Coming Back

Twelve years is a long time.

Long enough that entire chapters of your life can come and go. Long enough to wonder if some parts of yourself have quietly become memories.

This summer, I played live music again.

Not every weekend. Not hundreds of shows. Just a handful.

But after spending the last twelve years largely away from performing, stepping back onto a stage felt bigger than I expected.

Before the first show, I wasn't sure what I was going to find, and truth be told, I was a bit nervous.

Would it feel familiar?

Would it feel strange?

Would I still enjoy it?

Would anyone even care?

Thankfully, the answer to that last question was yes.

To everyone who came out, shared a post, sent a message, sat through a rainstorm, crossed a lake, or simply checked in to see how things were going, thank you.

I appreciated it more than you probably know.

The Return

What surprised me most wasn't standing in front of people again.

It was realizing how much I had changed.

When I was younger, I think I approached live music differently. The goal was often the performance itself. Play well. Entertain people. Get through the set.

This time felt different.

I found myself searching for something harder to define.

Connection.

Not applause.

Not compliments.

Connection.

Those rare moments when a room settles into the music and everyone seems to arrive in the same place together.

As an audience member, most people have experienced it at least once. A concert, a film, a play, maybe even a conversation. For a little while, the outside world disappears.

You're exactly where you're supposed to be.

As a solo performer, creating that feeling is much harder than I ever understood.

Three Different Nights

Each show taught me something different.

The first show, at Westport Brewing Company, was memorable before I even started playing. Every seat was filled, and people were being turned away. After twelve years away from performing, I wasn't expecting that. It was a humbling reminder that people were genuinely curious to hear what I had been up to, and it felt like a success before I had even played a note.

Unfortunately, I only got four songs into the set before the weather had other plans. What began as a beautiful summer afternoon quickly turned into a scramble to unplug equipment and move everything indoors as a downpour rolled through.

Oddly enough, the afternoon still became one of my favourite memories of the summer. The brewery transformed into an impromptu listening party for All Sides Anthology, and I spent the rest of the afternoon talking with people, sharing stories and thanking them for coming.

Wolfe Island was a different experience altogether.

Returning there felt personal. Some of my earliest years as a live performer were connected to the Island, and walking back into that setting brought back memories I hadn't thought about in years. Familiar faces appeared. Old friendships resurfaced. At one point, the drummer from my first band joined me for a few songs, which felt a little like stepping back in time.

The evening ended with music, friends, conversation and a beautiful sunset over the lake. Some moments simply remind you how special certain places can be.

Harrowsmith brought a different challenge.

For the first time all summer, I found myself standing in front of a room full of people who largely didn't know me. Winning over a room from scratch is something I used to enjoy, but it's a skill that requires practice.

The set went well enough. People were kind, supportive and appreciative. Yet I left thinking about the difference between performing for people and truly connecting with them.

That question stayed with me.

Expectations and Reality

I also learned that returning to live music wasn't quite what I expected.

I was drawn to outdoor venues because they felt relaxed, beautiful and inviting. What I hadn't fully considered was how much those shows depend on things completely outside your control. Weather forecasts suddenly matter a lot.

As someone who generally prefers cooler weather, I also discovered that performing through summer heat and humidity is more demanding than I remembered.

Then there's everything that happens before and after the music.

In years past, there were often sound people, bandmates and others helping carry the evening. This summer, much of that responsibility fell on me. Booking the shows, transporting gear, setting up, managing sound, performing, tearing down and packing everything away again.

Even Wolfe Island came with an unexpected lesson. When I booked the show, I was thinking about the venue and the opportunity to return to a place that meant a lot to me. What I didn't anticipate was how unpredictable the ferry schedule would become for people hoping to attend.

None of these things were bad experiences.

They were simply reminders that reality is always a little different than the version we imagine ahead of time.

The Acoustic Question

One thing I learned this summer is that people genuinely enjoy hearing songs stripped down to just a voice and an acoustic guitar.

Many people told me so.

The funny thing is that while I enjoy performing that way, it isn't necessarily where my heart lives.

I've always been drawn to full arrangements.

Drums.

Bass.

Electric guitars.

Keyboards.

Textures.

The feeling that a song is a complete little world.

When I'm writing, recording or imagining music, that's usually where my mind goes.

Playing solo with an acoustic guitar shares one side of who I am as a musician.

The arrangements in my head share another.

I spent a lot of this summer realizing that I'm still trying to figure out how those two worlds fit together.

Still Learning

If you'd asked me before these shows what I thought the biggest challenge would be, I probably would have said nerves.

But nerves weren't the challenge.

The challenge was discovering that I still have things to learn.

After twelve years away, I think some part of me expected to come back with answers.

Instead, I came back with questions.

And strangely enough, I think that's a good thing.

Questions mean there is still somewhere to go.

Still something worth chasing.

Still something worth creating.

What's Next?

Good question.

There will probably be more live performances at some point.

But lately I've been thinking about something else.

An album.

A proper album.

Original songs.

New ideas.

A chance to create something that feels completely my own.

I've spent a lot of years accumulating experiences, observations, frustrations, gratitude, questions and stories.

Maybe it's time to turn some of that into music.

We'll see.

For now, I'm simply grateful.

Grateful that after twelve years away, I got to stand in front of people and share music again.

Grateful that people came.

Grateful that I remembered how much sharing music can be a gift.

And grateful that, even now, I'm still figuring it out.