An Interview with Jeff Woolwine
Here's a story of how music never dies.
Growing up in my younger years wasn't very pleasant. Being an orphan at birth, having my adopted mom pass away from a brain tumor when I was 13 and being placed back in the orphan home shortly after the funeral wasn't fun at all. When I was put in my first foster home, I had a 16-year-old foster brother who played a Gibson Less Paul guitar. I really enjoyed watching him play Zeppelin and Ronnie James Dio. He had a small band and his friend down the street played the drums and keyboard. I watched the band practice all the time, and they would take me to a lot of parties where they performed at. I would help the band set up with amps, microphones and anything else they needed. Watching them for about a year, I knew that this was for me. I really wanted to play the guitar.
I finally got my chance in my second foster home. My foster mom bought me my first electric guitar. It didn't take me long to learn how to play. My friends would tell me how good I was and everyone seemed to agree that I was destined to play on stage. My new foster brother played the keyboard while I played the guitar and we made a spare bedroom for jamming practices. A friend of ours played the drums, and we kept his drum set in the jam room. Things were going well as I just loved playing the guitar. Soon I was able to upgrade to a new guitar, and it was a beautiful Washburn blood red guitar. I had it for two weeks when a motorcycle changed my life.
In 1987, my foster brother stole a motorcycle and left it in a dirt field that a group of us would walk through on our way to school each day. We found the bike the next morning and decided to take it home and try to get it going after school. A few days later we got it running. I was getting back from the grocery store with bags in my arms, and my foster brother and drummer were riding it around the neighborhood. I hopped on the back of the motorcycle, and my drummer and I took off through the neighborhood. We came up to our high school where there was a stop light at an intersection. Some friends were behind us in a car trying to get us to race with them. When the light turned green, we all gunned it down the road. There were curves in the road. With my left arm wrapped around my drummer's waist and my right arm holding on to the bike's seat I saw that we were pushing 60 miles an hour. We were going very fast as I looked up and saw that the road was turning. As the turn got closer, I was yelling "look out!!!" The bike bounced off the sidewalk curb about three times when it finally threw both of us off the motorcycle. My drummer hit a neighborhood wall and busted some ribs and collapsed a lung while the bike flew into the air and landed across the street.
As the bike launched into the air, I grabbed a school crossing sign trying to break my fall. I wrapped around the sign a few times tearing a blood artery and some nerves under my arm pit. I landed and slid on the gravel where the sidewalk was until I came to a stop. I was in extreme pain and bleeding in my underarm area putting pressure on the torn artery. The friends that we were racing in the car behind us saw the accident occur. A helicopter came and took us both to the hospital. The first hospital couldn't do anything for me, so another helicopter took me to a second hospital. There they performed surgery on my torn artery. I died that day as the doctors quickly brought me back to life. As I was in intensive care, I had to talk to the police because the motorcycle was stolen. My drummer who was 19 at the time admitted that he was responsible for stealing and crashing the bike. I was 15 at the time. My drummer's rib was broken and had punctured one of his lungs. Once he healed he was put in jail.
My drummer was devastated by what had happened to me. During the accident, I was in shock, and it took me awhile to remember what happened when we crashed. Over the years I've had flashbacks and nightmares while sleeping. My left arm was now paralyzed from the elbow down due to the nerve damage. I went through another surgery, therapy and exercises to try and recover from the accident. While in the hospital, the doctor looked at me and said, "So I hear you play the guitar?". I said yes, and he said, "not anymore!" Such a wonderful bedside manner that doctor had as over the years depression had taken over.
I kept my Washburn guitar for a couple of years and had it in my bedroom in a suitcase on the left because it was my favorite ax. That was one of the lyrics from a Pink Floyd song, and I thought that keeping it there was appropriate. Later on, I ended up selling the guitar because I knew I would never play again. Years went by and I never gained use of my hand. I was able to move my elbow and my arm but still was not able to lift my arm up and over my head.
At 19 I became homeless and was living on the streets for about three years. Having no family, my friends helped me out a lot. I am forever grateful for their help. If it wasn't for them, I don't know what I would have done. I was living in a park bathroom for a year or two from time to time. I was denied disability at least ten times and finally received it at the age of 21 along with my deceased mother's retirement social security check. Getting over my depression took some time, but I still think I hold a little bit with me knowing that music was no longer in my life. Buddy Holly also died in the same month and day as my accident, and when I hear his song, The Day the Music Died, I was able to relate to that song while I was growing up.
I decided to try to make a family of my own and try to move on with my life. My son was born in 1994, but a few short years later his mother left both of us, and I became a single dad. I was 27 at the time. Raising my son on my own with no help from the mother or family wasn't easy, but I did it. Over the years as my son got older he saw me from time to time playing on a piano or keyboard. The music was still in me, and this was a way for me to get it out. I wasn't able to use my left hand, so I got pretty good with my right hand as a one-handed keyboard player. Being on disability and a single dad didn't leave me with much money, so I wasn't able or had the time to play the keyboards.
Today my son has grown up and moved out of the house. This has left me with plenty of time for music. I've been able to buy some equipment to try to get back into music. One year for my birthday my son gave me a keyboard, and I started practicing on that. I now have four keyboard synthesizers. I'm thinking of buying two more and a few more amps.
For over 30 years, I felt that music had died for me back in 1987. I couldn't even look at a guitar or see someone playing it without being a little envious. Now I think that I have a second chance at music. The music hadn't died for me at all but was only suppressed. I have always had the music in me and the desire to play it. It's time for me to get back in the game and try once again. This is my comeback. Although I'm limited on some things with my disability, I have learned to surpass this and work around it. I'm 46 now and in a turning point in my life. I'm still chasing the music dream and hope that one day that dream will become a reality. Only I can make it happen. I think it's getting closer and only time will tell.
My advice for others in this situation or who have given up on their dreams is to not give up or let depression take over because it only destroys you and brings you down. Trust me, I was there. It makes you a stronger person and a better person. Just hold fast and keep practicing working at your goals. Never give up and make your dreams a reality because you don't know what the future holds for you. Practice and have faith for your dreams are just a few feet away. I think I see mine already. Excuse me while I run after it. May all your dreams come true.
Get interviewed on our blog.
Email us at tothegig@gmail.com
