Some stories do not end. They wait for the music to begin again.

Some stories do not end. They simply wait for the music to begin again. We were teenagers when
Carl first brought us together six young people connected less by ambition than by that rare electricity
that happens when the right musicians find one another. Carl and I were seventeen when we began
writing songs together: he at the piano, me with notebooks full of poetry, drawings and lyrics waiting to
become music. We played, traveled, fell in love, and assumed there would always be another song. Then
life intervened. We scattered into careers, relationships and separate worlds; I disappeared into
sculpture and poetry, Carl built an extraordinary life in business, and the others followed their own
roads. Years later, Carl decided he did not want to form another band. He wanted the band. And I was
the first call he made.
When we finally stood in the same room again, decades came with us but beneath everything that
had happened, the music still knew who we were. Jazz remained the heart that brings everyone home;
Luke brought his beautiful trouble and restless guitar; Blue waited for exactly the moment when the
saxophone could change the emotional temperature of a song; and Snap, joy with a backbeat, held all of
us together with rhythm and grace. Carl still listens from the piano, allowing just enough chaos before
pulling the music back into shape, while he and I remain the unresolved chord at the center of it
all sometimes tender, sometimes combustible, always understood. We are not trying to become
seventeen again. We are bringing everything that happened afterward into the music: friendship, desire,
mistakes, loss, forgiveness and time. And perhaps that is why, after all these years, the song is still
unfinished.