28/02/2026
There are only a handful of people I can truly credit for my love of music.
My grandmother sits firmly at the top of that list — every ounce of inspiration I carry began with her records spinning in the background of my childhood. The Rat Pack. Nat King Cole. Elvis.
But there was only one person I ever actually wanted to be.
Neil Sedaka.
At school I was the strange kid who loved “old” music. While everyone else chased the charts, I was chasing melodies written decades before I was born. Any excuse I could find — at home, at school talent shows, at some local event where they needed “a bit of music” — I would sit at the piano and play Neil.
Even at college, much to my teacher’s frustration (he was never a Sedaka fan), I played those songs over and over. They weren’t just tunes to me — they were magic. They were possibility. They were proof that a piano and a melody could light up a room.
As the years went on, my ears wandered further back. I fell headlong into the swing era, into classic jazz, into the world that would eventually shape who I am today.
I don’t think many people in my world now would remember that my very first gigs weren’t with a band. They weren’t jazz festivals or swing dances. They were just me — a nervous young lad at a piano — playing nothing but Doo W*p classics. And most of them were, of course, his.
There is something surreal about losing the person who first made you fall in love with music. I wasn’t related to him. I never knew him. But the connection feels deeply personal — as if a thread that has quietly run through my entire life has suddenly been tugged.
It’s a very sad day in the Calloway household.
I will forever be grateful that I got to see him live for my 18th birthday at the then Colston Hall — a moment I didn’t realise at the time would become one of those golden memories you carry forever.
Thank you, Neil.
For the melodies.
For the magic.
For starting it all.
