Chapter One of My New Book

Dear fans & friends,

Over the years, many of you have asked me to share more about my journey—my music, my struggles, my triumphs, and the moments in between that shaped the life I’ve been blessed to live. I’ve taken that to heart, and I’ve been working on something very special… my memoir. We printed a small run earlier this year that sold out quickly and I'm working on an audiobook as well.

Today, I’m honored to share Chapter One with you as a preview. This is where it all begins—the story behind the music, the passion, and the path that led me to you.

If this chapter speaks to you and you’d like to be among the first to know when the book becomes available again, I would love to hear from you. Simply reach out to roque@estebanmusic.com, and we’ll make sure you’re added to the list for updates on reprints and future purchasing details.

Thank you for being part of my journey.

— Esteban 🎸

Chapter 1: 5 minutes at the MIM

The dressing rooms at the Musical Instrument Museum are sparse, clean, and quiet. That’s what I love about them.

No distractions. No chaos. Just white walls, warm light, a comfy couch and a mirror that doesn’t lie. I sit in the chair, guitar in my lap, rolling my fingers slowly open and closed. The joints creak. The knuckles tighten. They always do, especially before a show. Especially now.

I flex my left shoulder, feel that familiar catch. My knees complain too. But the pain doesn’t bother me. It’s a kind of ritual now—part of the preparation. Like tuning. Like prayer.

Tonight, like most nights here, it’s two sold-out shows—3 p.m. and 7 p.m.. That’s how it goes at the MIM. Always full. Always electric. Always something sacred about the place. If you’ve never been, you wouldn’t believe it. Pure musical magic all in one place. 

The Musical Instrument Museum, just off Tatum and Mayo Boulevard in Phoenix, is one of the greatest treasures in the world. Not just Arizona—the world.

They’ve got over 7,500 instruments, representing nearly 200 countries and territories. You can walk through centuries of sound. Chinese court flutes. West African talking drums. A handmade oud from Syria. Les Paul’s guitar. Johnny Cash’s boots. A Steinway from the gilded age. Ancient Aztec conch shells. It’s all there.

Everywhere you turn: Rhythm. Culture. Humanity in string and wood and wire.

And in the heart of it all—the MIM Music Theater.

Just under 300 seats. Acoustically perfect. Intimate. Reverent. The kind of room where you can hear breath between notes. Where the silence between songs is part of the music.

I’ve played here many times. Each one feels a bit like coming home.

From the dressing room, I hear the warm-up sounds of the band, MY band, drifting through the halls.

Teresa Joy, my daughter, my anchor, is working through her scales on violin—slow, deliberate, smooth. Her tone tells me everything I need to know. She’s ready. She always is. Her sound calms me more than anything else.

Then I hear him—that unmistakable laugh, Joe Morris. My brother behind the kit for over three decades. A man whose heartbeat synced with mine long before either of us understood how rare that is.

Joey isn’t warming up — he’s settling in, stretching, getting limber, ready to rock. That steady pulse, that quiet power, that little flourish he does on the hi-hat - The man has anchored my music longer than most marriages last.

And then there’s Ben, my son, on keys tonight. He floats between instruments like it’s nothing—guitar, bass, percussion, piano. But behind the keys he has a softness, a sensitivity, that fills the room like light through stained glass.

I hear him and Joe exchanging some joke — the easy camaraderie that only comes from Joey watching Ben grow up at the Hyatt. ‘Uncle Joey’ even used to babysit Ben when he was a toddler. It makes me smile. Makes me feel young again.

Then there’s Chad, my bassist. Older guy, like me. Wears sunglasses indoors, like me. Played with Freddy Fender and the Texas Tornados back in the day. Road warrior. Tone master. He holds down the low end like it’s sacred duty. Never overplays. Never needs to.

This is the latest version of my band.

I miss the old days. Damn, do I miss the old days—Robert Brock on keys, Emilio Santiago on percussion, Gary Gillespie on bass, Jesse McGuire on trumpet, Ray, Jim, Mike, and Raul – my old crew. We were musical vagabonds playing all over the country, my old brothers-in-arms, my old band. All we had was music and that’s all we needed. But I love this new crew. Time changes things. That’s the deal we all signed, whether we like it or not. 

Out in the hallway, I spot Roq—my son-in-law—wheeling a huge box of CDs toward the front of house. Merch table duty. He’s smiling at Teresa Joy, gives her a quick kiss before the show. The guy always shows up. He’s always there when I need him.

I know after the show, I’ll be signing every one of those discs, shaking hands, taking pictures. Some of these fans have been with me since the Gainey days. Some since QVC/HSN. Some just discovered the music last week and are already part of the family. That’s what music does – it connects and heals. 

It never gets old.

I lean forward, pick up my guitar, cradle it like I’ve done a million times before.

Close my eyes.

Breathe.

This is where I’m supposed to be.

Here, in this museum built for music, about music, in a city where I rebuilt my life. Where I became Esteban. Where I found a second act, a second voice.

“Five minutes!” Mark, my manager, calls from the hallway.

I nod, tighten the last string, and stand.

The pain fades.

The band is ready.

The house is full.

The stage is waiting.

I sling the guitar over my shoulder and head down the hallway toward the stage. 

The lights are low out front. The theater quiet, like it’s holding its breath. I step behind the curtain, and the hush deepens. My pulse slows to match the rhythm of the room.

One more deep breath. Joey and Ben are whispering to each other, cracking some private jokes before the show. Chad gives me the thumbs up and Teresa Joy, all grace and beauty gives me that mega-watt smile, as she sways and dances, warming up, all focus, ready to give it her all like she does at every show.  

The announcer is almost done with his intro, calling me a ‘Valley Legend’ which makes me smile, just a bit. I’ve been in the Valley of the Sun for decades, so who the hell knows, maybe I am.

And then the moment begins. The band walks out before me. 

Then I walk into the light.

Applause rises. The warmth of it washes over me. It’s not fame anymore—it’s something older, quieter, truer. Gratitude. Belonging. A long-held note resolving after decades of tension.

I look out at the audience and smile. Teresa Joy glances over, beautiful, long raven locks swaying as she nods to me, ready to go. Ben and Joey lock in behind her. Chad drops into his stance, all low-end and cool. 

But before I play the first note—before my fingers touch the strings—before I can even sit in my chair, I feel it.

That flicker.

That pull.

That whisper in the back of my mind that always returns right before I play.

Pittsburgh.

Bethel Park. The old house. The cold mornings. The roar of the steel mill. The thin walls of our home. My father’s voice. The silence that always followed it.

A boy. Small, shy. Hiding in his own skin.

Dreaming of escape.

Dreaming of something more.

I close my eyes.

And just like that—we’re back there.