Conditions

Clear skies over Norfolk with a warm summer breeze blowing off the Elizabeth River, across the Waterside Marina, and through the open-air Phillips Seafood raw bar. It's 1986.

Outlook

When I was a teenager, I had two summer jobs at Waterside in downtown Norfolk. One was as the Assistant Dockmaster at the municipal marina. The other was steaming shrimp, shucking oysters, and serving drinks at the raw bar at Phillips Seafood. Both positions afforded an astonishing lack of supervision.

The City of Norfolk had issued me an official plastic name badge that said “Assistant Dockmaster."  On the back of the badge, written in White-Out, was my self-appointed title: Dr. Hedonism. At five o'clock, when the Dockmaster went home, I would flip the badge around and assume my alter ego. From then until we closed at midnight, I roamed the marina among sailors, tourists, and the crew from the American Rover— a colorful cast of characters who were mostly two or three times my age.

The raw bar was even less supervised.

I vaguely remember the waitress who hired me mentioning that the manager was "indisposed." She either didn't check or didn't care that she hired a teenager to steam shrimp, make oyster shooters, and serve beer. 

The raw bar often featured live music. One of the regular performers was a funny and charismatic dude with a spectacular white slimbody cutaway Washburn acoustic guitar.

His name was Lewis McGehee.

Advisory

Lewis covered James Taylor, Van Morrison, Cat Stevens, Elvis Costello, Jimmy Buffett, John Prine, and The Beatles. He also had a catalog of incredible original songs. His lyrics were thoughtful and poetic. His playing style was inventive and aggressive.

Most importantly, he knew how to connect with an audience.

I'd keep him supplied with beers and Grand Marnier, and he'd play songs I requested.

Not long after that, I started taking guitar lessons from Lewis, and I've continued to do so, on and off, for nearly forty years. His lessons weren't just about music. We would talk about songwriting, philosophy, epistemology, and life in general.

One lesson in particular has stayed with me all these years. Lewis told me that you need to focus on achieving freedom with your time. Build a life where you get to decide how your days are spent. And use that time with intention.

Simple advice. Easy to overlook. Hard to achieve.

Over the years I went with friends to see Lewis play all over Norfolk and Virginia Beach. We'd pile into Bill Hanckel's van and somehow find our way into The Jewish Mother, Abbey Road, or O'Sullivan's Wharf—bars we definitely weren't old enough to be in. 

I would play tabletop drums, pounding along with considerably more enthusiasm than technique, while Lewis tore through a furious rendition of "Looking at the Headlights," one of my favorite Lewis originals. As a result, most of the bars where I watched Lewis play eventually ended up with at least one wobbly table.

Many of the places where I first heard Lewis play have disappeared, but Lewis keeps finding new stages. These days you'll find him at Surf Rider, Froggie's, and Baja at Sandbridge. The names on the signs change. The crowds get a little older and then a little younger again. Somehow, Lewis remains a constant.

For people in Tidewater, Lewis is more than a local musician—he's an institution. For decades, he's entertained audiences across the region while inspiring generations of aspiring songwriters and guitar players. His songs have outlasted countless venues, and his influence can be heard in musicians all over the area. The man is timeless, and so is the joy he creates.

Extended Forecast

Aside from Jimmy Buffett, no musician has influenced my music—or my outlook on life—more than Lewis McGehee.

Although Lewis doesn't actually appear on Make Your Own Weather, his fingerprints are all over the record. His approach to songwriting, his philosophy, his sense of humor, and the lesson he taught me decades ago—control of and intentional use of one's time—have all found their way into these songs.

Now it is 2026. And somewhere in the distance, the Tidewater Troubadour plays the hell out of a white slimbody cutaway Washburn acoustic guitar while a kid called Dr. Hedonism listens closely and takes notes.