At age twelve, I studied piano with my sister. She improved; I survived. In school I bounced between trumpet, baritone horn, and upright bass, clearly on a mission to learn every instrument nobody asks for at parties. But the guitar—that was the one. Besides, I discovered that girls were suddenly willing to speak to me after I played a set with my friends. Science still can’t explain it.

I became a “professional musician” at fifteen, playing in my uncle’s nightclub. Nothing says “normal childhood” like performing in a room full of adults doing the cha-cha with beverages older than you. I studied guitar with Eddie Berg in Parsippany and John Macey, and Harry Leahy in New Jersey, all of whom were patient enough to avoid throwing me out the window.

Over the years, I’ve sung, played electric guitar, and handled keyboards in more bands than I can remember—probably because I’ve repressed several of them for emotional safety.

Then, about fifteen years ago, I returned to my roots as an acoustic singer-songwriter. My musical influences are too many to list, though if it makes noise, I’ve probably stolen—ahem, borrowed—from it. My guitar even made it onto the Discovery Channel’s Jaws and Claws series. Yes, animals biting each other were set to my soundtrack. A proud family moment.