About

I grew up in a small town in East Georgia, where the radio was always playing and the back porch was the best seat in the house. Music wasn't something we went looking for—it was simply part of everyday life. It was in the walls, on the porch, around the dinner table, and in the songs we played together.

My grandfather played the fiddle and led the church choir. My father could play just about anything, but the banjo was his favorite. His brother Jerry had a degree in music, played guitar and piano, and had a voice that could fill a room. Somewhere along the way, I picked up the guitar and eventually played bass in our family band.

I got my first guitar when I was thirteen—an old Yamaha acoustic, followed later by my twelve-string Ibanez. That guitar became more than an instrument. It became my best friend. I taught myself three chords from a library book and wrote my first song about a girl who didn't even know I existed. She still doesn't—but somehow, the song turned out pretty good.

Over the years, I had the privilege of playing alongside my father and the rest of our family band. Dad even had a sun deck built onto the back of our two-story home. Nearly every weekend, we would gather there, pick up our instruments, and do our best to terrorize the neighborhood with a little Country and Bluegrass music.

We played wherever someone would have us—small community events, grand openings, church gatherings, and the old country-music gathering place at Mr. K's. They weren't glamorous stages, but they were our stages. And looking back, those little stages meant everything.

Every place we played taught me something. Every song made me a little better. Every audience gave me another reason to keep playing.

The small stages taught me the most.