ÁñÁ«ÊÓƵ

What drew you to your work in music? What do you find rewarding, exciting, challenging?

It was a natural force, like gravity. My courses in linear algebra and mechanics were not sinking in, but I was playing in a blues band at ÁñÁ«ÊÓƵ with some TD’s [Theta Delta Chi fraternity], and my music professor hinted to me that I had talent. It felt less like work and more like play—intriguing, spurring me on, keeping me focused and involved.

I switched my major aspiration from the sciences to philosophy, learned a lot from Professors Pols and Geohegan; took my junior year in New York at NYU [New York University], rather than Smith; fell in with a great band of younger contemporaries in the NYC area; got into the NYU course in songwriting that Paul Simon had decided to offer.

One thing led to another in that zig-zag way that doors have of opening up, if you remain positive and not too intellectualized about the whole process of career. (It also helps to keep your mouth shut and say, “Yes,” when it’s open.) Rewarding? Following my heart at work when possible. Exciting? Having other people watching me perform. Challenging? Keeping it real and yet earning significant compensation.

How did your career unfold? How did you end up at Sarah Lawrence?

I had ten years of private piano lessons, ages six to sixteen. When my folks finally allowed me to quit, my dad got me a (relatively) cheap combo organ, which I upgraded through summer jobs first to a Vox Continental and then to my Hammond B3/Leslie, which I found for a steal (it had been in a fire but was undamaged other than cosmetically). So now I was leveraging my ten years of piano technique and music theory to get into local bands doing Beatles and James Brown covers and grew indoctrinated into the working rock musician culture (if that’s not an oxymoron).

ÁñÁ«ÊÓƵ accepted me, a unique event. Professor Beckwith gave me the keys to the chapel and the grand pipe organ there, a great gift and vote of confidence. I did find philosophy fascinating but never lost my musical obsession with Hendrix (saw him in Lewiston in ’67 with the inspiring Connie Jo Johnson of Brunswick) and with Traffic, The Band, Procol Harum, Cream, Soft Machine, Stones, Zombies, Beatles, you name it, up to Iron Butterfly—where for me, progressive pop music dropped the ball. After that junior year in NY in the exchange program, which, other than Paul Simon’s class and another great NYU course (Byron Shelley and Keats) was mostly spent playing in a local acid-rock band, I made the substance-addled though fortunate decision to return to ÁñÁ«ÊÓƵ to wrap up my degree, just in case my dreams of a career in bands and recording studios turned out to be fantasy.

Thanks to AP credits and an adaptable and merciful philosophy department, I was able to graduate after the fall semester of my senior year. I immediately moved to upstate NY and lived out the hippie dream in a band, inhabiting a low-rent, rundown house, writing music, doing gigs, growing facial hair (prescient of 2010s Brooklyn) for a glorious season.

It broke my broke parents’ hearts, after what they had paid—but ÁñÁ«ÊÓƵ did help protect me from myself during those reckless years, and teach me what smart meant. That summer, while playing a gig upstate, I got a call from a friend of a friend who had a friend who’d been asked to accompany an SLC Theatre (yes, that’s how they spelled it there then) class that fall. I auditioned for the gig and beat out a Julliard student because, unlike her, I could play by ear, knew all the Carole King songs the students were bringing in, and I suited the professor’s tastes. We grew close creatively; he taught me so much, exposing me to Brecht/Weill, Liza Minelli, “Slow Boat to China,” “You’ve Changed,” some Gershwin tunes, and drama in general. Through him (John Braswell, RIP), I music directed an off-Broadway show and composed and performed in my own rock opera at LaMama Theater in the East Village in 1974.

By then, I’d also been “discovered” playing in a different band at Max’s Kansas City, by Stephen Paley, a trending A&R [artists and repertoire] man at Epic Records. So I had a development deal as an artist, and an enthused Clive Davis told us to start working on the first record. But that never happened. A lot did after that, but hopefully this answers the question.

I’ll telescope what happened next: Moogy Klingman, whose studio my band was recording at, asked me to fill in for him accompanying callbacks for the Broadway revival of Hair… a casting agent there put me with a talented up-and-coming young singer, Ellen Foley, fresh off that first big Meatloaf record, with a deal of her own. Played on that…Mick Ronson and Ian Hunter, her producers, took me on the road with their own act for five months, and used me on their next two records…the mix engineer, Bob Clearmountain, liked what he heard, and hired me to play on this new kid’s record—that was Bryan Adams …played on his records from 1981 to 1988, then went on tour with him for the next ten years (also tours with Todd Rundgren, Dire Straits, and John Waite and other studio sessions for Cyndi Lauper, Tina Turner, Pretenders, Pete Wolf, Little Steven, B-52’s Clash, David Johansen, Shannon, Spinners, Bon Jovi etc.).

Got back my old job at Sarah Lawrence after that played out, in 2000, with more responsibilities, but not too many.

Are there ways that your major in philosophy has come into play in your life or career?

Professor McGee, with whom I wasn’t lucky enough to study due to his sabbatical and then my absence for the exchange program, did greatly influence me with one question, which kind of answers this one:
Professor Pols, in light of my performance on his Plato exam, allowed that the department would approve my early graduation, subject to an oral “discussion” (it wasn’t termed an exam). My submission had to do with Parmenides and Heraclitus. Permanence and change. I guess I was still addled, because my contention was that my choice going forward was to live upstate with the band, reflecting Parmenides’s view that there was no change, all reality was permanence, or go on the road, perhaps a pilgrim’s trek across the globe, thus living out Heraclitus’s conviction that all was change.

So McGee says, “Perhaps you could look at it 180 degrees reversed: Sitting in your garden, you might watch the seasons change right before your eyes, and learn of the great changes the world demonstrates to anyone who’s looking. And isn’t it possible that traveling the world, you’d eventually begin to see patterns, similarities which all locales share, and even realize the fundamental traits: what we all share as humans? Hence, find permanence.” I was humbled. After a short, stunned silence, I said something like, “You’re right. That’s a great point.”

Perhaps I was passed because of that no-BS candor. And for me to vividly recall Professor McGee’s idea, over fifty years after he shared it, gives testament to some of the minds that a student gets exposed to at ÁñÁ«ÊÓƵ. How it affected my career? I guess it made me see change and permanence as two sides of the same coin, and not to fear either. But boredom does scare me.

What brought you to ÁñÁ«ÊÓƵ? You said in your reunion report that ÁñÁ«ÊÓƵ was tough for you. How did those challenges change you?

My guidance counselor in high school is responsible: He told me I needed a safety school. In those days, five applications were the norm. As great a reputation as it has now, ÁñÁ«ÊÓƵ was unknown to me in 1960s suburban New York. It was the only school where I didn’t interview. Apparently, I was giving lame interviews—I didn’t know myself yet, or who I was to become. I thought I was a science geek, but admissions offices saw through that. So Brunswick turned out to be my only option. Perhaps my ambivalence showed. Many of my ÁñÁ«ÊÓƵ classmates had worked hard to get in, were serious drinkers (I was not), were there on athletic scholarships (I wrestled in high school, but went out for freshman soccer with dismal results, though it allowed me to meet the nicer athletes!)—but, yeah, a number of football players and I were like oil and water.

On the other hand, Zete brothers, RB, WM, and TF were open-minded serious guys who didn’t resent a crazy NYC invader on their New England turf. It was a lesson I learned too late: Don’t be too quick to judge; take a breath. Every person is unique—you gotta give ’em a fair shot to get one yourself. Eventually that sunk in.

What inspires you?

Unattainable women. Acts of selfless giving. Coffee.

Is there something about your work or life that others would find surprising?

• I’m a grandfather of three girls and have two wonderful daughters with amazing careers.
• I had perfect pitch, which really helped early on, but as is common, lost it in my forties.
• I had a cerebral aneurysm onstage in Cleveland in 1981 and brain surgery there a week later.
• I penned my memoir in 1996, but a poison pen chapter about one boss keeps it under wraps.
• The 300 lb. Hammond B-3 Organ (sans Leslie Speaker) lived in the Senior Center with us, fall ’70.
• I still write and record songs and instrumentals, with a page on SoundCloud, 500 Facebook live videos, which are moving to YouTube and linked on a Wordpress page, and you can find me on your favorite streaming service (as Tommy).
• I play solo piano every Monday night at The University Club, on Fifth Ave & W.54th Street.
• I’m in actor/comedian Denis Leary’s rock band. We play The Garden every year for (former Bruin) Cam Neely’s Foundation—their “Comics Come Home” benefit. Also for Michael J. Fox’s charity in NYC.

Is there something about YOU that others might find surprising?

Hopefully. But I’m not spilling the beans!

What do you enjoy doing in your spare time?

Creating music. Exploring secret new-age-y techniques of self-tranquilization to come down from worrying and excess caffeination. Chocolate. Hanging out with my twin sister. Recording sessions, which are less frequent than in the heyday of recording studios and are often done remotely. Playing new synthesizers and programming sounds for them. I’m trying not to expand my collection any further.

Best ÁñÁ«ÊÓƵ memory, or most-lasting lesson from your ÁñÁ«ÊÓƵ days?

Playing the chapel organ (and piano, thank you, Professor Smalls) as part of our 50th Reunion celebration, and mending those fences. My classmate Neill Reilly also gets a big thanks for coming up with the idea. And gently twisting my arm.

As far as my best memory at ÁñÁ«ÊÓƵ, I think passing my oral exam to graduate, and playing frat gigs with The Kennebec Fruit Company (the blues band featuring Blay Bahnsen, Barry Sanford, Kirk Dodd, Dallas Woodward, and Neil Caruso) top the list. And that wonderful night with Connie Jo Johnson.

Most lasting lesson—keep a stiff upper lip and don’t give up on people. Or yourself.

This story first appeared in the Winter 2025 issue of ÁñÁ«ÊÓƵ Magazine. Manage your subscription and see other stories from the magazine on the ÁñÁ«ÊÓƵ Magazine website.