07/17/2025
Moments Matter
Developing a healthy relationship with your instrument is key to a lifelong love of music. But here's the truth: that relationship isn’t always in your control. It’s shaped by the people around you — how they treat you, how they treat the instrument, and how they react when you make mistakes.
This is the story of a single moment — one that changed the course of my life.
When I was a child, my father’s best friend helped me form a beautiful and unique connection with music. My dad would take me to visit him, and the three of us would record improvised songs together. “The Shark and the Whale” was one of our hits, along with “The Bear with No Hair.” Looking back, these early sessions were a lot like finger painting — free, joyful, messy, and magical. There was no pressure. Just laughter, creativity, and a two-track reel-to-reel machine recording everything.
I felt seen and accepted by my elders in those moments. That kind of validation — especially for a child — leaves a deep imprint.
Years later, I visited that same friend, John, at his farm near Cobourg, Ontario. I still remember the exact feeling when I saw his Gibson Les Paul. It was stunning. I was mesmerized. And then — to my shock — he let me play it.
I had no business touching an instrument of that quality. But John handed it to me without hesitation. I was giddy. It felt like holding a magical object. But then… I broke a string.
To this day, I don’t know how it happened. I just remember the feeling — shame, fear, embarrassment. I was a kid. I thought I’d ruined everything.
I confessed, nervous and sheepish. And John — without even blinking — just smiled and said:
“Don’t worry about it, Dave. I break strings all the time.”
That moment was a miracle.
He didn’t scold me. He didn’t make me feel clumsy or careless. Instead, he normalized the mistake. He gave me permission to be imperfect. And in doing so, he gave me something much deeper than kindness — he gave me freedom.
That one moment helped define my relationship with music for the rest of my life.
I wasn’t taught to fear the guitar. I wasn’t told to “be more careful” or “put it down.” I was shown that mistakes are part of the process. That music is a place to grow. A space where it’s okay to fall, laugh, try again. That guitar became my friend. A companion. A safe place.
I weep while I write this, because I know how deeply it mattered.
As I grew older, life brought its share of struggles, as it does for all of us — especially those of us who carry childhood trauma. But the guitar stayed with me. I carried it through life like a passport, or a light. It was always there when I needed it — helping me express joy, pain, anger, beauty, love. Music made me whole.
Eventually, that early spark led to something bigger:
Beyond the Beat Music School, in Toronto, Ontario.
With the help of many incredible people over the years, we built a recording studio — and a community — where musicians of all ages could discover the magic of making music together. Today, Beyond the Beat is home to over 200 students, 15 active ensembles, and five professional recording studios — including two fully-equipped Pro Tools rooms and three production/teaching spaces. Live performance and recording are at the heart of everything we do.
And it all began with a broken guitar string.
This story is more than a memory. It’s a reminder of how small, kind gestures can change the course of someone’s life. I’ve had the privilege of encountering many such people over the years — mentors, teachers, guides.
Dr. Dan Offord at Christie Lake Camp taught me that the kids who act out in anger are often the ones who need us the most.
Jim McNabb and the faculty at Canterbury High School for the Arts gave me a lifeline in the 1990s — teaching me that art can save lives.
And John Scholey — my lifelong friend — continues to be a source of wisdom and light. Together with Bonnie Visentin, he helped raise $15,000 through our “Love Wins” concert to support Ukraine when the war broke out.
Yes, I still make mistakes. We all do.
And somehow, Beyond the Beat keeps falling uphill, defying gravity and odds alike.
But I’ve come to understand: the key isn’t avoiding mistakes. The key is having a space where it’s safe to make them — where joy, curiosity, and creativity are nurtured, not punished. That’s what makes a lifelong love of music possible.
So here’s what I know now:
Moments matter.
Sometimes, one kind word, one generous gesture, one broken guitar string…
can change everything.
—
David MacKenzie
Founder & Director
Beyond the Beat Music School
Toronto, ON
