Death, Mortality, and Music

Few people can say they have written music while living among the dead, yet that is where DiAmorte’s world was born.

The funeral home became both a home and a teacher. Surrounded by the quiet, a strange peace settled in, one that most might never understand. Death had been a companion since childhood, present at the first funeral before memory could fully form, and never once did it bring fear. Instead, it carried familiarity, almost comfort, as though it had always been near.

When the funeral director, a family friend, offered a place to stay and work, it felt less like employment and more like returning to something waiting in the shadows. The days were filled with services, preparation, and the quiet ritual of restoring what had once been. Nights were spent one room away from the departed or on the sofa in the chapel. For years, that was life.

An old condo space beneath the funeral home eventually became a small sanctuary. Most would have been unsettled by the thought of sleeping beneath the same roof as the dead, yet there was calm in it. The silence was total, but never hollow.

Within that stillness, creation began. During those long, echoing nights, music took form. What started as quiet notes played on a digital piano became The Red Opera, and later, The Black Ballad. The walls seemed to hold their breath as songs came to life in whispers. Every sound belonged to that place.

The characters of The Red Opera emerged from within those walls. LaCroix was the heart before reason, Dorian the cold logic that questions all things. Fayte carried faith in humanity’s ability to heal, while Majin gave voice to despair. Each reflected fragments of the human condition, shaped by the experience of existing between life and death.

Beyond the walls lay open fields and gray skies. The moving shadows across the grass became The Shadelands, a world shaped not from fantasy but from memory. The shifting light and dark became symbols of the balance between what fades and what endures.

Working among the dead removes all pretense. There is no vanity when the hands are occupied with what remains of a life once lived. That reality became the soul of DiAmorte: beauty born from decay, hope found within despair, the sacred discovered within ruin.

In that place, the dead became teachers. They revealed patience in stillness, humility in repetition, and meaning where none seemed to exist. Death was no longer an ending. It became transformation. Families would cling to one another, their grief raw yet filled with love, and it was clear that love remained long after breath had gone.

Even now, memory returns to that basement room, the low hum of refrigeration above, the faint buzz of a hallway light, and the quiet rhythm of creation. Hours would pass unnoticed as the music formed.

The dead taught what no living teacher could. They gave perspective, gratitude, and the understanding that time is fragile. Art, perhaps, is one of the few things that can outlast it.

So when people ask how DiAmorte’s music can be so steeped in mortality, the truth is simple. It is not about death. It is about life. It is about seeing the beauty in what is fleeting, finding honesty in what is fragile, and creating something that endures beyond the silence.

The funeral director was a family friend who gave me the opportunity when I had nowhere else to go. I started by helping with services and assisting with wakes, but I quickly took on more responsibility. I would pick up bodies at all hours of the night, bring them back for preparation, and handle the cosmetic work before they were laid out for viewing. I was on call twenty-four hours a day, and I slept only one room away or often on the sofa in the funeral chapel

For a time, I stayed in a small upstairs room. Eventually, I cleaned out an old condo space in the basement and made that my living quarters. Most people would have been unsettled by the idea of sleeping beneath the same roof as the dead, but for me, it was comforting. The silence was complete, but not empty.

During those long nights, when the work was done and the funeral home had gone still, I began to write what would become DiAmorte’s “The Red Opera” as well as later on most of "The Black Ballad" The funeral home became my creative sanctuary. I would sit at my desk or at the small digital piano I had brought with me. Every sound carried in that building, so I often composed quietly, letting the music live just beneath a whisper. It all found its way into the music.

The characters of “The Red Opera” came from within those walls. They were pieces of me, fragments of thought that had been growing for years. LaCroix was my heart before logic, the chaotic good that would give everything without hesitation. Dorian was the cold pragmatist, the mind that weighed every cost. Fayte was my caretaker’s nature, my belief that humanity could still redeem itself. Majin, the Betrayer, was the voice of despair, the part of me that saw no hope left in the world after witnessing so much senseless death. They were reflections of how I saw humanity while living among both the living and the dead.

The atmosphere of the funeral home shaped the setting that became known as The Shadelands. I used to take walks under gray skies and across open fields where the clouds cast moving shadows across the grass. That shifting light and shadow became the essence of the world I was building. It was not born of fantasy, but of real places that brought me peace. The Shadelands were as much within me as they were in the music.

Working among the dead stripped away pretense. There was no room for vanity when you spent your nights embalming what remained of a life once lived. That contrast became the soul of DiAmorte. Beauty born from decay. Hope found within despair. The idea that even in ruin, something sacred can still rise.

I learned more about the living by being surrounded by the dead than I ever did in the company of the living themselves. The quiet halls taught patience. The long hours taught humility. The presence of death taught meaning in a way that no sermon or philosophy ever could.

People often imagine death as an end. To me, it never felt final. I saw it as transformation. I watched families cling to each other, their grief raw and unfiltered, and I saw how love lingered long after breath had gone. That permanence of love fascinated me.

Sometimes I think back to those nights when I sat alone in that basement room, the faint hum of the refrigeration units above me, the soft buzz of the fluorescent light down the hall. I would write for hours without realizing how much time had passed.

The dead gave me perspective. They taught me gratitude for the smallest things, for the moments we take for granted. They reminded me that time is finite and that art is one of the few things that can defy that limitation.

When people ask me how I can write music so steeped in mortality, I tell them it is not about death at all. It is about recognizing the fragility of life and finding beauty in it. It made me honest.