The day Skye arrived at Jonestown, the church was breathing again. The primal scream class had ended hours before, leaving the sanctuary littered with yoga mats, water bottles, and whatever fragments of soul people discard after trying to expel the truth from their throats. Candles flickered along the nave like trembling witnesses. Somewhere, Ozzy the bat muttered in his sleep.
That was when the door blew open.
Not swung. Blew.
As if Skye had been carried here by some unseen force of destiny, or chased by it.
He stood in the doorway—purple silk disco shirt, cheap cowboy hat tilted as though it were balancing the weight of a thousand questionable decisions. His sneakers carried the grime of the downtown core: alley soot, cigarette ash, and secrets too heavy to name.
He looked around, caught his breath, and whispered:
“Do you know where music comes from?”
He spoke the words casually, as though he were commenting on the weather, yet something in the room shifted—like a frequency snapping into focus.
Not what it is.
Not how it works.
Where it comes from—as if music had geography.
I should have known then he was dangerous.
“Music comes from the parts of you the world has no place for,” he said.
Skye was not a church kid. He was a street prophet drafted into the service of melody. He wandered the downtown corridors like a monk in exile—Granville Street at dusk, Hastings at dawn—imbibing ideas the way others drank despair. He knew the addicts, the buskers, the nightwalkers, the lost philosophers who slept beneath neon lights and woke to pigeons heckling the sun.
“The city teaches you if you listen,” he told me once. “Not the people—their ghosts.”
He spoke of a woman who danced barefoot on the corner, spinning without music, as if her body was tuned to frequencies the rest of us had forgotten.
“Most musicians practice scales,” he said. “I practiced the city.”
That was why Skye’s music felt inevitable—he was never performing. He was translating.
When Yes descended upon the studio—touring royalty armed with flight cases and magic—the sanctuary changed temperature. Even the candles straightened their flames. Skye drifted into their orbit like a moth drawn to forbidden light. His eyes followed Steve Howe with a mixture of awe and mischief.
Then—without a word—Skye lifted a battered classical guitar, sat beneath the stained-glass gaze of Saint Cecilia, patron saint of music, and launched into Charlie Parker’s “Confirmation.
Not learned. Remembered.
Each phrase sounded like it had been waiting for him.
Howe froze. Musicians know the difference between talent and revelation.
When Skye finished, silence fell like snowfall—soft, inevitable, disarming.
Skye didn’t hoard knowledge. He believed melodies were portals. He believed Parker and Cobain came from the same country—and that country wasn’t Earth.
Later, I found him sitting at a microphone, backlit by the purple glow of the stained glass. He was exhausted, yet luminous, as if he’d been running from an idea that refused to die.
“You ever notice,” he asked, “that some people aren’t built for this dimension?”
He didn’t wait for an answer. His eyes drifted upward.
“There are notes the world won’t let you play,” he whispered. “So you go where they fit.”
He strummed once—just once—and the chord hung in the air longer than it should have, like it was searching for somewhere to land.
The next morning, Skye was gone.
Not dead.
Not departed.
Gone—the way a melody vanishes when the last echo gives up.
But sometimes, when the church settles into its midnight hush—when the last scream has been spent—I hear a phrase drifting through the nave. A fragment of jazz. A hint of something impossible.
Skye didn’t leave a body.
He left resonance.
And resonance, unlike flesh, refuses to stay buried.
Wow, Bugnut, well written, well said! A wonderful blog taking us down memory lane… he was a unique being… keep blogging, telling everyone more… thanks for your words… ox’s all of us who lived with him at Sanctuary.
What a gift, I thank you. Through your generous words I have a deeper understanding of my son’s all consuming love of music.
EDDY I’m sorry you lost your friend. He sounds like a fantastic person and I’m so happy you two were such great friends. I’m sure Skye was just as appreciative of you and your talents as you are of his. Its so beautiful when two minds and souls can meet and merge like yours did. I would love to have someone remember me as fondly as you remember Skye. I bet he’s smiling in heaven… Pat
hey, thanks for this post… with getting to know a little more about one of my dear best friend’s son, skye…. do you think we’ll ever get to hear more of his music sometime?
Thanks for this tribute. I am friend of Skye’s mom and really appreciate your tribute.
Eddy, thanks for allowing me into your life and your friendship with Skye by posting this blog. It seems fairly obvious to me from your writing that he believed in you as much as you believe in him. I look forward to more blogs about him in the future. Not only are you sharing his life and talents with people, I am sure it is cathartic. Much love my friend.
Thank you very much for sharing his memory with us. I never did get a chance to meet him, but I have the pleasure of knowing his son, Daymian. Since I am musically inclined, I think I would have liked Skye very much. I would have enjoyed showing him the bits and pieces of music I have so far created but have never been able to finish. It would be interesting to listen to his thoughts and feedback. But what I would have loved to do most is sing with him or jam with him on one of the instruments I know how to play, and I would have loved to have been able to share this with Daymian. Thank you again.
“WOW Eddy, I’ve only recently come into your circle and I didn’t know Skye at all, but the way you talk about him makes me wish I did know him. I had a similar experience with the loss of Brian MacLeod. That was difficult for me and a lot of people I am sure. You’ve peaked my interest in several musical areas that you have blogged about with respect to Skye. It makes me want to talk to you about it more in person. Maybe when we finally get it together and schedule some time in your studio ~ we can take it from there.
I sense your passion and your love for music and the lessons learned through Skye. I too felt that way from Brian. You are truly a passion driven person like myself. Your words ring with clarity and meaning in all you write about. My heart feels your loss.
Your friend ~JD~”
I knew Skye when his eyes were sapphire blue — before they became green. His eyes were both amazing and amazed. That was long ago in a place across a stretch of the Salish Sea. I always hoped to meet the man the child I knew became. Maybe, some day, I will hear his music and think ‘aaah… that’s you!’ Skye, his mother and sister will always be dear to me.
I, too, am thankful to you for sharing this tribute. I never met him, but I wish I had. His mother is a dear friend of mine.
Thanks so much for noticing Skye’s Talent.He was also a great boxer,poet,and writer.I look forward to hearing more of his material, yet unreleased.Ham is sorely missed and i find myself still looking for him on Granville st.Thankyou.
Thank you for sharing and keeping my brother’s memory alive ❤️