Eric Evans: Finding Music and Meaning
When Eric Evans talks about music, his eyes light up with the kind of quiet intensity that suggests not just passion, but transformation. For him, music is more than performance, it is a way of understanding life itself. His instruments of choice are unusual ones for an American artist: the shakuhachi, a Japanese bamboo flute; the ney, an ancient Middle Eastern reed flute; and the Irish flute. Each has a voice steeped in centuries of cultural tradition and spiritual expression, and together they form the cornerstones of Evans’s late-blooming creative life. “I’m most interested in the shakuhachi,” he says, “but I’ve also learned to play the ney and the Irish flute. These are my three main musical interests.”
It’s an unexpected list for a man whose musical life began not in youth but in midlife, and not through formal childhood lessons but in an Ithaca park, drumming in a circle of friends. Evans’s creative awakening took root after he moved to Ithaca, New York, in the mid-1990s. At the time, he was a computer systems administrator for Cornell University’s linguistics department. “Before that,” he remembers, “I was living in Florida, working in the defense contract industry. It was technically interesting work, but it didn’t satisfy me.” The constant job insecurity of government contract-work left him uneasy, and when a position opened at Ithaca College, he seized the chance for change. The move turned out to be pivotal. Ithaca’s rich cultural atmosphere, its diversity, its commitment to the arts, and its sense of community ignited something within him. “Moving from Panama City, Florida, to Ithaca was a tremendous culture shock,” Evans says. “Ithaca was multiethnic and multicultural. I was surrounded by artistic genius, amazing people for such a small town. It really fired up my imagination.”
Soon after arriving, Evans stumbled upon a group of drummers playing African rhythms in a local park. The informal jam sessions were welcoming and nonjudgmental. “There was no criticism, no pressure,” he recalls. “Playing there helped me overcome my anxiety about performing. I found a kind of freedom in that space.” That freedom opened a new path. Wanting more formal training, Evans enrolled in a Middle Eastern percussion class at Ithaca’s Community School of Music and Arts. There he studied the frame drum and darbuka, traditional percussion instruments central to Arabic and Turkish music. “My confidence grew,” he says, “and eventually I joined the Cornell University Middle Eastern and Mediterranean Ensemble as a percussionist. We had a lot of performances and concert gigs, it was wonderful.”
It was during his time with the ensemble that Evans encountered what would become his deepest musical fascination: the ney. The ney is a simple-looking reed flute that has been played across the Middle East for thousands of years. “It’s one of the oldest instruments in the world,” Evans explains. “Ney flutes have been found in ancient Egyptian pyramids dating back four thousand years.” Though its design appears primitive, the ney demands extraordinary skill and subtlety from its player. “It looks physically simple,” Evans says, “but the playing technique is very complex, subtle and complicated at the same time.” Evans fell under its spell. Determined to learn, he approached Nikolai Ruskin, a local virtuoso and composer deeply versed in Middle Eastern traditions. “I asked him if he would teach me,” Evans recalls. “I told him I knew very little about music and couldn’t read notation. He said that wouldn’t be a problem. He turned out to be a patient, thorough teacher, an extraordinary musician. I was already in my early forties at the time, so this became a new chapter in my life.” That “new chapter” saw Evans progress from hesitant beginner to confident performer. Eventually, he found himself not just mastering a foreign instrument but performing on stage in front of large audiences. “It was something I always wanted to do,” he says. “I just never had the courage before. Playing the ney gave me that courage, it was wonderful.”
For Evans, Ithaca was more than a place it was a turning point. The move from the structured world of technology and defense contracting to the creative vibrancy of a college town transformed not just his career path, but his sense of who he was. “All these artistic interests -- music, poetry, drawing they came to the surface of my being after I moved to Ithaca,” he says. “It changed my life.” Encouraged by the town’s thriving arts scene, he began to explore poetry alongside his musical practice. What started as an interest soon became a central part of his identity. “At first, I was just an appreciator of poetry,” he says. “I didn’t have the confidence to think of myself as a writer. But Ithaca has such a supportive arts community it gave me that confidence.” A key figure in this literary awakening was Fred Muratori; a poet and critic affiliated with Cornell University. “I took a workshop with Muratori,” Evans recalls. “He was an inspiration. Just like Nikolai was my musical mentor, Fred became my literary one.”
Evans eventually began publishing poetry of his own. His early work reflected the same meditative sensibility that drew him to the ney and shakuhachi. Over time, poetry became a way not only to express but to understand himself. “Writing poetry helps me discover illumination about my life,” he says thoughtfully. “It’s a process of exploration, not self-expression. Through writing, I try to understand my life and, through that, human nature. There’s always another layer to uncover.”
That philosophy of continual discovery runs through all his creative pursuits. Whether through breath against bamboo or ink on paper, Evans seeks meaning in the act of creation itself. “If I had not taken up poetry, my life would have been much poorer,” he reflects. “It has helped me understand who I am and my place in the world.” Though he once wrote daily, Evans now describes his writing practice as “hit or miss.” Still, he remains deeply engaged. “I have a new manuscript that I’ve sent to publishers,” he says. “A couple of editors have shown interest. I’m tentatively optimistic.”
The themes that flow through Evans’s life sound, silence, discipline, reflection mirror the traditions of the instruments he plays. The shakuhachi, for example, has long been used by Zen monks in Japan as a meditative tool, where breath and tone merge to form a spiritual practice. In the Middle East, the ney has a similar status, often associated with Sufi mysticism and the yearning of the human soul. These traditions resonate deeply with Evans. His own creative evolution, sparked by a move north and a drum circle in the park, has mirrored that spiritual journey: a passage from anxiety to expression, from silence to voice. “It’s amazing that all this came later in life,” he says with quiet pride. “I started this journey in my forties. It became a new chapter, a chance to start again.” That sense of renewal continues to define him. Whether he’s performing in a concert hall or polishing a new poem, Evans’s work emerges from the same impulse: to seek clarity, meaning, and connection. “Poetry and music,” he says, “are both ways of asking questions about ourselves. They remind us to listen, really listen to what’s inside.”
When Evans describes Ithaca, it’s with reverence. The town’s artistic energy shaped everything that followed in his life. “It’s such an inspirational place,” he says. “You’re surrounded by creative people -- musicians, poets, visual artists many of them world-class, all living in this small community. That’s what makes it special. It allows you to take yourself seriously as an artist, even if you start late.” The relationships he built there with mentors, collaborators, and fellow artists fueled his growth. Over time, music and poetry became not separate hobbies but twin expressions of the same curiosity. The drum circle that first drew him out of his shell continues, in a sense, every time he picks up the ney or revises a poem. “I think creativity arrives when you allow yourself permission,” he says. “Permission to learn, to fail, to begin again. You don’t need to be young or formally trained. You just need to be open.”
Decades after that first encounter with the ney, Evans still approaches his art as a student. Each note, each line of verse, brings him closer to the essence of what drew him to these forms in the first place: the longing to understand. “Life is full of upheavals,” he says. “Those challenges force you to reflect on who you are. For me, poetry and music have been ways to meet those moments honestly.” Now in his later years, Evans stands as both artist and teacher a living example of how creativity can bloom unexpectedly at any stage of life. From the noisy rhythm of a park drum circle to the whisper of ancient flutes, his journey is one of rediscovery, courage, and continuous exploration. “I’m still learning,” he says. “Still finding new meanings. The sound and the silence are all part of the same thing. It’s about listening deeply to music and to life.”