I’ve taken a few giant leaps of faith in my life. The first was moving from Seattle to L.A. because I was dead-set on becoming a studio drummer. That decision led me into rooms with artists like Bruno Mars, CeeLo Green, RZA, Chocolate Genius, Meshell ndegeocello — and a whole bunch of others I never imagined I’d get to work with.
 

The next big leap was joining, recording, and touring with Fitz & The Tantrums, this scrappy “indie soul pop” band that somehow ended up selling multi-platinum records. In the early days of the band — when we weren’t making any money and nothing about our future was guaranteed — my wife and I packed up the family and moved to Missoula. We did it to avoid sinking deeper into debt and to be closer to family support while I was on the road so much. That move ended up giving us an incredible community, and eventually we were able to open two café/bakeries and a coffee roaster together.

Eventually, after 14+ amazing years with Fitz & The Tantrums, I walked away from the comfort and safety of that world so I could spend more time with my family and chase the creative challenges I’d been hungry for. As grateful as I was for the band’s success, I’d been sitting in a creative standstill for far too long. I’ve always needed innovation and risk to feel alive musically, and I’m not afraid to follow that instinct — even if the direction isn’t “mass-friendly.”
 

Over time, I also became pretty disillusioned with the music industry. Too often, the higher-ups seemed more interested in recycling whatever already worked instead of looking for something original or forward-thinking. Despite that, I refused to stop evolving. Influenced by minimalist, experimental players like Deantoni Parks, Chris Dave, and Sergio Machado, I started stripping everything down: kick, snare, hi-hat — sometimes only one stick in my left hand — and a small MIDI controller in my right to trigger textures, samples, and melodic ideas. It gave me a whole new way to explore sound.

Helping other musicians navigate this weird, unpredictable industry has become just as important to me as the music itself. I’m currently writing a safety manual for musicians — part survival guide, part comedy — packed with the hilarious and unbelievable stories you accumulate when you spend your life behind a drum kit.

I also teach a limited number of private drum lessons through the Zootown Arts Community Center and online via Zoom. Mentoring younger musicians feels like a natural extension of everything I’ve lived through: the passion, the honesty, the curiosity, the bruises, all of it.

A couple things I’ve carried with me:

It’s hard to invest in something without seeing financial returns. I remember a conversation I had with jazz singer Betty Carter. I told her I was afraid of moving to New York and not being able to afford food. She responded, ‘We all make sacrifices for our art,’ and walked away. It was the gut punch I needed.

And the truth is:
It’s easier for me to say this now, but I’ve always focused on improving my skills rather than chasing money. I get obsessed with making certain concepts work, and eventually the results follow. In the beginning, money has never been the motivator. I’ve always been willing to pull espresso or do whatever else it took to support myself while I kept going.

"A master in the art of living draws no sharp distinction between his work and his play; his labor and his leisure; his mind and his body; his education and his recreation. He hardly knows which is which. He simply pursues his vision of excellence through whatever he is doing, and leaves others to determine whether he is working or playing. To himself, he always appears to be doing both.