a loss, I remember him, and I renew a promise I made to that boy, to teach him how to stay outside, how to stand with his hurting friend. See words don’t matter as much as staying outside does. If showing up is 90% of life, you can say absolutely nothing and still get an A.

Surprisingly, sitting quietly in the grief is at once the most important, and the most difficult, gift you can a grieving friend. In our lives, we fill our every moment with some form of intake. We watch TV while we cook or clean or eat; we read while we travel; we listen to music or podcasts while we drive; we hang with friends and play darts and drink and tell jokes and gossip. Being silent is almost completely gone from our cultural behavioral vocabulary. We fill space with whatever we can get our hands on. In fact, there are arguments that religion itself was invented to deal with just this- to fill the empty chasms of grief with pretty stories about heaven, with a loving and purposeful God who has a plan. But despite being tailor made for it, religion comes up desperately short in moments like these. There’s no scripture verse that can heal the heart of a child who’s lost his father.

When my Grandma Jane died, I was in Los Angeles, 400 miles away from the rest of my family. I was 20 years old, and my friend Ben and I were working on music for a film-scoring contest that we wouldn’t win. My cell phone rang at 9pm, and it was my mother.

“Grandma died, honey.” Her voice was thicker than usual, but she said it gently, resigned. “I was with her, and she was very peaceful. She looked like she did in her baby pictures.” My mother’s voice caught on the last word and she was silent on the other end as she attempted to breathe evenly. Her bravery in that moment still brings me to tears.

“Aw mom,” I said, choking back my own tears. I couldn’t go on just then.

“It’s ok baby,” my mom said, forgiving my unsurprising lack of words. “You know she loved you very much.”

“I know, mom,” I responded after a moment. “I can be home on Monday?”

“That would be wonderful, but don’t rush,” she said. “There are lots of things to take care of here. I’ll let you know when the best time to come up will be ok?” There was something comforting in talking logistics, making plans, shifting our thoughts to things we could control. We said our goodbyes and I love yous and ended the call. I look up from the phone and across the piano to where Ben was sitting, watchful and patient. He had heard only my side of the conversation, but he wasn’t surprised when I told him.

“My grandma died.”

Ben Coria is as true a friend as ever lived. Despite an aggressively intelligent mind, capable of managing and sifting through vast sets of data, he engages in his relationships with effortless simplicity. He looked at me with an obvious compassion and said simply, “I’ll get the tequila.”

We headed downstairs in an unstrained silence, content with the menial task of walking. We got the bottle, two clay shot glasses from his father’s home state in Mexico, and headed back to the studio, falling slowly, but easily, into a conversation about our grandmothers- the things we learned from them, the times we embarrassed them, the ways they showed us love, the ways they showed their age.

“To Granny,” Ben said with raised glass, as we sat down in the chairs we had previously abandoned.

“To Granny,” I replied, and we drank.

Ben taught me so much that night, and helped me teach an important lesson to the little boy inside me who still wants to run inside when things get hard.

I encourage you, the reader, to find a way to be silent with your grieving friends. To let them speak, or not speak. To not search for answers when they ask, “Why?” To let the silence hang ugly and bare in the room like a mirror that forces you to see yourself as you are: completely incapable of dealing with the heavy things in life, and let that ineptitude remind you what it’s like to be human. Because grief is a liar- it tells you you’re alone, and that is the farthest thing from the truth. You are not alone. I grieve with you- listening silently to life’s ever-unanswered questions, afraid.