Mark Fitzgerald

Mark was born in the hills of Virginia. He was transplanted to The Low Counties before he was old enough to object.

Music was around. On the radio and the TV and the turntable. Always. Shirley and Fritz's house had many visitors. Loretta Dorsey. Smokey McCartney. Bing Dylan. Life was confusing. The arrival of Crosby, Stills and Zappa did little to clarify things. All might have been lost but for the unifying influence of Joni Taylor.

At eleven years old, Mark was still enthusiastically torturing Joe's hand-me-down marching band snare drum in dreams of becoming the next Buddy Rich. He was more conscious of The Country Raven's drummer kicking off his shoes before tearing into "Wipeout" than he was of the swamps and loblolly pines lining I-95 to The Fireside Inn. Marvin's Amazing Flying Loafers were more interesting than the farms and factories. At least on Saturday nights. When Mark was thirteen Roger and Buddy pulled their acoustic guitars out one afternoon in an ultimately vain attempt to woo Sister Micki. Mark began to suspect that there might be an alternative to spending life as a marginal drummer. And kept his shoes on ever after.

There followed thirty years of bands, bars, backrooms and barns. Anywhere a crowd would stop yelling "Play Freebird" long enough to hear a new tune.

Now Fitzgerald teaches kids and himself how to make music.