Rick was born in Canton, Ohio. He was raised playing music. And play he did in bands, in concerts, in living rooms until one day in a friend's backyard in Sun Valley, California he stumbled onto something very curious -- his own style. His peculiar expression. On that day he flung everything he had ever learned from books, records and other usual places into a hole in that backyard, buried it and threw away the shovel. Another obsessed musik fiend set loose.
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Rick was born in Canton, Ohio. He was raised playing music. And play he did in bands, in concerts, in living rooms until one day in a friend's backyard in Sun Valley, California he stumbled onto something very curious -- his own style. His peculiar expression. On that day he flung everything he had ever learned from books, records and other usual places into a hole in that backyard, buried it and threw away the shovel. Another obsessed musik fiend set loose. Forget jobs, forget career, forget home and hearth. Find a garage, a tool shed or dusty cabin, live in it and write and compose and play and record. There is no future no past no predetermined expression to the instrument. Certainly there is no tradition. There are no classical limiters or rules one need follow or not follow. There's only Rick faced with the same instrument day after day after month after year. And there's life. He's had to support his unique little backyard discovery. A habit he has gradually realized that can overrule reason and love. No matter what, sick or well, flush or poor, in passion or the pits, ITS continuous wish must be granted. There is no letting go. There is no turning back. There is no rest (except occasionally). Leave the thing alone and it builds within anyway and finds outlet in breakdown and resolution. He now lives in California, climbing a waterfall, reaching for a new hope just out of reach somewhere in the mist. Best of luck, Old Man.
