January 27, 2002
My spiritual friend is dead

Loonis said to me, “Why don’t people enjoy preserving the past?” Shrugging my shoulders I answered, “Because we enjoy wearing masks. We live in a world where we paint our destiny. As long as we wear a mask, we can be anybody we want without remembering who got us here.” Looking deep into my eyes, the music legend whispered, “Maybe so…” The room became silent only to hear his follow up, “Do me a favor, study your past, and preserve its history.”

note: The Charlotte Observer 2002: Loonis McGlohon wrote songs with succulent lyrics and melodies, recorded more than thirty-five albums and on the piano accompanied many of the worlds finest singers—Frank Sinatra, Tony Bennett and Judy Garland.

I didn’t know this side of Loonis; we had become creative energies that happened to meet in hallways, places of dining and at the occasional city park festival. We never spoke of experiences. It was always about nothing, and in the end that simple thought about nothing became another undocumented moment of spirit filled travel. There were never gaps between our generations; it seemed our mission was to forge a way into the pages of life by means of teaching how important a footprint is to an untouched garden blessed with rich soil. What Loonis doesn’t know is that one of my most famous paintings was inspired by his passing. The owner of that painting is Derek James, who to this day admits to proudly displaying the birth of a butterfly on his walls to enjoy. I cried when Derek purchased this work of art, not because I wanted a member of Loonis’ family to own it… I knew Derek was the next generation of broadcasters, and in his own way he’d never forget who walked before him and through their light he would teach the importance of being what a true creative offers to the world… the gift of changing life.

Two months before his passing, Loonis spent many hours in my studio—he sat there with a friend watching me create. Before leaving, he placed an extremely shiny compact disc on my desk—there was no handwriting on it, not even a fingerprint. I thought nothing of it; people put things on my desk all the time then forget to take them. I kept calling him, I’d get no answer. I’ve always felt like a thief. My occasional friend stops in for a moment, and here I sat with a collection of songs from his most recent recording session.

Note: This wasn’t the first time something of this nature had taken place. Maurice Williams, a legendary Rhythm and Blues performer sat quietly on my sofa watching me piece together a commercial for his best friend Ray Gooding. During his departure, he forgot to let go of my hand… so much so, music fell from his fingertips into my soul. I dropped everything I was doing. My body began to write. I penned out a song that very few have heard, and yet I stand so proud when I say,” Maurice Williams gave it to me.”

Anytime an artist neared my studio, their masks were left at the door. Many were fascinated with the art covered walls while others chose to do nothing more than talk openly about nothing—Rob Thomas, Seal, Jason Miraz, Johnny Reznick from the Goo Goo Dolls, Tal Bachman… The only person who chose to never talk to me was Clay Aiken. I started my conversation too harsh, “You are a common man from a common background who has seemingly won the hearts of millions—are you the re-incarnation of Elvis Presley?” Clay called security on me. To this day, no other artist, or musical creator, has stepped near my open door no mask policy. In looking back, I’d say that’s where my radio career came to an end.