"My Life Under the Blind Man's Sun"
by Jason Rugg

In early March, a group of friends received some startling news. There was shock, anger, confusion, doubtless, some tears. Some people may have moved past such a sudden surprise, though the impact is assuredly still felt.

Though not as serious in some respects as the death of a loved one or a good friend, the emptiness and feelings of loss were the same when we heard: Blind Man's Sun had disbanded. This innovative group that resided along the fringes of the jam music scene was a facet of an important and interesting stage in my life: my formative college years. Only now, as I sit at home reflecting back upon the past do I realize the many connections that the band had for my friends and I over the past two years.

I do not pretend to be either the greatest Blind Man's Sun fan ever, nor the most faithful or knowledgeable of their music or the jam band scene. I appreciated the fine music they created and the connection that the band and fans shared, and with my experiences hope to give those of you who were not able to see BMS play in their day an appreciation for these things that I feel placed them at the upper echelons of music, regardless of the extent of their success.

The first time I had ever heard the band mentioned was a call from a few of my friends who had caught them at a local bar in Ithaca, NY in the spring of 1998. On that very night, several of my other friends, myself included were in the midst of a flurry of fighting and arguments that divided many of us for weeks and months to come. Blind Man's Sun would continue to mark the changes of my life, in a pattern both coincidental and poignant.

My first concert was some weeks later at the same club. I had never before remembered being more ecstatic in my life. Standing before me were six of the finest musicians I had ever seen, playing the most bizarre melding of genre that I have ever heard. The classical guitar, the electric guitar, the bass, the keyboards, the marimba and the set percussion blew me away, but most of all, I loved how they breathed through their music a strong pulse of positivity and joy in music itself. I cannot tell you what my classes were about then, or who I spoke to that day, but I recall the wonderful exhaustion that comes from dancing harder than your body knew it could and the bliss on the faces of my friends.

I have many wonderful memories of moments with the band over this time. I remember playing chess with marimba player Kevin Romanski at No Borders, No Boundaries in Syracuse, NY; exchanging odd remarks or musical notes with bass player Bob White or chatting about the millennium with guitarist Dave Chiappetta and his brother and tour manager Mike at my apartment after a local show; I remember being invited behind the stage at the Flash of Light festival in the summer of 1999 to chat with the guys and help write a setlist. I remember my first trip ever to New York City to see the band play at the Wetlands and receiving a ticket with "Blind Man Sun" on it; I remember dancing until my legs could hurt and singing until my voice gave out; shows full of impromptu clapping, limbos and conga lines. These memories framed my weeks of drudgery at school and helped to brighten my life in a time of great change.

I got to know my friends through our connection to Blind Man's Sun. All of us were freshmen at Ithaca College when the band came into Ithaca that spring, and the love for the band's music pulled us all together. We would drive distances to catch a show, rearranging schedules and delaying breaks to catch one more show, whether in New York City, Binghamton, Baltimore or beyond. As time past, I watched our friendships change, and our interactions at shows change as we drifted father apart. Through all that, our love for BMS's music remained constant, and I look back on that time with all its ups and downs fondly for the times we shared and the music that was its soundtrack, its score. Last week I dropped in their first album, and memories of crowded dorm rooms, old wounds and endless smiles poured behind my closed lids. Like the smell of homecooked food or changing of the season's in upstate New York, their music is a link to more than just what their songs were about and the gigs I saw them play.

The ending of Blind Man's Sun marks not just the loss of some excellent musicians collaborating to make excellent music together, but the end of a stretch of my life. I thank Blind Man's Sun for the music and the good times they have allowed me to share with them. They have found the truest success, the goal of pure sound—to connect with an audience. Congratulations BMS, you made it.