I first found out about Duncan Sheik when I was 18. A friend and I were doing our “internship,” our name for the independent high school music project where we goofed around and made music in each other’s basements. He told me about the rock musical Spring Awakening, and I was floored by the melodies, the poetic lyrics, and the instrumentation. I already knew his hit “Barely Breathing,” but I didn’t know that he was so versatile. Another friend lent me Duncan’s self-titled album, and I burned it into my iTunes (remember that?) and listened constantly. Before long, I had every album he’d made.

When I was 22, my brother and I drove to Princeton, NJ, to see him perform with Suzanne Vega at the McCarter Theatre. Afterward, we got in line to meet him, and we were so ecstatic that we swarmed him. I think he was surprised to see two young guys at his show, but he was personable, kind, and took a real interest in both of us. I don’t remember exactly what was said. I remember how it felt to be listened to. A year or two later, I saw him again at Joe’s Pub, and I was struck again by his calm, his wisdom, and how carefully he thought about everything he said.

His writing shaped me as much as his thoughtfulness did. I switched to poetry in college because I wanted to write lyrics like his. For years, I followed every release, and I played his songs for my co-producer as references on every track we recorded, trying to find the right sound.

When a musician passes, we’re reminded that artists give us the soundtrack to our lives, and we rarely get the chance to give something back. After this weekend, I can say plainly that Duncan’s songs saved my life in my 20s. I don’t know that I’d be the person or the creative I am today without them. I wish more people in the industry were as humble and down-to-earth as he was. I’ll keep trying to be more compassionate in his example.

I hope everyone has that one musician, artist, or writer who changes their life. It’s what art is for.