John playing the Santa Cruz guitar he bought from Phil. PHOTO BY LINDA ODLUND COLOMBINO

Sometime around 2008, I decided to help a fellow musician out.  He was fighting cancer, and it didn’t look good.  Thinking of him as I was driving from Asheville, North Carolina to Nashville, I had what I thought was an inspired idea.

I called him and said, “I know you feel that time is running out, and I wondered if you’d like to record what might be your last record.”

The next thing I knew, I was inviting every musician I knew to play for zilch on the record of someone they might not have heard of before.  The response was overwhelming, and by the time we had finished, over 30 musicians from Nashville, Austin, New York, and Canada had contributed their time and talent.  It was a good effort!

During the process, a physician friend of the artist called me and asked if he could contribute a few thousand dollars to the expenses of the album.  His name was John Mulder.  I said, “John, that’s awfully kind, but there aren’t any expenses; everyone’s playing or engineering for free.”

“Well, you’re not just working for an hour or two; you’re editing, recording, and putting serious time into it.  Let me pay you.”  As much as I could’ve used that money, I felt that I was supposed to decline, which I did.

But the invaluable gift of that call was an intimate friendship that I didn’t see coming.  

A few years later, when I held the second Mercyland Songwriter Workshop in Florida, John joined our little community.  Many came and went, but John and one other friend, Jonathan Richardson (the first person to show up for the very first workshop), became perennials.  

John showed up at his first Mercyland with talent, to be sure.  Another gift was his love of photography, and he documented that gathering and the many workshops that followed for the next decade.  

John filming at Mercyland. PHOTO BY LINDA ODLUND COLOMBINO

John had yet another gift which may have been his greatest contribution to our little band of creatives: Empathy and Wisdom.  

In his work with hospice, John’s stories of the ways people depart this life were enlightening, touching, and full of wisdom. Those stories and John’s wisdom and empathy were elemental when I went through my own dramatic loss a few years into Mercyland.

The workshop went through some growing pains, and when I was ready to close it down, John was the person who said, “Keep going.”  So did Jonathan, and it’s a good thing he did, because he met his wife Cindy Morgan at the workshop just a few years ago when we held it in Hot Springs, North Carolina.

When Jonathan and Cindy married in 2022, the wedding was in Hot Springs.  Yours truly was the officiant.  Besides a few family friends, many of the congregation were Mercylanders.  Some of us sang, some partook in the ceremony, some prepped beforehand and cleaned afterwards, but John was there with his camera to document another Mercyland gathering.  

John had health issues which led to a lung transplant about 7 years ago, I think.  He was doing life with one borrowed, operative lung.  We would meet at a restaurant near my home in Nashville for lunch fairly often, and he’d let me know his progress or difficulties, with no drama, no sense of “why me?”.  We would talk about guitars (he wound up owning several of mine) and music and life, and the gift of love that had come to each of us: his Lisa and my Jenny.

John was supposed to attend the first Mercyland In Ireland, and then the second, but scheduling got in the way.  Sammy Horner, my co-host in Ireland, and I were excited when John signed up for the 2025 workshop in Ireland.  John’s best friend Stephan Gaus would be coming as well.

I always fly into Dublin a few days before the Irish workshop, because my clock needs a reset before diving into the arduous work of leading it.  So, I was there with Sammy and Jonathan Richardson when we got the word that John’s health was bad enough that he and Stephan had to cancel on the day they were to fly to Ireland.  

We texted back and forth, and he expressed his frustration: “I’m just pissed”.  He knew he was facing death, but he was “just pissed” about missing the workshop.  

On Day One of the Irish workshop, we FaceTimed with John and Stephan, who had gathered to write in solidarity with our meeting.  I was glad and sad to see these good friends, and it choked me up a bit to know that they wanted to participate enough to work on a song together even if they couldn’t attend.  

That was the last time I saw John.

A few days after I got home from Ireland, I played a gig in Alabama with Leigh Nash.  Providing percussion was another Mercylander and friend of John’s- Steve Hindalong.  RIght before we went on stage, a text showed up on my phone with a lyric about John, and it was in past tense.  I didn’t read the rest of it; I didn’t want to get the news from someone who seemed like they wanted to be the first to tell the world, and I didn’t want to hear it on social media.  

Honestly, I just didn’t want to hear it from anyone. I didn’t want that truth yet.  I hoped he was still with us. 

We played our show with Leigh, and I stepped outside to call Jonathan, who let me know that John had passed.  

We had a show the next night, and while I might have delivered the goods musically, the cloud over my head was heavy. It was going to take a few days to sink in.  Some well-meaning Mercylanders were posting tributes and memories, but I was resistant to join the fray.  I texted Lisa that my public quietness about John’s passing was connected to the depth of my regard for him, and she replied that my quietness was “a balm” to her. 

While I never sought to be the leader of a little community called Mercyland, I knew that everyone who had experienced John wanted to talk about it, tell a story, or hear from others about it. So, I sent a group email saying that one of our attendees had suggested a group donation to Faith Hospice, where John had been a true pioneer in the work of ushering the dying through the veil.  That was a beautiful way that we could acknowledge our dear, wise, and wonderful brother John.  

Many replied with stories, but I wasn’t ready to tell mine.  

I still don’t feel eager to talk about it for fear that my own story will get in the way, but here I am.  

Two weeks have passed since John went into the Beyond.  My grief has been quiet.  I’ve written a lyric, and maybe there’s something to it, but I haven’t gone back to it. At least silence doesn’t try to measure the depth of loss we feel.  And hell, John was my very dear friend, but he wasn’t my husband, my father, my grandad, or my son.  I know the loss I’m feeling is but a fraction of what his family is dealing with.

Early in the wee hours of Saturday, Jonathan and I will climb into my Ford Flex and trek up to Grand Rapids for the visitation, and the funeral on Sunday, and then the long night ride back after we say our goodbyes.  It just occurred to me that I didn’t go to my own mother’s funeral; there were family complications that lured me into a different way of celebrating Mom’s life.  No harm done.

I only tell you this to emphasize John’s value in my life.  He’s worth the long haul in the short time we’ll afford ourselves to travel.

There’s one thing I’ll always remember about the first workshop John attended.  Every story he told about the dying entailed a vignette about someone whose body was ready to go, but an unresolved relationship kept them alive, albeit barely.  When the estranged child or ex-love would finally connect, in person or by phone, the departing person’s tears would fall, and peace would overcome them.  And they could leave.  

As much as John wanted to stay in this life, I’m comforted by the fact that (as far as I could tell) his mind didn’t need to keep his body here any longer than it was capable of being here.  I’m assuming that there were no loose ends, no cleanups needed.  

And I guess when someone leaves, because we’re all going to leave, if we’ve lived in peace, we will leave peace, too.

Thanks, John.  You were a greater friend than I may have told you.  - Phil Madeira 15 May 2025

PHIL MADEIRA, JOHN MULDER, & STEVE HINDALONG at MERCYLAND 2021 HOT SPRINGS, NC. PHOTO BY LINDA ODLUND COLOMBINO

PHOTO BY JENNY LITTLETON, HOT SPRINGS, NC, 2024

LEFT- Phil with Vince GIll- 2025. RIGHT- Phil with John Scofield- 2009

Depending on when they started listening to my music, some folks know me as a guitar picker, as opposed to a guitar slinger. Most know me as a piano / Hammond organ player.

Truth is, I play guitar every evening for hours. My Gibson CF-100 sits with me while I’m watching whatever trash is streaming. I’m still learning, still growing. I have a piano, too, but I play it less as I dwell in a condo, and don’t like to be bothersome. And most days, if I’m doing recording sessions at home, it’s with a keyboard that my neighbors don’t hear because I wear headphones.

When evening falls, it’s just me and my Gibson, trying to voice chords that I’m hearing, and then practicing until the chord position becomes second nature.

When I make records, I’m happy to play some guitar, but what thrills me is when one of my exceedingly gifted guitar-playing friends performs on a track. Locals like Will Kimbrough, Jerry McPherson, and Pat Bergeson often grace a song or two on a project, as well as James Hollihan, Jr, who lives in Ohio. Even if they aren’t known to you, they are legends to me.

Big dreams have come true for me when it comes to guitarists.  

My dream of touring and recording found fruition in an invitation from Phil Keaggy to join his band in 1976. Phil even let me play a few of my songs every night in those two years of consistent touring.

When the great Buddy Miller started hiring me to play Hammond and accordion on his and Julie Miller’s records in the 1990’s, it opened countless doors for me, and certainly brought an awareness of me to Emmylou Harris, whom I still play with all these years later. Playing shows with Buddy in Europe and the States was off the hook, musically. And those tours and recordings were the beginning of my bond with drummer Bryan Owings, who is a brother to me. I’m pretty sure I’ve got more road miles with Bryan than anyone else.

In 2008, I was at a Phil Lesh show in Nashville that Buddy had taken me to when I met jazz guitar legend John Scofield, a meeting that was fortuitous in that it brought a long-standing friendship with John and his wife and manager Susan. They are a gracious pair of aces.

Since I’ve learned enough to go through proper channels, I inquired with Susan about John playing on the first “Mercyland: Hymns For The Rest Of Us” album. The next thing I knew, he was in Nashville playing a session with Bryan Owings, Byron House, Al Perkins, Dan Tyminski, and me.

I was having dinner with John and Susan at their home in December 2016, when Sco offered to play on what would become my “Providence” record in 2017. How could I pass that up? 

I recorded most of “Providence” in February, and by springtime, my track was ready for John. I emailed a mix of the song to him in New York. Then, it was all up to him.

I was in Visby, Sweden with my daughters when he emailed a message saying he was recording the song that day.

Visby is a medieval coastal village on the island of Gotland, smack dab in the middle of the Baltic Sea. We were staying in a little hotel that was a few hundred years old, and a few hundred yards from a great restaurant.  

The three of us walked around the town, down to the beach, and eventually to the ancient walls that surround Visby, which we ascended and imagined armored knights watching for intruders like us.

Later in the evening, I checked my email, and there was an email from Sco with an mp3 rough mix of my song “Crescent Park” with his guitar on it. The magic of ancient Visby and the magic of what we take for granted, receiving instantaneous messages from thousands of miles away, wasn’t lost on me. Of course, I was happy. It’s no secret that John is probably my favorite guitarist of all time; his bent notes ooze with soul, jazz, and daring. 

That performance is captured on my record “Providence”.

In Autumn of 2024, I went over to Blackbird Studio with Dennis Holt and Dave Jacques on drums and bass, respectively, and recorded 9 songs, with me mostly on acoustic guitar and vocals. The great Al Perkins overdubbed on pedal steel, and fellow Emmylou bandmate Eamon McLoughlin added fiddle and mandolin.  After we were done, I knew I had to take the risk of inviting a bonafide guitar hero to play on a few tracks.

It takes thick skin to wish upon a star, but I’ve learned that if you have a dream like having Vince Gill play guitar on your record, all you can do is ask. Either way, you’ll have an answer, whereas if you don’t issue the invitation, you’ll always wonder if you should have.

So, I texted Vince, and asked if he would want to play guitar on a few things for me.  

I waited a few days, and sure enough he called, and we put a date on the calendar. We had a good laugh as well, which made me feel less imposing. Vince is kind of a teddy bear, to be honest, but I’m pretty sure he doesn’t suffer fools. I put my phone back in my hip pocket, and prepared my music for Vince.

Another big dream was about to come true.

We recorded his 1953 Telecaster on a couple of songs, which Vince played with his usual brilliance. Like John Scofield, Vince Gill has a unique style, immediately recognizable. He said, “Thanks for calling me to play guitar; I never get to do this. People usually want me to sing.”

Being the marvelous singer he is, I’m not surprised that he gets asked to sing, but hearing him rip on a vintage Telecaster that he’s owned since 1978 was a thrill.

His wife, my old friend Amy Grant, popped in to say hello when we were halfway through our session. There I was, in the company of two of the most gracious souls in Nashville. Back in the Nineties, I played Hammond organ on their famous duet “House Of Love”. I guess, in my own small way, I’ve been witness to their relationship from the time the “lights were coming on in the house of love”.

Vince’s attention to detail was impressive, particularly when my lyric mentioned Don Rich, Buck Owens’ iconic guitarist. Vince quoted Don as the line sailed by. His playing also evoked the spirit of the great Clarence White, the guitar hero of my youth.

What a beautiful afternoon it was.

It will be a while before anyone hears this new music, but I’m excited about it and devoted to making it great.

I love making music, and I love that everyone who plays on my material is a friend. Friendship adds to the sound, the magic, and the mojo. I’m humbled by the level of the musicians who show up on whatever I’m producing. I’m aware that it’s always the greatness of the collective that makes my records listenable, not just my sincere songs.

Holding one’s art up to the light takes a measure of both hubris and humility. Being bold enough to humbly ask someone to make what you create greater than it is might embarrass you, but it may indeed bless you beyond belief.

Pay attention to your dreams.

Bryan Owings, Chris Donohue, and Phil Madeira - Phil Madeira Trio in Rhode Island August 2024

What an interesting day we live in.  Old friends are no longer friends, now wondering how the bonds disappeared.  Some rejoice, while others mourn the ascent of our current President. It seems unlikely that we will ever unite.

I’ve had my moments of writing songs that address schisms- “King” and “By Now”, along with “Religion” that Will Kimbrough and I wrote a while back.  (All recorded by Red Dirt Boys)

At the Mercyland Songwriter Workshop, I tell attendees that the best songs come from the worst times.  Trauma is often part of the equation that causes artists to create.  My record “Bliss” is all love songs, all positivity, but some pretty sad days had to precede the days of literal bliss for me to celebrate them.

I’m now midway through Kickstarting the new record “Falcon”, and for a moment, I thought I would reflect on what the record is about.  

The first thing that comes to mind is the word goodwill.  “Falcon” is about celebrating friendship, family, and the desire to shine a brighter light.  

There’s a song about my father that celebrates how he walked humbly through the world, and the mercy that he was all about.

“Gene” is about my college friend who passed away a few years ago.  It’s tender and soulful, and doesn’t help me miss my old pal any less.  

There are a few other songs like that, that look back at my youth, wistfully and kindly.  And, if you know my song called “Maybe”, recorded by both Alison Krauss and Garth Brooks, you’ll hear a new version here.  (Can’t be a great record without a sad song!)

It took me the better part of 2 years to make this record, and after it was mixed and ready to master, I discarded one track for being a little too snarky for another I had just written that seemed to embody the kind of goodwill a listener might need.  

That song is called “Lesson Of Love”.  I had been pondering the unsettled relationship between an old friend and their child.  It might be the most compassionate song I’ve ever written.  I hope it does some good.

As we speak of division and bewilderment, I’m grateful that most of us love the language of music.  Sometimes it’s a song that heals a wound, a song that stitches up a rift, or a song that gives us pause to reflect on what we are projecting in the journey.  

Perhaps a song can inspire us to be people of goodwill.

“Pay attention to your dreams” is something I’ve been saying to my daughters for most of their lives.  

My dreams have taken me all over the world, and I wonder what would’ve happened to me if I had shut off the dreams, and settled into the status quo of what might’ve been expected of me, had I not had pretty open-minded parents.  

It was clear from the beginning that I wasn’t exactly like my two older siblings, and I’ve chronicled about that in my books “God On The Rocks”, so I won’t get too deep in those weeds here.  Nonetheless, my folks knew that my gifts were unlikely to find fulfillment in a conventional job. 

If you’ve read the book, you know that my dear mother was disappointed that I didn’t “use my gifts for the Lawd” (New England accent for effect).  But she was wrong about that; every time I’ve played a note, written a word, or dabbed paint on canvas, I believe I’m acknowledging the Spirit’s place in my life, mysterious as that concept is. 

 My dream was to make music, to be a musical artist, a recording artist.  What I didn’t plan on was waiting many years to become a recording artist.  I didn’t plan on writing songs for popular artists and playing on their records or in their bands, but sometimes the Way Of Life is service.

And I must say, those years of writing and playing for other artists was, overall, a joy.

I had a lot to learn about life before I was in a place to control my music and create recordings.  Playing with Emmylou Harris for 17 years has certainly been helpful in my progress, and by “progress”, I mean the process of becoming a person.  

O course, I’ve learned a lot about playing music, but the most important thing is discovering what one has to contribute to a community.  In my case, it’s often been the support community of an artist.  Thankfully, being in Emmylou’s band for these many years has been a joy; she’s a great friend, a great person, and a great musician.  My job is to bring the best of myself to every concert, every flight, every trip.

As I’m crowdfunding two records (“Falcon” and “Super Session”), it occurs to me that most of the “Falcon” record hearkens lyrically to a time when my dream was just getting started, when I was building friendships that would, unbeknownst to me, pave the road to what I’m doing now.  The bands from my college days, when I was a drummer, and the friendships forged then are still vital.   And, of course, every subsequent setting since then has shaped me, sometimes joyfully, sometimes painfully.

I made a record not long after I arrived in Nashville in the early 1980s, and it didn’t make a star out of me- and I’m so grateful that it didn’t, because I had yet to remember who I was before commerce came to call.  That first record was me trying to be something I wasn’t, and listening to it just makes me sad for that young guy trying so hard to fit in.  

Since you’re reading my blog, it’s a reasonable assumption that you listen to my music, and if I’ve done anything since I recorded my homespun “Off Kilter” album  in 1995, I’ve been true to myself.  I have made stripped-down Americana records and I’ve made hard-to-pin-down Jazz meets Randy Newman records.  Put me in a setting with Red Dirt Boys, and we’ll fly with the funk, or put me with The Ascendants, and I’m going to channel the Byrds and Beatles of my childhood.   I just do what I do, and I can hear a wide spectrum of influencers across the span of my 10 solo records.  

While I’m crowdfunding one record, I’m literally writing and recording the next.  I’m 72, and yet, I’m operating (for the moment) with all the capacity of a 25 year old.  It’s been said before- I’m a late bloomer.

All I can do is answer the muse, and the muse, it seems, won’t shut up.  God forbid that should ever happen!

“Falcon” opens with the line “There is a song I wish I’d never sung”.  

That line is a mile marker in my process- the journey of becoming.  My level of maturity is revealed in my intention.  It seems that as each record is birthed, the ingredient of goodwill seems to be in greater supply.  This isn’t to say that I won’t sing a hard-edged song, but it is to say that I hope for a positive outcome.  I don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings; I just want the Light of my work to fill up the places of confusion and animosity.

What are you dreaming about?  What has been bouncing around in your head since Day One?  

Pay attention to your dreams.