Another Life, Another Time, Another Farewell
Remembering Bill Lewis, pianist, collaborator, dear friend
Bill Lewis was a pianist, a vocal coach in opera and music theater, a singer, and a musical collaborator. He was eccentric, eclectic, and vintage in his taste for clothing and decor. He lifted people up, no matter the circumstance, and supported them in the moment to be the best they could be. He was a unique and very special man in all his complexity. And he was my dear friend and musical collaborator for twenty years. He took his last breath on this earth last week.
I first met Bill in 1988 when I hired him to play for a vocal masterclass I was teaching in New Jersey. I was about to move to New York City—my voice teaching studio was growing there as was my performing career—and he had been recommended as a vocal coach who might refer students to me if he liked my teaching. We got on well that day, and after I moved into the City later that year, I invited him to dinner. It was the beginning of a close friendship and wonderful musical and creative partnership.
In the early 90s, I began writing songs—crossover in style between classical and cabaret and musical theater. I would create lead sheets (melody, lyrics, and chords), introduce the songs to Bill, and he would create brilliant piano accompaniments.
Around that time, we began offering Winter Solstice concerts together with a wonderful story creator, Able Rae. The first couple of years, we performed in intimate venues around New York. Then in 1993, Bill purchased a little country church built in the 1800s on top of a mountain in the southern tier of the Catskills. After the church closed, it was restored into a stunning open-space one-room house. While Bill was literally spent only a few nights a year in the house, I spent part of every week there for the next five years, paying him a small monthly rent and taking care of the property. We called it the Churchouse. It was an extraordinary space architecturally and spiritually—my refuge outside of New York City. Nights on that mountaintop were magical and mystical—near total darkness, a vast open sky, millions of stars, and rarely a human-made sound. Only the sounds of the woods, the wind, and the wildlife. Living there, I fell in love with solitude, especially at night, and those solitary nights inspired many of my songs and lyrics during those years.
In December 1993, Bill, Able, and I opened the Churchouse again as a public space for one evening to present our Winter Solstice concert there. It was our gift to the community. Word spread quickly, and the large single room was filled with more than 70 people. A few audience members had even attended church services there years before. The house was lit almost entirely with candles, and many people brought appetizers and desserts for a party afterwards. For the next 16 years, the Churchouse Winter Solstice concerts became a community tradition. Each year, more people came, and people would tell us, “This event has become our Christmas tradition. Thank you.” It was a spectacular yet intimate holiday gift to us all—connection, community, music, inspiration, blessing.
For all his musical brilliance and generous spirit, Bill also kept to himself. He was greatly loved by his long-time colleagues, and he had warm friendships with some of them. Yet there was a singularity to Bill. He could be totally present with you when you were together, yet when he was gone, he was gone. He could be elusive, disappearing for days and even weeks, carefully guarding both his whereabouts and the deeper chambers of his heart. He was a vagabond, of sorts, rarely allowing intimate connections, and averse to depending on anyone else for anything. He felt deeply, to be sure, yet he kept those deep feelings safely hidden inside, rarely letting others in.
That said, our musical and spiritual connection over those twenty years was rooted in those deeper heart chambers. What I loved most about our collaboration and friendship was that, especially when making music, we met on those deep planes of being and meaning. Our music making seemed to create a safe space for him to go there. We weren’t talking about it, yet we were meeting one another in those deeper places. There were magical moments of deep connection and occasionally even transcendence, both in the rehearsal room and in front of an audience.
One of those moments came on a summer afternoon in the late 90s when we were preparing the Churchouse for a concert we would give that evening. After the success of the Solstice concerts, we had begun opening the house for concerts throughout the year. Bill was outside sweeping the porch and sidewalk, I was cleaning in the house, and our “Child of the Moon” CD that we had recorded in 1995 was playing through the stereo speakers.
During the song “Sometimes the Night Surprises,” Bill was uncharaceristically overcome with emotion. He came into the house with tears in his eyes to find me in the great room. Our music had touched him deeply. He came to me with an embrace, and for what felt like a moment in eternity, we just held each other. No words, just love—recognition of connection—profound mutual appreciation for our deep spiritual creative partnership. Here’s the song from the CD. You might need to turn the volume up on your listening device as it’s not as full here on Substack as on the CD. Bill, I’m confident you can hear it from wherever you are now.
Sometimes the Night Surprises
Music and Lyrics by Alan Seale; Musical arrangement by Bill Lewis
Alan Seale, singer; Bill Lewis, pianist
Our last concert together was on the Winter Solstice in 2010 at the First Universalist Church in Rochester, New York. Able was with us as well. As I write now, it feels like a lifetime ago. Although we hadn’t talked about it, I had a strong sense that evening that it would be our final performance together after 20 years. And indeed, when Bill left the next morning to drive back to New York, that was the last time I would see him. We were in touch after that from time to time, but in his own inimitable way, Bill slipped away. He had no social media presence, no website, and for years only a landline telephone, usually with a full voicemail box, so it was impossible to leave a message.
Last year I saw the documentary film “Look Into My Eyes.” There was a brief scene near the end with an unidentified pianist in a cabaret club. The pianist’s face was in the shadows, yet I recognized the hands in the short close-up sequences. I was sure they were Bill’s. The playing was very much him. Who knows? Yet my heart was full of him for a few days after.
Bill, although it’s so long since we last met, the world feels a bit emptier knowing you are gone. My heart is sad, yet I am so filled with gratitude for the years we spent together. Gratitude for the Churchouse and what we created there, and the gifts so many people received at the Churchouse concerts, especially the Winter Solstice. When I called Able to tell her you were gone, she and I talked for a long time. We laughed and cried and told stories. In your signature elusive way, you were there with us, and you weren’t. And we loved you anyway.
I’m holding you in my heart with so much love, so many memories, so much appreciation for your gentle spirit and your brilliant talent. And holding dear that moment of embrace on a sunny summer afternoon at the Churchouse—it’s forever etched in my soul. I say farewell to you with one of the first songs I wrote at the Churchouse, inspired by the mystical full-moon nights on that mountain. At least as I knew you, Bill, you were indeed a child of the moon.
Child of the Moon
Music and Lyrics by Alan Seale; Musical arrangement by Bill Lewis and Jorge Alfano
Alan Seale, singer; Bill Lewis, pianist; Jorge Alfano, quena (wooden flute from the Andes Mountains)
Invitations
Listen to free recorded Meditations for Changing Times led by Alan. More than 50 guided meditations. Choose the title that speaks to you and listen. Available for free to you anytime.
Visit The Center for Transformational Presence website
Read one of Alan’s Books
Explore Coaching or Mentoring with Alan
Wow. A beautiful tribute to Bill’s legacy as a friend and artist. And I treasure this peek into your creative life as a musician. You contain multitudes.
Thank you for this tribute, and for your music. Are your songs and especially the lyrics available to download?