The journey
An inspirational journey of purpose. One of love & loss.
Discover the chaos and peace within the pursuit of purpose
prologue
"I did not choose music, music chose me"
Body vibrating. Drums pounding through bone. Elvis exploding onto that stage—and something inside me broke open that never closed again. That wasn't entertainment. That was possession. Purpose finding its host. I didn't choose music. Music claimed me, held me hostage, ruined me for any other life. They call it "living your dream" like it's supposed to be beautiful.
Nobody tells you about the blood price.
act 1
I'm a Toronto kid—Canadian maritime mother, Maltese immigrant father who survived a war only to give me one of my own. Self-taught. Multi-instrumentalist by twelve because I had to be. The sound in my head wouldn't shut up until my hands learned to speak it. Theatre. Photography. Visual arts. Hockey. Baseball. I competed at everything because excellence was the only language that made sense. But music?
Music was oxygen.
At nineteen, I had Universal Music's Wildcat Records at the table with my band WHITE LIE. Producer Michael Jack—gold and platinum on his walls—heard something in our demos. That meeting felt like arrival. Fate dropped breadcrumbs I wouldn't understand for years.
I built the N.O.T.A Music Conference. First to give independent Canadian artists real awards, real access, real chance. Connecting aspiring talent to industry heads wasn't charity—it was insurgency. If the doors wouldn'topen,
I'd blow the hinges off.
act 2
Then death came collecting.
My father. Then my brother—my only sibling. Grief is a room with no exits, but the studio became a chapel
where I could breathe. That pain turned into publishing deals, brought me back to Michael Jack,
led to television and film interest, Nashville calling about "New Me."
" Life was finally happening. Until it wasn't."
Life's fragile. I learned that in blood. So I chased purpose to the west coast—and my mom got diagnosed with Alzheimer's. You want to know what sacrifice looks like? Twelve years. Eight of them caring for her at home while my purpose sat in the corner and watched me age. No headspace to write. No room for creativity. Just duty.
Just love in its ugliest, most necessary form.
The film industry poached me—I became a star driver, a celebrity handler.
Nicolas Cage. Casey Affleck. Richard Dreyfuss.
I drove other people to their dreams while mine collected dust.
act3
Mom died. And I shattered.
The spiral was biblical. But somehow, I clawed out. Built my studio. Started again. Then my spine collapsed onto my spinal cord—partial paralysis. They cut me open, emergency anterior cervical discectomy.
Twelve months of rehab just to remember how to exist.
40 decades later I'm sixty. the age you're supposed to slow down, surrender, accept.
Fuck that!
I'm custom-building a truck—studio, accommodation, flatbed stage for my motorcycle and live performances. I'm touring until my body quits. And we're filming all of it. The documentary's called 60 Miles Out
because at sixty, I'm just getting started.
This isn't a comeback. This is a reckoning.
Purpose doesn't retire. It just waits for you to stop making excuses.
St.Eve. Still standing. Still swinging.
I currently call the road, home. This is my choice.