The very things we spend our lives searching for are usually not far away. As Dorothy and Toto discovered , our own backyard can be a good place to find what we look so hard for. On a chilly northeast winter night, on the top of a mountain, with a glacier lake as a backdrop I had come home. Mohonk Mountain House, located high above the small village of New Paltz, New York, is one of the most famous resorts in the world. As I closed my eyes and let the sweet sounds coming out of a guitar soak in, I allowed my mind to put the puzzle pieces of my life together. All the moments that had gone before brought me to this serene time and place. All of my disappointments, my failures, my heartaches, my triumphs, my accomplishments and my loves, had woven their path to this improbable homecoming. With my lids shut, secure and safe, in this special haunt of my past, I thought about the distances I had traveled to get back to where my world had begun.
The young man strumming his electric six strings was killing me softly with his song. Dylan Doyle was working his way through a two hour set of jazz, blues, originals, Grateful Dead, and even Billy Preston. His riffs and his words were gently transporting me to locations I had seen only in my recent dreams. The crowd shouted for “one more, one more!!” which of course I used as a signal to proceed to the back bar to fetch another Tito’s and tonic. Doyle was out in front of his three piece band, a 21 year old genius, with the heart and soul of a 50 year old man. His talent was unmistakable, and his stage presence was captivating. His youth, smooth face, rimmed glasses and styled curly hair makes him a dead ringer for Buddy Holly. As I swayed and bobbed I considered the idea of reincarnation and thought it was possible Holly had been lifted out of the wreckage of Clear Lake, Iowa and transported to New Paltz, New York.
I watched the crowd whenever my eyes became unglued from this phenom. Doyle’s sound is not typical of a dance band. Still, the floor in front of me was jammed with the young and the old. A couple in their 70’s were doing moves that had the semblance of a folk dance, a pair around 60 were jirating away as if Jerry Garcia was playing from the heavens. A family ranging in ages from eight to eighty were shaking their bodies with a luster that was turning this into a night that would not be soon forgotten in family lore. When the applause had finally died from this magical mountain house in the sky, the approximately 200 people in the audience looked around at each other silently confirming that we were a part of something we would refer to for many years ahead.
A small group from the audience circled in front of Doyle as a hush settled over the room. I watched the young man engage the five or six people who stood close to him. He made eye contact with each person, who collectively were offering their congratulations.
The fans seemed to have that “man what are you doing here?” stare on their faces. I waited patiently until Doyle was alone on stage breaking down his equipment. I had interviewed him, as a teenager, a few years earlier and wasn’t sure he would remember me. “Rich, so great to see you stranger, where have you been man.” I must have looked liked an awed teenager as I mumbled something silly, ‘special stuff kid.’ The energy that came off his person was stronger than the sounds that had just flew off his guitar. It was half past 11 and the family resort was getting ready for bed. “Let’s head down the mountain and grab a beer at Pat and Georges,” I suggested. Dylan Doyle, carrying his instrument, and a old man searching for his next drink headed out the door into the February darkness. For me it was a homecoming, for Dylan Doyle it was just another night on the road to fortune and fame.
Video Interview With Dylan Doyle:
