Keith McKay: Unheard Voices

6. Keith McKay: Unheard Voices

College & New York City — Late 1970s / Early 1980s

I met Keith McKay in college around 1978, introduced by my floormate Rob Aden, who lived a few doors down in my dorm. Kieth was an English Literature major from Paterson, New Jersey, with the soul of a songwriter and the quiet intensity of someone always listening a little deeper than the rest of us.

Keith played a well-loved Yamaha acoustic guitar and drew inspiration from artists we both loved—Joni Mitchell, John Prine, CSNY, Beatles, writers who understood that words could speak volumes. Music became the shorthand of our friendship.

I had a Fender Rhodes piano wedged into my dorm room, and we started the way most young musicians do: covers first, then curiosity. Keith wrote constantly, but songwriting was a solitary act for him. We never wrote together, though I never hesitated to offer opinions about structure, pacing, or a verse that might a little less or more of something.

Rob, meanwhile, was studying video production. For a final project—this was the late ’70s, pre-MTV—he asked Keith and me to perform a short live set in the school’s video studio. Three original songs. I would accompany Keith on the second.

Rehearsals went smoothly, including a final run-through in the studio so Rob could choreograph his multi-camera shoot. For my entrance in the second song, there was a planned close-up: my hands on the keyboard as they joined Keith’s guitar intro.

When the red light went on, the room changed. Keith launched into the first song with that familiar mix of confidence and nerves—the tempo crept forward, a few moments flew past faster than they should have, but the performance held.

Then came the silence between songs. The camera rolled toward my hands. Keith counted off. And started the intro to the wrong song.

He launched into the tune that was supposed to close the set. When the camera cut to my hands, they were perfectly still, folded together over the keys. It took Rob a beat to realize what had happened before calmly cutting back to Keith, professionalism kicking in before panic could. The second song became the third. Rob passed his course. No one was worse for wear. To this day, the image of my hands over the keyboard still makes me smile.

After college, Keith and I continued working together as his writing sharpened and he began playing showcases around New York, mostly in the Village. When I started my studio career, I was able to bring him in for recording sessions, and together we learned how to translate songs onto tape.

Keith kept writing, creating and performing whenever he could. His day jobs stayed close to the arts—Lincoln Center, the Brooklyn Academy of Music. He was also commissioned to write numerous unauthorized biographies of actors and other public figures. By the late ’80s and early ’90s, his work shifted toward community health advocacy.

In 1992, Keith died from complications related to AIDS. Months later, at his request, I received his Yamaha guitar—an old friend I hadn't seen for years.

Last year, I digitized my original 24-track master tapes, which included several of Keith’s songs. I hope to revisit and release them in his memory.

Thinking about Keith brings me squarely into the present. Advances in medicine now save countless lives that once would have been lost far too soon, allowing today’s Keiths to keep creating, writing, and sharing their voices. At the same time, the ongoing erosion of support for scientific research haunts me—the thought of future voices never heard, songs never written, simply because curiosity and care were underfunded.