THE SELF-ABRIDGED, AUTO-BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION
TO ROY SCHENKENBERGER

For about as long as I can remember, I’ve had this crush on well-
written songs and the stories they tell. My heroes aren’t cowboys, but
rather, poets with ivory keys and phosphor bronze strings who
articulate the human condition and with words can redecorate an
ordinary moment with profound importance.

Some of my earliest memories have the songs of John Denver, Jim
Croce, Gordon Lightfoot, James Taylor and Neil Diamond playing in
the background. The cassette player in the family Suburban put
melody to my childhood that left heavy foot prints in the wet cement
of my musical grey matter.

I was nudged into performance by my parents, who would often
stagger my brothers and I affront the fireplace when we had
company. Too young to realize our audience was captive to common
courtesy, we would belt out the pieces of Sunday school songs we
could agree upon. I can’t for the life of me remember how I ended up
singing solos in church and the school play, or whose idea it was for
me to join Honors Choir, but there I was. And somewhere along that
meandering trail was planted the seed that I could sing.

Fortunately the roots of said seed were deep enough to survive the
winter of my adolescence. For Jr. High is not a time to voluntarily risk
one’s appreciation for or participation in things so subject to critique
as art. It is a time to align ones self with things that are objectively
cool. Survival is to bury the rest.

In High School, when the sun comes out and the ground thaws,
those buds of who we are can be tended in private gardens. And as
upper classmen we can afford to let the blooms hang over the fence
a bit. So it was for me that I found my voice again. Inspired by the
dudes in youth group who led the singing, I borrowed from what
chords they knew and help they’d give. I set out with the
determination of a short horse fording a tall creek and learned to play
the guitar. Music was cool again. I’d hit the downward arc of my
trajectory.

My road has diverged over and again in the Yellow Wood and I’m
certain I’ve circled round at least a couple of times. If I were to try to
retrace my steps, I’m sure I couldn’t, but the grass between my toes
is green and I’m grateful for it. Like trying on shoes, it’s taken a while
to find where my feet best fit. But here I am still singing; I like these
shoes.

I hope you enjoy my music.