Music often ebbs and flows with the contours of our life, narrating each phase as we are drawn in by different artists who match our energy in those moments. Whether it was the angsty rock that fueled a rebellious and confused teen and young adult, the deeper progressive music I explored in my late 20s as a developing musician, the downtempo flavors of my spiritually contemplative time, or the nostalgic ’80s and ’90s rock that brought the big kid back out in me, I’ve always embraced music as a complement to my emotional voice. As a Gen Xer ’80s kid, I was fully immersed in the pop music of the time, as most of us were. There was something about the dramatic, yet upbeat and exploratory energy artists were putting into the music, making it a magical time to be a kid. Although every generation had music that was equally nostalgic, I can wholeheartedly (with a tinge of bias) say that the ’80s were entirely unique, as if the world stood still for a decade to experiment with something before moving on. With that said, if you had told me that I’d be a musician who would go on to play over 1,000 shows with over 20 bands, I would have said you’re completely out of your mind. Why would I have doubted you? Well, growing up, I was a massive introvert. Yes, I liked getting into things, but it was usually all done with me, myself, and I. I found comfort in my own thought processes and imagination, but I never really dared to project that outward to anyone else. The thought of putting myself out there, be it creating art that others could see or hear, or just being the focus of attention in front of a crowd, was challenging for me. So, as expected, I was not involved with music in high school to any degree, and it would have seemed like that would continue throughout my life.

In 1995, I started my first semester at Jamestown Community College as an engineering major. My newfound freedom as an adult presented many pros and cons. I lost the regimentation of being a high school student, but gained a sense of exploration and the comfort of knowing I could put time and energy into new things. So although I wasn’t fully invested at eighteen, still not completely convinced that what I was doing was what I wanted, I began to think of other things I hadn’t considered before.

At the time, I lived on the north side of Jamestown, as did my aunt and uncle. I would walk to their house before making the “onerous” walk up Buffalo Street to get back home. My uncle had an old Rogers drum kit in his basement with a really kickin’ stereo system, and they would let me play for long stretches, working through all kinds of music they had on CD. Although I was into ’90s grunge at the time, I would still play drums to classic ’80s rock bands like Foreigner and Journey, along with some classic ’70s rock. This happened almost daily. I’d walk to school, then head there after class and rock out. I made some decent strides in my drumming ability throughout the fall and spring semesters, and my father decided to buy me an old used Pearl Export set in the summer of 1996.

Since I still lived at home, I set it up in my room, which was in the attic at the time. Not only could I see my own progression, but it was a complete catharsis, being able to physically and actively express emotions and energy through drumming. I would sweat it out, bashing my drums and playing all the music I loved at the time, much to the chagrin of the neighbors. The awe and enchantment of this new experience was unforgettable.

In the fall of 1996, I approached Mike Kelly and Bill Eckstrom about playing in the Rock Ensemble. It was a credited class where you would join a group of other students who wanted to play music, write your own songs or rehearse covers, and then perform them at the Rock Ensemble Concert at the end of the semester. At the time, this was something my generation was big into. There was an allure to having a band and being a musician, but I was still hesitant, given my very introverted nature. I really just loved the idea of playing the drums; I wasn’t thinking about all the other things that would surface because of it. In the winter of 1996, I played my first official show at the Scharmann Theater. I believe the first song of my first show was “Smoke on the Water,” by Deep Purple. I realized that although I was playing in front of hundreds of people, I felt surprisingly comfortable, as if I truly belonged there. All the creativity and emotion I had previously kept to myself were broadcast to an audience that night, and it felt right.

Moving into the next semester, I couldn’t wait to join the next iteration of Rock Ensemble. I was so excited to step back into it, playing with some new people and expanding my musical horizons. One day, I showed up to practice to find that no one was there except our singer, Jared Monaco, and me. Another band was slated to practice at the same time in a different room, and they were short members too. It was Andy Palermo’s band. Because you had to practice to receive credit for that week, Andy asked if Jared and I would join him. We mostly jammed out to some random tunes that were popular at the time. Afterward, Andy approached me in the parking lot and asked if I wanted to try out for a band he was playing in. They had been looking for a new drummer. I was flattered, excited, and a little bit scared all at the same time, but I said yes. It was all moving fast, and I wasn’t sure if I was ready. He said they were practicing the following week and gave me a tape of a previous show they’d played at Ten Pin Lanes. It was all classic rock I knew from growing up but had never actually played myself. I listened to the tape over and over on my Walkman, trying to pick out every little nuance, all while thinking of ways I could put a twist on it. When the time came for me to attend the practice, I remember being extremely nervous. I knew I’d be doing a few things I wasn’t comfortable with, like meeting new people and playing and speaking in front of others. It was all wrapped up in the worry of whether I’d fit in. It was that day in May 1997 that I ended up meeting some of my best lifelong friends. I remember walking down into the basement of Andy’s parents’ ranch and meeting Chris Raffa, Jasen Swanson, Andy Conti, and Jamie Smith. It was the Porcelain Busdrivers. We played through their setlist, and it just felt magical to be part of something so different from anything I’d ever done. It was one of those moments as a young adult where you can feel yourself branching out and growing. That introvert was coming out of his shell.

They ended up bringing me on as the band’s drummer, and the rest is history. We kept getting better as individual musicians and as a cohesive band, and we started landing bigger shows at better venues. We had a horn section, focused on harmonies, and brought an energetic stage presence that was fueled by the bigger crowds we were playing for. We were a bunch of twenty-somethings having the time of our lives, translating that energy to the scene every weekend. This was before social media. People knew that if they wanted to socialize and meet new people, they had to go where the people were, and a lot of the time, that was our shows. We’d play to crowds that broke the fire code, a whole room of happy people dancing and singing. It was memorable, beautiful mayhem, and I was beyond blessed and grateful to be a part of it. Other bands were thriving too, and it felt good to be part of a scene and have an extended family.

It turned out to be a huge blessing. I stepped out of my comfort zone, found a whole new world, and discovered a myriad of things about myself that opened me up to a different life. A huge shout out to everyone I shared the stage with, to all the amazing bands that were such a big part of the city’s community and vibe, and to everyone who came out to the shows.

Ultimately, after a transitional time in my life, I decided to leave the Porcelain Busdrivers in December 2015. I thought I was done with music and intended to pivot my focus to other things. I got heavy into spirituality, learned Reiki, and started a wellness center. Through all that, though, music never went away; it just showed up in other forms. I ended up joining two bands, Trip the Deuce and Cold Lazarus, with Cold Lazarus becoming a band that toured heavily and made a substantial push into the Buffalo jam band scene. It was as if the magic of my original foray into music had been rekindled. I felt inspired to play freely and write original material. Although I left the band at the start of the pandemic in March 2020, it was another musical experience that left me feeling blessed and grateful. The music I made with Gavin Paterniti, Adam Gould, Drew Minton, and Jeremy Bunce will always be something I’m honored to have put out into the universe. As someone who hopes to be a father one day, it’s also something I’d love to share with my kids.

Somewhere in the middle of all of it, I earned two bachelor’s degrees, one in mathematics (2002) and one in computer science (2010), and built a life around teaching high school and college, my software development company Scappy Apps, tutoring mathematics, drum lessons at Infinity, and the wellness studio where I do Reiki on North Main Street. I also do web design for Lori at the Gazette! But if you asked me what actually held it all together, it was never any of that. It was always the music.

It still is. The friendships, the community, the version of myself I never expected to meet, all of it traces back to a sweaty kid in an attic bedroom, bashing through songs on a used Pearl kit while my patient and saintlike parents listened to all the commotion. He had no idea what he was starting. He just knew it felt right. And every time I sit down behind a kit, that kid is still in there, doing the thing he loves.

As a recent graduate from Ohio University, I have spent the past three summers filling the void of schoolwork by dedicating my time to the service industry. I have bartended at Webb’s Captains Table before their permanent closure in 2024, served at the Chautauqua Harbor Hotel, and am now bartending at Splash in Bemus Point.

Working long shifts and wearing shoes that were not suitable for 5 hours of standing may not seem like the most appealing summer job. But ten years from now, I will not remember how bad my feet hurt or the drinks I mixed incorrectly; I will remember the conversations I had, the stories I heard, and the relationships I built with the people sitting just two feet in front of me.

To many people, bartending is just mixing drinks. But in reality, a bartender is a listener, tour guide, storyteller, and sometimes even a therapist, all in one shift. Behind every drink at the bar is a stranger with a story to tell and a bartender to listen.

What I have gathered from bartending is how quickly strangers can become familiar. People return and remember your name. They ask about my plans after graduation. They talk about their children, their travels, and the reasons they return to Chautauqua year after year. These interactions may only last a few minutes, but they have a way of staying with you.

In a time when so much of life happens online, bartending has reminded me of the value in genuine, face-to-face conversation. There is something special about putting away phones, sitting at a bar, and talking with the people around you. Some of the best conversations I have had this summer began with nothing more than a drink order. Bartending in our small community has given me the perspective.

Years from now, I may not remember every drink I made, but I will remember the people I made them for.