Yesterday, I went through a large box of tapes I recorded years ago. The majority were demos or unreleased albums of unsigned bands (bands that never landed a record contract). The genre range was wide: rock, pop, metal, punk, and jazz. Why some bands get signed and others don’t is a mysterious story of art and happenstance mixed with business. But sifting through the box, I wasn’t thinking about record deals or music. I was staring into a box of dreams and wondering what happened to all of those people. Are they still writing and playing music? Do they listen to those songs from time to time? Am I the only one with a copy?

My handwriting is on the labels. Each tape reflects a situation and a relationship, unleashing a flush of feelings. The band names and the song titles open a stream of melodies and lyrics that few have heard. Music and film are collaborative by nature, so the box feels loaded with synergy. And there’s a rich sweetness to it. Because it’s also a box of love for the art and craft of writing, performing, and recording music. This box of tapes is a testament to the potential power of dreams.