I’ve targeted back articles now available to those who support this work. In spotlighting, I chose to set aside political writing and instead lean fully into the subjects that have long held my attention—music, photography, travel, culture, and the enduring voice of radio. You can still access politics by hitting the icon.

These pieces were not written quickly. They come from long hours and longer years—more than six decades spent first as a professional musician, and later as a music journalist and photographer. Each article carries a trace of that journey, an attempt to shape experience into something worth sharing.

I invite you to explore the collection. Read, reflect, and, if it resonates, pass it along. Just visit the homepage.

For those considering a deeper dive, upgrading to a paid subscription—$5 monthly or $50 yearly—opens access to the full archive, where these stories continue to live and breathe.

Thank you for being here.

1. A Night at RDs: Steak, Frites, and Jazz Royalty: Sophie Milman

2. Ah, Americana

3. Ahmad Jamal Live at the Pershing

4. Allee Willis: Funky Genius in a Velvet Housecoat

5. Amy, Darryl, Righteous Brothers, Teena, Van: Blue-Eyed Soul

6. An Hour Inside Steve Allen’s Mind

7. Anthony Joseph: TS Eliot Prize Winner

8. Archie Alleyne: The Groove, the History, the Man

9. Aretha Franklin: City Hall

10. Art of Improvisation in the Animal Kingdom, The

11. Art of Sound: A Journey Through LP Cover Design, The

12. Artie Shaw’s Pursuit of Perfection: The Reluctant King of Swing

13. B.B. King: When B.B. King Played: The Camera Prayed

14. Beach Boys: God Only Knows, The

15. Behind the Wheel: Ben Wittman, Paul Novotny, Amanda Martinez

16. Bernard Herrmann: The Maestro Who Scored Our Deepest Fears and Fantasies

17. Bertrand Tavernier: A Baptism in Jazz, Cinema, and Microphone Sweat

18. Betty Carter: The Voice That Rocked Us Before the Boat Could

19. Bill Evans: When Evans Whispered to the Piano

20. Billy Springs: The Eternal Spirit of Bluegrass

21. Billy Vera’s Long Road to Soul

22. Black Chicago: Al Bensen, CIUT 89.5 FM

23. Blue Note Records: Beyond the Notes — Uncompromising Expression

24. Blue-Eyed Soul: Amy, Darryl, Righteous Brothers, Teena, Van

25. Blue’s Hands of God: Jane Vasey and Stan Szelest, The

26. Bob Dylan: A Complete Unknown

27. Bob Marley: Prodigal Son Plays Massey Hall

28. Bobby McFerrin: A Simple Pleasure

29. Bruce Springsteen: Don’t Fuck with the Boss

30. Buffy Sainte-Marie: Erasing Buffy

31. Café Wha!

32. Carol Kaye: The Guitar That Built the House

33. Carole King: When the Studio Was Her Stage

34. Charlie & Ringo: The Gospel Truth of Groove — A Sermon for the Drummers

35. Charlie Parker/Gabriel García Márquez: Word Jazz

36. Chasing Voices: Stevie Winwood, John Fogerty, Paul Rodgers

37. City of Dreams

38. Colours of Resilience

39. Coltrane: The Table Is Set

40. Common & Jill Scott: A Father’s Pause

41. Crimson and Clover: Tommy James & the Shondells

42. Cuba in Song: Amplified Dissent

43. Dance Me to the End of Love: Feet Don’t Fail Me

44. Dave Brubeck: In His Own Sweet Way

45. David Clayton-Thomas: Blood, Grit, and Glory

46. David Sanborn: Night Music

47. Deep in the Dream: The Life and Legacy of Pat LaBarbera

48. Degree of Difficulty: Piano, Guitar, and Voice, The

49. Diana Krall, The World Series and Meyer’s Deli: A Victory Lap Through Time

50. Dinah’s September: Dinah Washington

51. Donna Grantis: From West Virginia to Paisley Park

52. Double Exposure: Musicians Who Frame the World Through a Lens

53. Dr. John: The Hoodoo Speaks

54. D’Angelo: The Prophet of Neo-Funk Ascends in Rotterdam

55. Echo of a Fading Chord, The

56. Elmore James: The Sound That Shook the Delta and Beyond

57. Emotional Impact of Musical Keys

58. Eva Cassidy and the Long Cry Home

59. Framing Time: A Musician’s Journey Through Jazz, Photography, and the Sea

60. Fried, Smothered, and Bewildered: A Soul Food Awakening

61. From Memphis Grit to Funk Blitz: The Funky Clavinet

62. Garth Hudson Passes at 87: Life Is a Carnival

63. George Gershwin’s Unconventional Path to Musical Genius

64. George Soul Revival: George Olliver Remembers the Mandala Storm

65. Ghost Hands Across the Player Piano

66. Gil Scott-Heron & Kendrick Lamar: A Post-Super Bowl Conversation

67. Girl Crush: The Perfect Lyric

68. Golden Age: The LP as High Art

69. Gospel of Groove: A Tribute to James Brown, The

70. Gospel Truth of Groove: The Jam & J.B. Women

71. Hazel Scott: Now’s Her Time!

72. Herbie Hancock: Architect of the Future Sound 1996

73. Hooked on Prima: From Sicily to New Orleans — The Rhythm Meets the Blues

74. How Suzie Collier and Her Son Jacob Are Redefining Musical Greatness

75. Janis Joplin: Mother of Pearl

76. Jazz in Print (1856–1929) A Map of Sound Before Sound Had a Name

77. Jeff’s (Healey) Last Train: A Jazzman’s Journey

78. Joan Osbourne: What’s Become of the Broken-Hearted

79. Joe Zawinul’s Final Odyssey: The Orient Express Tour and the Curtain Call

80. Joni at Massey: A Time Capsule with a Pulse

81. Judy Collins Reflects: Silver Threads and Golden Memories

82. Ken Burns, Jazz, and the Memory of Sound

83. Kevin Breit & Jessica LaLonde: The Session

84. Last Piano Lesson

85. Legacy of Piano Rolls: A Mechanical Symphony, The

86. Like a Rolling Stone: The Studio Session

87. Majesty of Double Albums in Jazz: An Exploration of Ambition and Innovation, The

88. Mariah, Axl, Prince, Freddy & Mike: Why Vocal Range Matters

89. Martha Argerich: The Undisputed Queen of the Keyboard

90. Max Roach: Massey Hall and the Myth of That Night

91. McCoy Tyner: Reaching Fourth

92. Michael Brecker: The Eternal Pulse of Discovery

93. Moscow Outplays Chicago: A Tribute Band Worth Your Time, When

94. Music and Longevity: Tony Bennett

95. Music as a Mind’s Refuge: The Solitary Listener

96. Music in My Hands: A Personal Battle with Arthritis

97. Music: A Weapon of Resistance

98. Musician’s Nook: A Place for Soul and Sound

99. Nicholas Brothers and Steve Gadd: Masters of Rhythm, Motion, and Groove, The

100. Night They Drove Old Dixie Down: Remembering Robbie Robertson

101. Noise Was Life: Remembering the Titans of Toronto’s Jazz

102. Odetta: A Flight Across the Divide

103. Oscar & Makoto: Two Pianos

104. Oscar Peterson and Art Tatum

105. Oscar Peterson Trio: The London House 1964

106. Paint Your Day

107. Pat Metheny: Imaginary Day’s

108. Paul Griffin: The Ghost in the Machine

109. Prince: Music as Sport!

110. Profound Power of a Single Note, The

111. Questlove & the Lost Oscar Moment

112. Ramsey Lewis and the Holy Groove

113. Randy Bachman: Lenny Breau, A Guitarist’s Ghost Song

114. Rick James, Jay & the Fire That Grooved

115. Rolling Stones, The Choir, and a Memory Resurrected, The

116. Roy Hargrove: The Beautiful, Battered Genius

117. Saturday Night Live at 50: The Relentless March of Comedy and Culture

119. SCTV vs. SNL: And the Winner Is!

120. Sharon Jones: Soul Survivor, Uncompromising Star

121. Shirley Horn: Here’s to Life

122. Sly Stone and the Groove That Shook America

123. Sonata Beneath the Surface

124. Songs From the Mudbanks of the Ohio River

125. Sonny Rollins Walks the Room: A Communion in Tenor

126. Staying Engaged with Life

127. Stephanie Trick: A Legacy of Swing and Syncopation

128. Steve Winwood: Last Exit

129. Super Bowl LIX Pre-Show and Half-Time: The Soul of a City, the Sound of a Nation

130. Swingin’ Threads: A Journey Through Jazz and Style

131. Symphonic Dance: When Jazz Met Classical, The

132. The Ascension of Jazz Piano Harmony: A Listening Pilgrimage

133. The Backbeat: The Pulse of Popular Music

134. The !!!! Beat: Rhythm & Blues TV at its Beat!

135. The Dream Rhythm Keepers

136. The Emotional Impact of Musical Keys: A Journey Through Tone and Feeling

137. The Gentle Giant of Jazz Piano: Carl Perkins

138. The Sound of Uprising: 30 Protest Songs That Refuse to Fade

139. The Symphonic Dance: When Jazz Met Classical

140. The Teddy Girl and the Pink Sock Brigade, The

141. They Came for the Chord Changes and Stayed for the Canon

142. Those Late-Night Show Bands: Louis Cato & Stay Human

143. Top o’ The Senator: A Camera’s Eye

144. Two Essential Truths About James Brown That Define His Legacy

145. Unlimited Miles (Davis)

146. West Side Story Revisited 2020

147. Wynton Marsalis: The Centre and the Calling

148. Yolanda Adams: “Hallelujah” at Her Very Best

Volume #2 – Coming in October 2026

A Long Note to Elaine Overholt - Big Voice, Big Heart
A Love Letter to the Newsstand
Alysa McCall, Polar Bears International.
Allen Toussaint – American Tunes
Andy Kim: The Fearless Dreamer from Montreal to the Brill Building
Architecture, Beauty, and the Orchestra of Care
Art of Not Aging Quietly - Jane Fonda
Bad Bunny Half-Time Super Bowl 60
Basie – Live at the Sands (Before Frank)
Before Elvis, Before Berry, Before Richard—There Was Sister Rosetta
Between the River and the Rim – Indiana National Champions
Big Pink and Levon’s Earthbound Beat
Bill Frisell – From the Vault 1998
Bill Moyers - A Gospel of Reason in a Time of Static
Billy Joel, And So, It Goes - A Long Island Reverie
Black, White and Human Rights
Blue Note Records: Beyond the Notes - Uncompromising Expression
Blues Britannia: Can Blue Men Sing the Whites?
Bob Johnston - The Sounds of Silence
Brothers, Bands, and the Beat: Remembering NRBQ and the Adams Connection
Cats on a Hot Tin Roof, Seriously!
Chester Thompson - Salt Peanuts & Serendipity
Chris Columbo, Rockin’ The Beat! - Hall of the Rhythm Kings
Christmas with Barbra Streisand — 1964
Chronic Adventurer, Writer, and Storyteller – Frank Wolf
Cover-Up — Seymour Hersh
Cropper, Keys, and the Making of Brother Bill - Steve Cropper Passes at 84
Dave Brubeck, In His Own Sweet Way
Deconstructing a Month of Jimi Hendrix
Do You Remember the First Time You Were Played on the Radio?
Don Stevenson: Moby Grape
Don’t tell me Bob Dylan, Johnny Cash or Willie Nelson can’t sing!
Dooney’s Cafe — My Literary Finishing School
Dr. Biruté Galdikas - Celebrating 50 Years Protecting Wild Orangutans
Eddie Kramer – from the Vault - Beatles, Zeppelin, Bowie, Rolling Stones, Jimi Hendrix
Elvis Presley – Love Me Tender!
Eva Cassidy at Blues Alley
Exile on Main Street – The Rolling Stones
First Time Ever I Played an Organ Note
From Nat Cole to Ella: Virginia Wicks and the Art of Persuasion
From The Blues Breakers to The Cream – Clapton & Mayall
George (Jones) & Tammy (Wynette)
Hans Zimmer Revealed
Heard It Through the Grapevine – Marvin Gaye
Herbie Hancock - Speak Like a Child
Hey Dude? What Happened to My New Year’s Gig?
How Sackin Bessette Built Moment Factory and the Art of Immersive Magic
How Suzie Collier and Her Son Jacob Are Redefining Musical Greatness
I Think It’s Gonna Rain Today - Kinga Heming
It’s Sunday Morning — and Brother Bill Is Gifting You the Genius of Yuja Wang
Jack DeJohnette - Parallel Realities
Jamaica’s Ernie Ranglin – The Birth of Ska!
James Brown Meets Oliver Nelson - Soul on Top
JANIS (Memphis Meltdown) 1968
Jimmy Webb: The Architecture of Song
Just Say Yes. A Reflection on Community & Calling.
Karen Burke - Raising a Joyful Sound - Caribbean Fire, Gospel Soul
Karen Carpenter - Walk On By
Kodachrome Days: The Works of Fred Herzog
Lady Gaga and Amy Winehouse and the Education of Mr. Bill
Larnell Lewis - Gospel of the Drum
Linda McCartney - The McCartney Frame
Little Feat—Sky, Heaven and California Down Below!
Long Live Gothic Avenue – 1971-1976, Toronto
Lost in Hydra - Marianne & Leonard: Words of Love
Mark Carney & Joni Mitchell: Both Sides Now – The Junos 2026
Martha Davis: Boogie Nights
McCartney 3,2,1
Me and Mrs. King Got a Thing” - A Wedding Night with Billy Paul
Most Hilarious Gig? Maybe! - The Cosmic Splash — Los Angeles, 1976
Musicians without Borders
Nat King Cole – The Pianist America Forgot
Norah Jones: Returning to the Piano, Holding on to the Song
Oscar & Me - The Summer of 1963
Oscar Peterson at 100!
Otis Blackwell - Great Balls of Fire - 1983
Paul McCartney Photographs 1963–64: Eyes of the Storm
Paul McCartney: Man on the Run
Politics and the Grammys – 2026
Proudly Canadian! - Basketball, Baseball, Jazz & Politics
Prisencolinensinainciusol - Adriano CelentanoRaye & Her Sisters
Ray Charles – Confessin’ the Blues
Renaldo and Me, Lost in Cuba! - The Everlasting Power of Music
Rewrites, Reflections, and the First Time I Saw My Own Voice
Rick James Had No Sense.
Riding the Americas: An Interview with Felipe Masetti Leite.
Rise and Fall of Millie Vanilli.
Rockin’ the Beat with Earl Palmer – Good Vibrations
Rowlands, Bowie, The Beatles and Brenda – Photographer John Rowlands
Saving All My Love for Whitney
Scott Thompson - My Brother in Jazz – Jazz at Lincoln Center
Shangri-La, My First Strip Bar
Sonny Rollins - Saxophone Colossus
Songwriter Brenda Russell – Piano in The Dark
Stomp and Swerve – A Journey Back to the Birth of American Music
Still on the Bus: Greg Godovitz at 75
Steve Earle – The Soul of a Man
Sylvia Robinson – Mother of Hip Hop
The Art of People Talk
The Beatles–A Hard Day’s Night
The Candyman Can! Sammy Davis Jr.
The Carol Burnett Show - Vegas 1976
The Damn Truth at Redwood Theatre - When Rock and Roll Shows Up for Real
The Earth Dances With, Or Without!
The Funky Drummers: Guardians of the Pocket
The Good Brothers - Eight Decades of Tall Music!
The Kindest Kind of Funny: Toronto’s Own Catherine O’Hara
The Listening Heart of Donzaleigh Abernathy
The Long Shadow of Donny Hathaway – The Ghetto
The Marvellous Billy Catskills – The 60s’
The Oscars! 2026
The Original Toronto Jazz Impresarios
The Roots of Atlantic Records: Herb Abramson
The White Witch of Rose Hall
The World Loves Us, The Birth Beat
These Arms of Mine – A Road Memory – Otis Redding
Tom Wilson: Beautiful Words
Toronto Rock Revival 69’: A Flashpoint in Rock History
We the People - A Statement, A Stand – Anthem
We’re All Geniuses!
We’re Having a Party (Pointer Sisters, May 1976)
Willie at 92 - The Dust Never Settles
“Joel, Willie, Amy” - The Shattering of a Songbird

Wrecking Crew

How Suzie Collier and Her Son Jacob Are Redefining Musical Greatness

and leaving you with a good laugh.

It began, as these things often do, by accident.

Twenty years in the same house breeds a certain blindness. Shelves become scenery. Boxes turn into furniture. You stop seeing what’s been quietly waiting. I was cleaning—nothing ambitious, just the slow, reluctant sorting of a life lived in layers—when I found them. Loose pages, slightly curled, tucked between old magazines and forgotten keepsakes.

Short stories. Fragments. Lines of verse.

I don’t remember writing most of them.

Back then, I was taking writing courses at Ryerson University. Late to the game, older than the rest, but somehow more awake. You sit differently in a classroom when you’ve already lived a little. You listen harder. You take risks you wouldn’t have dared in your twenties. Or maybe you just care less about failing.

Reading those pages now, I expected awkwardness. A younger man reaching. Instead, I found something else—someone else. A voice already formed. Not polished, not restrained, but certain. The grammar, if anything, was tighter than I remember. A bit stiff in places. But the rhythm—the way sentences moved, the way ideas unfolded—that was familiar. Unmistakably mine.

It’s a strange kind of recognition, meeting yourself across decades and realizing you’ve been speaking the same language all along.

This morning, with tea going cold beside me, I started reading one piece again. The title stopped me: The Final Passage of Herman Ramses. Here’s Pt.1. With added polish.

Herman Ramses journeys a thousand miles to celebrate the final hours of his life. His body, terminal with disease, carries indisputable biological evidence. Drugged beyond coherence, he refuses to die wired intravenously, refuses to surrender his final moments to tubes, to the slow drip of chemicals that dull sensation and thought. Instead, he wants clarity—one last opportunity to see, hear, smell, and taste life as vividly as at first light beyond the womb. With quiet precision, Ramses conceives a plan that will permit death with unwavering dignity.

He lies bedridden for most of the past year, suffering enormous discomfort, a searing and constant pain encouraged by months of chemotherapy and prolonged morphine-induced hallucinations. The body weakens, distorts, betrays—but it does not extinguish his affection for life. Beneath infirmed skin there remains a fierceness, determined and focused, the same force that has carried him through eighty-five years. He is, even now, a tireless opponent when confronted by resistance.

When cancer first invades his colon, Ramses assures friends and family he will be victorious. He meets treatment with defiance. Medicines, herbs, acupuncture, procedures, prayer—nothing is refused, nothing left untried. Yet nothing halts the intemperate march of the disease. His future settles into place, preordained.

Then, in a rare and piercing moment of clarity, he lifts himself from sweat-soaked bedding, orders attendants to remove the long vines of painkillers, and closes his eyes. He does not sleep. He drifts—backward.

It is the early 1930s. Young Ramses becomes enamoured with dance band music, captivated especially by the trumpet and its authority within an ensemble. Duke Ellington’s Harlem Footwarmers, with Cootie Williams on trumpet, leaves such an impression that the boy begs his father for private lessons.

Lawrence refuses. Music is a waste of time. “A boy should have a profession,” he insists, “not be seduced by worldly things. What can a man do with a trumpet? Set a broken rib, fill a cavity, build a brick house?”

Herman ignores him. He salvages copper from discarded pots and cable wire, saves what he can, and purchases a slightly tarnished King Deluxe trumpet. It is enough.

Now he moves through Manhattan’s Lower East Side, working his way into horn sections of society orchestras. Occasionally he finds himself in the pit of off-Broadway musicals, though his heart never settles there. He grows to abhor the endless hours, the swollen lips, the ritual humility demanded by bandleaders. Slowly, clearly, he realizes he is working on the wrong side of money.

He watches the agents—sharp suits, polished shoes—hypnotizing entertainers with promises of wealth, fast cars, excess. The routine repeats nightly. Ramses observes carefully. Within a year, he shifts. He perfects the art of persuasion and becomes one of them.

Now he prowls community dances, searching for unique talent. It does not take long before he builds a formidable roster. Through the thirties, forties, and fifties, he accumulates a fortune, conducting business with a handshake and a promise. No contracts. “No leeching lawyers,” he says.

He marries. Raises two sons. Lives fully, though never devoutly. His beliefs remain practical, grounded. Laughter, a good cigar, hot rhythms—these serve as his medicine.

Now the hospital replaces all of it.

The months locked inside are the loneliest. Visitors come—sons David and Arnold, a few friends from the stage. Artie Shaw plays softly from a vintage cassette player. Someone brings a flask of red wine to sip in a nearby parkette. But none of it replaces Adele. None of it restores the Rose Garden Ballroom, the long nights of music and movement. Memory returns, but not gently—it presses.

At times, Ramses considers ending his life with morphine. The idea presents itself cleanly, logically. But he is never given more than the prescribed dosage. Control remains just beyond reach. It frustrates him.

One afternoon, in the third month of his confinement, he watches the last leaf of an old maple unlock from its branch. It drifts along an unseen current and disappears into the overgrowth below. The moment lingers. It repeats itself through sleepless nights, replaying until morning light interrupts it.

He studies it.

There is no struggle. No interference. Only release.

Ramses concludes he must divorce himself from those elements that interrupt spiritual passage. He begins to imagine clarity in its purest form—to face death without obstruction, without expectation. Others have done it for thousands of years, he reasons. Why should he not be afforded the same?

Now he begins to consider the passage between here and whatever comes after.

At first, the ideas come loosely. He imagines lying on an altar high above pristine mountains, exposed to the elements. But the vision collapses—he sees scavenging birds tearing at flesh, as they do with roadkill. He abandons it.

Fire follows. A return to ash. But doubt intrudes again. What if he survives? What if pain deepens?

Then it arrives—sudden, complete. A handwritten thunderbolt delivered by something beyond him.

The sea.

Death at sea. Limbs tumbling in rhythm with the rise and fall of currents. No trace. No evidence. Identity dissolved. Ramses feels a strange certainty, as though handed a fortune cookie from God.

Now he acts.

He telephones travel agents, requesting brochures to tropical destinations. David brings him a pocket atlas. Ramses scribbles notes in the margins as though annotating a play.

Barbados—too hot. Jamaica—too many crazies. Aruba—too dry, too much wind. Cuba—Fidel. Puerto Rico—he has never liked rhumbas.

Then—Bermuda.

“Bermuda,” he says aloud. “I’ve always liked the sound of the word. Sounds English. Sounds like money.”

He checks the manual. Seventy-seven degrees. The water remains seventy-seven degrees in October. He closes his eyes and imagines it—floating atop warm, emerald water, clear enough to see the bottom, where light and wind dissolve into one.

Three weeks from now, he books a first-class seat on American Airlines. He tells no one.

Now he begins to rebuild himself.

He massages his legs. Stretches. Walks slowly. Endures long baths. Pain remains constant, but he refuses to acknowledge it. Gradually, strength returns.

The hallway becomes his test. There are no handrails, no centre support. He grips the back of his wheelchair and moves forward, inch by inch, then back again. Balance comes slowly.

In his mind, a wave forms—rising from beneath the sea, carrying him outward, beyond the horizon. He begins to believe the mind can command the body.

Weeks pass. Muscle returns. Confidence follows. He knows now he can endure the flight.

And then—without announcement, without farewell—Ramses rises.

He steps into his trousers, pulls on his brown tweed jacket, lifts his suitcase, and walks toward the front entrance. When the taxi driver reaches for the case, Ramses refuses, clutching it tightly, as though it contains something vital, something not to be surrendered.

The drive to LaGuardia stretches endlessly. The driver talks—baseball, the Yankees, a man named Darryl Strawberry. Ramses does not respond. That world is already slipping away.

“How about those Yankees? What you think about Strawberry. It’s a shame a young man of thirty-five like him have colon cancer,” implored the driver. Ramses had no idea who Darryl Strawberry was and his effect on the populous of the city. The guy continues, “I bet it was all those drugs and alcohol.” Ramses slowly rolls down a window and inhales the street toxins of early day.

He inhales deeply.

The air is sharp, imperfect, alive—and he holds it there, as long as he can.

Bill King Photography

The morning arrived with a kind of stubborn chill that did not belong to May, a thin, needling cold that clung to the edges of the city as though winter had forgotten its cue to exit. At seven o’clock, I kept my promise to my son Jesse and his partner Eve, who were set to run the 10K in support of cancer research. The hour itself was no burden, but the temperature—hovering around three degrees—felt like a quiet affront. This is May, I muttered inwardly, not some borrowed fragment of the Arctic slope. And yet, there we were, breath visible, hands tucked, while somewhere far off, later today, at Target Field in Minneapolis, fans sit in T-shirts watching the Toronto Blue Jays chase balance in a long season. The contrast was almost comical, if it weren’t so deeply Canadian.

Still, the day held its own gravity. There was the hum of anticipation not only from the runners but from the city itself. Later, the Toronto Raptors would meet the Cleveland Cavaliers in a Game Seven that promised noise, nerves, and narrative. But before any of that, there was the simple act of motion—the turning of pedals for fifteen early kilometers, the quiet rhythm of breath and chain, and the slow gathering of people along a route that would soon pulse with effort.

Jesse & Eve waving crossing finish line.

The Toronto Marathon unfolded as it always does, with a kind of democratic beauty. The 20K began near Yonge and North York Boulevard, then stretched southward, drawing a living line through North York, down the long spine of Yonge Street, and onward toward Exhibition Place and the western waterfront. The distances varied—full marathon, half, 10K, 5K—but the intention converged. Roughly thirteen thousand souls gathered in motion, their bodies declaring something stubborn and hopeful about endurance.

I found myself lingering, camera in hand, watching faces I had never seen and will likely never see again. And yet, in that temporary assembly, there was a completeness—people in their private struggles and public strides, each one carrying a story invisible to the next. They were beautiful in a way that resists easy language. Not perfection, but vitality. Not immortality, but the echo of it. Lungs full of cold air, legs cutting through distance, hearts insisting on forward.

And as often happens in moments of quiet observation, the mind drifts beyond the frame. I thought of Ukraine, of Iran, of the Middle East—places where the ordinary act of breathing freely, of moving through a street without fear, is not guaranteed. The contrast struck hard. These runners, alive in their effort, mirrored the very lives elsewhere interrupted neighborhoods reduced to dust, the echo of explosions replacing the rhythm of footsteps. The ringing in the ears of children is a sound that does not fade easily. One life lost is not a statistic; it is an absence that ripples outward without end. And here, in Toronto, life surged forward in defiance of that darkness, even if only for a morning.

The logistics of the race told their own story. Roads closed from early morning, beginning around seven. Midtown arteries gradually reopening, while Lake Shore held its breath a little longer, traffic diverted, transit rerouted. The Martin Goodman Trail filled with spectators, cyclists, and those who simply came to witness. For runners, it was a certified urban course, a chance to thread through the city’s shifting textures—steel and glass, asphalt and lakefront. For everyone else, it was a gentle disruption, a reminder that cities are not only for efficiency, but for gathering.

The Toronto Waterfront Marathon will come later in the year, in October, with its own cadence and cooler certainty. But this spring race carries something different—a kind of fragile optimism, a belief that warmth will return, that the body can be trusted again after winter’s confinement. The course records—2:15:17 for men, 2:31:47 for women—stand as markers of human capability, yes, but also as quiet invitations. Not to match them, but to move at all.

And so, the morning unfolded, not in spectacle alone, but in reflection. A city in motion, a world in contrast, and a simple truth made visible in every stride: that life, in all its vulnerability, insists on continuing.

Bill King Photography

Lately, at the Redwood Theatre Centre for the Performing Arts, I have found myself drawn not merely to the expected spectacle of staged performance, but to those fleeting, peripheral moments where motion spills beyond choreography and into something less obedient—something closer to madness. It is there, in that unstable border between intention and accident, that the visual mind begins to anticipate rather than simply observe. Such was the case on a recent Friday night, when the circus returned to this 112-year-old institution, and the familiar rhythms of performance gave way to something more restless, more intoxicating.

The Redwood Theatre itself carries the sediment of Toronto’s entertainment history within its walls. In the early decades of the twentieth century, it stood as a vessel for vaudeville, hosting a rotating constellation of music, dance, and acrobatic acts that defined the cultural appetite of the time. Its façade, preserved in archival images, speaks to that era with quiet authority. Yet, like many such spaces, it did not remain fixed in purpose. By the 1940s and 1950s it had become a cinema (1920’s silent movie theatre), and later, stripped of spectacle altogether, it served as a department store warehouse until the close of the 1980s. That it should re-emerge in 2005 as a hub for aerial circus arts feels less like reinvention and more like a return—an echo of its earlier life, refracted through contemporary practice.

It is within this layered environment that Escape Productions presented Consumed: Circus of the Seven Deadly Sins, an immersive work that resists passive viewing. The evening did not so much begin as it enveloped. Framed within the imagined architecture of “Club Inferno,” the production invited its audience into a space where moral binaries dissolve and indulgence is rendered not as caution, but as invitation. The Seven Deadly Sins, so often deployed as warnings, appeared here as charismatic intermediaries—hosts who guided rather than judged, who enticed rather than condemned. One was not asked to watch, but to yield.

For the observer behind the lens, this posed its own set of demands. The act of moving between video and still photography became an exercise in negotiation—each choice carrying the risk of forfeiting a moment irretrievable once passed. There is a particular tension in that oscillation: to commit to motion is to abandon the still, and to capture the still is to fracture the continuity of movement. And yet, within that tension, something resolves. The resulting images—particularly in black and white—strip the performance of its ornamental distractions, revealing instead the underlying architecture of bodies in space, of effort, of gravity resisted and briefly undone.

Escape Productions, still a relatively young collective, bears the marks of its origin story with a certain defiance. Founded in 2024 by artists whose professional lives exist outside the circus, the company operates within the margins of conventional time. Their rehearsals, often confined to Sunday evenings, suggest a discipline shaped not by abundance, but by constraint. It is perhaps this very limitation that sharpens their work. Their debut production, ESCape, achieved a sold-out run and was described in terms that juxtaposed the banal with the uncanny—corporate satire colliding with ritualistic unease. That early success did not settle their direction; it emboldened it.

With Consumed, the company ventures further into thematic darkness, constructing a performance that is as much psychological landscape as it is physical display. The apparatuses—silks, straps, rope, hoops, chains, and pole—function not merely as instruments of technique, but as extensions of narrative. Each discipline articulates a different register of experience: the slow unraveling of control, the assertion of dominance, the vulnerability inherent in suspension. Dance and contortion expand this vocabulary, allowing the body to speak in gestures that are at once precise and suggestive. What emerges is not a sequence of acts, but a continuous descent, carefully orchestrated yet deliberately disorienting.

At the center of this work is a small ensemble of performers whose individual proficiencies converge into a collective force. Their backgrounds vary in duration and specialization, yet the cohesion of the group suggests a shared commitment that transcends technical display. There is an understanding—perhaps unspoken—that the success of such a production lies not in isolated virtuosity, but in the capacity to sustain a unified atmosphere. It is this atmosphere, more than any single act, that lingers.

In the end, the evening resists simple categorization. It exists somewhere between theatre and ritual, between spectacle and seduction. The Redwood Theatre, with its layered past, proves an apt vessel for such ambiguity. And for the one attempting to document it, the task becomes less about preservation and more about interpretation—about accepting that no single frame, no sequence of frames, can fully contain what unfolds. One can only offer a version, shaped by choice, by omission, and by the quiet hope that something of the experience endures beyond the moment itself.

Writing is my music. Each sentence hums, each paragraph riffs, each essay seeks the elusive groove. I strive to make words swing. Sentences jazz solos, improvising with precision, always searching for the perfect note. For me, the page is a stage, and my words are the players—some brash like a trumpet blast, others soft like a brushstroke on a snare.

I learned to write from listening. Not to English teachers or grammarians, but to musicians. Louis Armstrong’s gravelly growl taught me cadence. Miles Davis’s cool phrasing taught me restraint. Coltrane taught me how to stretch a sentence until it soared. Each word I write carries the memory of a note played, a beat struck, or a lyric sung.

But writing isn’t just sound; it’s also silence. Like the rests in music, the spaces between words matter. A well-placed pause lets the reader breathe, just as a musician pauses to let the room catch its breath. When I write, I think about the air around the words, the way the spaces hold the melody together.

I write like I do because I can’t not. I write to capture the improvisational spirit of life, the way it twists and turns, refusing to be pinned down. I write because, like a musician, I’m always chasing perfection, knowing I’ll never quite reach it, but revelling in the pursuit.

When you read my words, I hope you hear the instruments behind them. I hope you hear the bassline of my past experiences, the percussive rhythm of my heartbeat, the melody of my thoughts. Writing, like jazz, is a conversation—a call and response between you and me.

So, why do I write like I do? Because words, like notes, deserve to be played. And if I play them right, maybe they’ll swing.

This Substack is more than sentences and paragraphs. It is a river of memory and music, flowing out of childhood summers and nightclubs thick with smoke, through conversations with strangers and friends alike. A paid subscription is not only a kindness but also a way of saying: keep the river moving, keep the stories alive. In return, you will be welcomed deeper into the circle: the full archive, the chapters ahead, the photographs not yet shared, the music behind the words. These are the offerings that do not drift free in the public air but belong to those who help shoulder the journey.

If these stories have ever held you steady, or reminded you of your own hidden summer, I ask you to join me. Become a paid subscriber. It is a simple act, but it carries weight. It means the words will continue, and that we will walk this road together. 5$ montly, 50$ yearly. Click below and step inside.

Gracious!

Bill

There are moments in history when the noise of the world—its violence, its pride, its machinery of conflict—grows so loud that even those long accustomed to it begin to hear, faintly at first, the echo of something truer beneath it. We find ourselves, perhaps, in such a moment now. For all the ruin and spectacle of war unfolding before us, there is, paradoxically, a sharpening of conscience—a reluctant but undeniable turning toward questions of meaning, dignity, and moral truth. If anything, enduring and positive emerges from the shadow of war, it may well be the rediscovery of teachings long spoken but too often ignored.

I have never regarded war with anything but deep unease. Even as a young person, there was an instinctive understanding—shared quietly among many of us—that the burden of war is not evenly carried. It is not the sons and daughters of privilege who fill the ranks of the fallen, nor those whose influence shields them from consequence. Instead, it is the young—often from working-class families, from communities where opportunity is already scarce—who are asked, or compelled, to stand at the edge of history and absorb its violence. They become, in the most tragic sense, instruments of decisions they did not make.

We sensed, even then, that the machinery of modern warfare would not hesitate. That when the moment came, every available means—technological, ideological, and human—would be deployed. And it was understood, too, that certain names would never appear on casualty lists, that some would remain safely distant while others bore the cost in flesh and memory. This awareness was not born of cynicism alone, but of observation—of patterns repeating themselves across generations.

Not long ago, I came across a letter I had written in those earlier years, addressed to the Prime Minister, expressing support for those who refused to fight in wars they believed to be unjust. These were individuals who sought refuge rather than participation, who chose conscience over compliance. At the time, it felt like a small act, perhaps even a futile one. Yet reading it now, I am struck by how consistent that moral thread has remained—how the refusal to accept war as inevitable or necessary continues to surface, even in the most hardened eras.

The teachings of the Catholic Church, particularly as they have developed across time, speak with a clarity that feels increasingly urgent. Leo XIII recognized the profound contradiction at the heart of war: that even when justified by human reasoning, it unleashes suffering that corrodes both victor and vanquished alike. His words remind us that peace is not merely the absence of conflict, but a condition of human flourishing—and that war, by its very nature, undermines that possibility.

In our own time, Pope Francis has gone further, articulating what many have come to feel but struggled to express: that war, especially in its modern form, represents not a solution but a failure. A failure of imagination, of diplomacy, of moral courage. The scale of destruction now possible—through advanced weaponry, through the targeting of civilian life—renders traditional justifications increasingly hollow. Violence does not resolve the conditions that give rise to it; it perpetuates them, deepening cycles of resentment and loss. His call is not naïve, as some might suggest, but radical in its insistence that human dignity must remain the central measure of all political action.

And there is, too, the voice of a Pope who speaks not only of the destruction war brings, but of its underlying causes: the pursuit of power, the neglect of the vulnerable, the willingness to invest in instruments of death while ignoring the needs of the living. This perspective reframes strength itself, suggesting that true power lies not in domination but in the capacity to build, to reconcile, and to care. It challenges the assumption that security can be achieved solely through force, proposing instead that lasting peace arises from justice and solidarity.

What emerges from these teachings is not a simplistic rejection of reality, but a deeper engagement with it. They do not deny the complexity of human conflict, nor the difficult decisions faced by nations. Rather, they insist that even in complexity, there must remain a commitment to principles that affirm life over destruction, dialogue over domination, and conscience over convenience.

If this moment in 2026 can be called an epicentre of anything, perhaps it is not enlightenment in the triumphant sense, but in the quieter, more demanding recognition of what must change. The suffering we witness is not abstract; it is immediate, human, and avoidable. And in acknowledging that, we are confronted with a choice—not only as nations, but as individuals—about what we are willing to accept, and what we are prepared to challenge.

War may continue, as it has throughout history. But so too does the persistent, often fragile movement toward peace—a movement sustained by those who question, who refuse, who remember, and who speak, even when their voices seem small against the vast machinery of conflict.

November 9, 2015

The Right Honourable Justin Trudeau
Prime Minister of Canada
Office of the Prime Minister
Langevin Block
80 Wellington Street
Ottawa, Ontario
K1A 0A2

Dear Prime Minister,

I am writing on behalf of those service members who have sought refuge in Canada over the past decade, many of whom served in conflicts in Iraq and Afghanistan.

I fled to Canada in 1969 as a war resister. I had served in the U.S. Army and was ordered to Vietnam. I thought deeply about the ramifications and my own moral convictions, and I found that I could not be coerced into taking the lives of people with whom I had no connection and who posed no threat to our country. I had the distinct advantage of serving as a pianist in the 81st Army Band at Fort Campbell, Kentucky—the army band—which allowed me to socialize with many senior officers on the base. I soon discovered that many of them were troubled by the war, and a few were even seeking reassignment to avoid having to return.

I have lived with this decision all my life. Your father, Pierre Trudeau, got it right, and through his leadership, we were welcomed and allowed to immigrate and seek landed immigrant status. I have built a wonderful life here and have been an integral part of the music scene for the past 45 years.

About a decade ago, I had the privilege of meeting the young girl captured in the iconic photograph by Nick Ut—Kim Phuc—as she fled her village in terror, severely burned by napalm. I met her at a World Press Photo event. Ms. Phuc shared her experiences: years of skin grafts, persistent pain, and ongoing trauma. My eyes filled with tears. As I stood there, I thought of the millions like her—the countless hospital visits they would endure throughout their lives, the cost in human suffering and financial burden—and I knew, in that moment, that I had made the right decision.

When I first met the young people coming to Canada during the Iraq and Afghanistan wars, I quickly understood their situation—their genuine resistance to killing and to being used as instruments of death.

Decades after Vietnam, the truth has emerged: we were sold a false bill of goods. We were misled, and many involved in the Watergate scandal during the Nixon administration were held accountable. We are now beginning to understand the reality behind the Iraq War, and much like Vietnam, it was also based on misleading premises. Hundreds of thousands are now dead, thousands have been tortured, and there has been a mass exodus from the region, unlike anything I have seen since my birth in 1946.

It is extremely difficult for young men and women to make clear decisions when confronted with duty and obligation. Those who fought in Iraq and Afghanistan did so believing they were serving a just cause, but time has shown that many were ultimately serving the interests of oligarchs, politicians, arms manufacturers, and opportunists.

The Canadian government’s decision not to participate in the invasion of Iraq was one of the proudest moments in our country’s history. Some American service members made the same moral choice, refusing to fight in a war they believed was based on falsehoods. A small number of them sought refuge in Canada, following a path like my own when I left Fort Dix in 1969 and crossed the border.

These individuals have been in legal and personal limbo for nearly a decade—some, like former paratrooper Jeremy Hinzman, for even longer. I know several of them personally, and what an asset they are to our society. They are people of conviction and courage. They and their families have paid a heavy price: uprooting their lives, leaving behind family, country, and home. They did so because they could not, in good conscience, carry out what was being asked of them. Some continue to live with the trauma of what they witnessed and experienced in Iraq.

We now understand the extent to which the Iraq War destabilized the region. It destroyed a nation and left behind deep resentment that continues to fuel conflict and extremism. These individuals were right. Yet the former Conservative government targeted them and forced several back to the United States, where they faced severe punishment. Kimberly Rivera was deported and sentenced to 14 months in military prison. Robin Long received 15 months. Patrick Hart was sentenced to 24 months. Because they came to Canada and spoke out, they were punished more harshly.

Canadians were deeply troubled to see the Harper government single them out and deport them despite Parliament having twice voted to halt such actions. For years, we have been waiting for a change in direction.

I know that you and your colleagues have previously supported allowing U.S. war resisters to remain in Canada. I urge you to do everything in your power to ensure that no more Iraq War resisters are deported to imprisonment in the United States. They deserve our gratitude and the opportunity to rebuild their lives.

Respectfully,

Bill King
Toronto, Ontario

We emerged from World War II into a rapidly changing country. The wartime economy was shifting into something more stable, and for many people, life began to feel normal again. New suburbs were being built, televisions were appearing in homes, and Hollywood promoted an image of easy travel, family life, and affordable freedom. There was a sense that things were getting better, that there were more opportunities and a bit more money in people’s pockets. It felt like a fresh start.

But that sense of freedom was not the same for everyone. Many families were still dealing with the effects of the war in very real ways. Soldiers came home with injuries, both physical and emotional, and caring for them became part of everyday life. The image of the happy, forward-moving America did not always match what was happening inside the home. For some, the war never really ended—it just changed form.

Listen: Virginia, Don’t You Weep - Bill King - Gloryland, Tales from the Old South.

This is something I explore in my musical, Gloryland, Tales from the Old South. I focus on women who were expected to support their families and give up their own ambitions. Even though the country was moving forward, many of them were unable to pursue careers or independence as they had hoped in the musical selection, “Virginia, Don’t You Weep.” Their roles were defined by responsibility, and their choices were often limited by circumstances beyond their control.

I think about my mother in this way. She tried to continue her education by taking university courses online, which meant a lot to her. But my father’s long recovery made that difficult, and eventually she had to stop. It wasn’t a dramatic moment, but it was a turning point. What she wanted for herself had to be set aside.

As I grew older, I began to understand the sadness she carried. It wasn’t always visible, but it was there. After her teenage years, her life became focused on caring for her husband and children. She did what was expected of her, and she did it well, but it came at a cost. That quiet loss—of opportunity, of independence—is at the centre of the story I want to tell.

From Gloryland:

“Virginia came into the world with the quiet promise of open fields and unclaimed horizons, a girl whose mind reached farther than the fence lines that defined her days. She learned quickly—too quickly, perhaps—for the narrow expectations laid before her. Books hinted at a wider life, one shaped not by inheritance but by intention. Yet history, indifferent and immense, bent her course without asking.

The war did not take her to the battlefield, but it arrived all the same, carried home in the broken body of the man she married. His wounds were not only of flesh, but of spirit, and the world that sent him to fight had little interest in how he would live afterward. Virginia found herself tending not just to him, but to the silence left behind—an absence of answers, of support, of any clear path forward. She reached, more than once, for something beyond that life—education, purpose, a claim to selfhood that felt just within grasp—but each attempt dissolved against the hard edge of expectation.

Time settled heavily. Days blurred into duty, and duty into identity, until the question of who she might have been became too distant to hold. The sadness that followed was not loud, but enduring, a quiet erosion of certainty. And Virginia was not alone. Many women like her moved through those same long years, tethered to obligation, their earlier selves folded away like letters never sent. They endured not out of resignation alone, but from a belief—instilled, inherited—that endurance itself was a kind of virtue, even as it asked them to relinquish the very futures they had once imagined. Virginia, Don’t You Weep”

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