If you walk past my office or a rehearsal room at UT, you might see something that looks out of place in a research-driven institution: I am likely dancing. It isn’t a performance for an audience; it is a physical reaction. It’s what happens when a group of musicians, regardless of their age or skill level, finally “lock in.” There is a special feeling that occurs when human beings move from being a collection of individuals to a single, synchronized unit. It is a moment of collective joy so powerful that you simply cannot stand still.
As the inaugural Artist in Residence for the Moritz Center for Societal Impact, I’ve been asked what a musician is doing here. It’s a fair question. In a world of policy briefs and clinical interventions, the arts are often viewed as a “nice-to-have”; a decorative flourish on the serious work of social change. But after 28 years of professional music making, I’ve come to realize that music isn’t just an art form. It is a delivery system for human flourishing.
My perspective on this was forged in the neon-blue shadows of Las Vegas. For years, I played guitar and drums in the Blue Man Group. It was a high energy spectacle, but underneath the paint and the PVC pipes was a masterclass in radical empathy. In that show, there is no written score. There are no charts to tell you exactly when to play louder or softer. Instead, as musicians, our job was to be the “voice” of the Blue Men. We had to watch their every twitch, their every glance at the audience, and translate silent emotions into sound. We had to set our own identities aside and exist entirely for the benefit of another character’s story.
This was structured improvisation. It required an immense amount of trust, not in a piece of paper, but in our instincts and in each other. It taught me that the highest form of communication isn’t speaking; it’s listening. When we listen with our whole bodies, we create a safety net for those around us to take risks. Arguably, this is the same “social muscle” we need to build a more resilient society.
During a songwriting workshop I led, I saw this philosophy move from the professional stage to the classroom. The group was mostly teenagers, cool, guarded, and protective of their identities, except for one outlier: a shy nine-year-old drummer. Early on, I could see the older kids were worried. They were focused on their own songs and their own technical prowess, and they weren’t sure how this little kid was going to keep up. I saw the nine-year-old shrinking behind his kit, his eyes wide, feeling the weight of being the outsider.
I gave the group a small nudge. I told the older students that their mission wasn’t just to play their parts; it was to support the youngster. I asked them to use their skills to make him look and feel like the rock star he was.
What happened next is the reason I am at the Moritz Center.
The teenagers didn’t just tolerate him; they became his protectors. They realized that he was vulnerable, and in that vulnerability, they found their own power. They stopped worrying about their own solos and started clamoring to be on his song. They used what they had learned to make him feel seen and strong. By the night of the performance, the entire group, even those not officially cast in his song, piled onto the stage to back him up.
At that moment, the music was just the vehicle. The real output was a community that had learned how to protect its most vulnerable member. That nine-year-old didn’t just walk away with a song; he walked away with a new sense of belonging. He went on to join his school jazz band, began singing, and started mentoring others. He had received a somatic hope, a physical memory of being safe and successful in a group.
This is the core of why the Moritz Center has an Artist in Residence. Social work often deals with the aftermath of a lack of connection, isolation, trauma, and the breakdown of community. My role is to use the arts as a pre-emptive lab for these exact issues.
When we write a song together, which has been a focal point of my first year, we are practicing agency. We are taking a messy, complicated feeling and turning it into something structured and beautiful. When we play in a band, we are practicing regulation. We are learning how to match our energy to the person sitting next to us. When we perform, we are practicing resilience. We are standing in front of others, being vulnerable, and realizing that we can thrive in that space.
Beyond the theories of social capital and clinical outcomes, we cannot ignore the most basic element of this work: joy. Making music feels good! Doing so provides an immediate release of the tension we carry in a stressful world. When I see my students connect, when the nine-year-old hits the final crash cymbal and the teens cheer for him, the joy in the room is a tangible force. It is the sound of a community working correctly.
I believe that if we can create these moments of active empathy in a rehearsal room, we can create them anywhere. The framework of a music class becomes a seed. If you have been the nine-year-old who was supported, you are more likely to support others. If you have been the teen who used your power to lift someone else, you will look for opportunities to do that in your neighborhood, your job, and your life.
My mission at the Moritz Center is to show that the arts are not a luxury. They are a primary tool for societal impact. We are here to build the social muscles of empathy and resilience, one song at a time.
And if we do it right, we won’t just be talking about social change. We’ll be dancing to it.
