The trumpet community, the music education community, a whole lot of college music students, and a beautiful family were all laid low today.

John Wacker—Professor of Music at Western State Colorado University, trumpet player, and dear friend—was killed this morning in a head-on collision.

John Wacker, Ward Yager, Phillip Johnson, and Scott Meredith

When Ward called today with the news that John was dead, I went to my computer to write something for John. I stared at the screen, and my hands lay idle on the keys. An hour passed. Then another. Words would not come.

I write most of my work on a computer these days, both music and prose. Like everything else in 2014, it’s faster, more convenient. My neglected handwriting has become a heavy-handed scrawl, unfit for a chalkboard or a dirty car window. But it’s okay. I don’t need it anymore. I type.

John was one of my very favorite people. People say that kind of thing much too often, but I absolutely mean it. And yet when I tried to write a tribute to him, it felt forced. Like there was nothing to say, or at least no point in saying it. I felt hollowed out. Sadness, certainly, and regret that I hadn’t seen him in too long, but mostly I felt empty.

And then I realized, as I sat in front of the computer, fingers still perched motionless over the keys, that I also felt dirty. I was trying to tell John what he meant to us by tapping out 0s and 1s on a keyboard. The impersonality of it felt wrong, cheap. John deserved a proper, tangible letter, written in my own hand. So I took some paper out of the printer, found a black pen, and began to really write.

And that’s when it really started to hurt.

John was one of the first people I met at the University of North Texas. He, Scott Meredith and Ward Yager were all graduate students of Keith Johnson, as I was. Ward and I were first-year students, but Scott and John were at UNT before us, and had clearly known each other a long time. I never would have guessed how long.

John was a little older than the rest of us. He was, in fact, Scott’s high school band director for a short time. He had gone to the University of Northern Colorado for Music Education, taught band, and gave it up to go to law school. It’s more common than you would think. I know a number of fine trumpet players who gave up music to become successful lawyers. But John’s story turned out differently: Two years away from getting the law degree, he realized he didn’t want to be a lawyer anymore and that music was his calling after all. But he finished the law degree anyway, did a 180 and went on to complete a Master of Music degree. When I met him, he was a year into his Doctorate. He could have been making real money practicing law, but that’s not what he wanted. He wanted to play and conduct music, so he did that instead.

Within 24 hours of meeting Ward, Scott and John, one of them suggested getting together to play quartets. Playing next to the three of them, my weaknesses as a trumpet player were quickly laid bare, more vividly than any lesson could do. Quartets and orchestral excerpts became a standing engagement for the four of us, and we made time for it every week no matter how crazy our schedules got. I invited them to perform a harder-than-hell quartet arrangement of Till Eulenspiegel with me as the final piece on my graduate recital.

The four of us played together in other ensembles, too. We played duets sometimes. We all played paid gigs with each other pretty regularly, and we played in a great trumpet section with the UNT Wind Symphony under Eugene Corporon. The education I received at UNT was exceptional, and I owe a ton to the world-class faculty, to the students, to that music library and for the amazing opportunities I was afforded there. But the most valuable musical experience I had there was playing quartets with Ward, Scott and John. I still miss those sessions. I was fortunate enough to get together with John on several occasions since leaving UNT, and he always reminded me: Those sessions were special, and he missed them.

Two weeks ago, John, Scott and a dozen other UNT alumni went back to North Texas for a concert honoring our teacher, Keith Johnson. I was all set to go as well, but was forced to cancel at the last minute due to a family emergency. I had been looking forward to seeing some old friends, with Scott and John at the top of the list. I wrote an apologetic email to all those involved in the concert, and John wrote this in reply:

Phillip,

We will miss you tremendously but family has to come first. There will be other times.

John

We all love you, John. Your loss has cut me, deep… Even deeper than I would have expected. I regularly miss our sessions with Scott and Ward, and the knowledge that there can never be another one makes me miss them ten times more. I’ll miss hearing you geek out about the Verdi Requiem, compare the ways lawyers and musicians drink, and talk about the funny things your kids do. Tomorrow, I’ll begin writing a piece of music with your name at the top. Whether a trio or a quartet, I haven’t decided. But Scott, Ward and I will play it soon. It could not possibly capture my grief… I lack the skill to express pain like this. But I’ll write it in pen.