I Remember It All
A reflection on music, missteps, and finding hope in the wake of regret
By 2000, the Y2K scare had already fizzled out, and I barely noticed. I was too wrapped up in my immediate concerns to care. At 26, I upgraded to Steinberg Cubase, a Windows-based music production system, from my previous 4-track Tascam Portastudio. I invested most of my limited 401(K) savings into this purchase. I owned several keyboards, including the Roland Juno 1 and Yamaha DX7, and I had set up a MIDI rig to connect everything to my production software.
I delved into experimental electronica: complex sounds and endless opportunities. I adopted the name Sparrow Orange, which held little significance in the underground music scene. I signed with Noise Factory Records, a label that provided me with an outlet and allowed my creativity to flourish. They promoted my music on college radio stations and secured international attention. Though the label is now defunct, it also represented other artists, including KC Accidental, which featured Kevin Drew and Charles Spearin. Kevin Drew later formed the band Broken Social Scene.
At the same time, my home life was pulling me in another direction. I had a seven-year-old, a one-year-old, and a wife. I had responsibilities but rather than facing them directly, I handed most of them off to my then-wife. Over time, resentment grew. She was passive, never encouraging me to improve but expecting it to happen. Self-awareness was something I wouldn’t have for many years. We spent our time like that, and thirteen years into our marriage, we divorced. I moved out, and settled into a small second-floor apartment in a house that wasn’t mine, starting over in a life that felt fragmented.
Now that I’m 49, I can see the long wake of irresponsibility I’ve left behind—one that stretches further than I’d like to admit. I spent most of my life avoiding the consequences of my actions, and it’s not easy to own that truth. There were things I did and never got around to doing, and ways I influenced others, whether I meant to or not. We all face this reality: in our messiness, we leave a mark on those around us.
In 2001, I released an album called Hands and Knees Music. Thirteen years later, one of its tracks, “I Remember It All,” surfaced on YouTube with a bizarre, trippy homemade video made by the account holder, and received over 4,000 views.
Here are a few of the comments it received:
“First heard this in 2012. Still makes me stop and listen any time it comes on.”
“So so beautiful. Heard on Groove Salad and blew me away. Amazing!”
“Very emotional track which takes one on a journey back through time, to memories long forgotten.”
This has been on my mind lately: how something so personal, so rooted in my head, reached beyond me. People in other states and countries; people I’ve never met have connected with it. It makes me wonder about the small ripples we create, the ways we affect others, even when we’re too lost in ourselves to notice.
I’ve spent so much time viewing myself as a failure, dragging down the people around me, and slowing them up because of my issues. But there are these small, bright spots—moments where something I do matters to someone, if only for a few minutes. In that way, maybe I did something right. Maybe, through those sounds, I managed to bring something positive to others.