What William Finn Meant to Me

by Chris Peterson, OnStage Blog Founder

I just heard the news that William Finn has passed away, and while there will definitely be far more eloquent tributes written in the coming days—by critics, collaborators, and Broadway giants—I needed to start writing. Not as a polished piece, not as a theatre historian, just as someone who loved him.

William Finn changed my life.

Listening to it was an experience. It was messy, melodic, angry, and loving. It was neurotic and loud. It was full of contradiction and bursting with heart. His music taught me that you could scream at someone in one verse and love them more than life itself in the next. That’s what family looks like. That’s what theatre looks like.

I didn’t discover his work until I was in college. As an Asian kid growing up in a small town, I didn’t see a lot of myself onstage—or hear myself in the stories being told. But something about Finn’s characters, their emotional chaos and fragile strength, spoke to me. His musicals weren’t about my identity exactly, but they made room for it. They said, “You’re not too much.” They said, “Your feelings are valid.” And that meant the world to me.

Falsettos hit me like a lightning bolt. I remember listening to it and thinking, “Wait… you’re allowed to do this? You’re allowed to write this honestly? With this much feeling and this much wit?” I didn’t know it could be done. And then he did it, over and over again. A New Brain somehow made brain surgery… musical? But also spiritual. Sacred. Hilarious. Terrifying. I listened to “Heart and Music” in college more times than I could count. It was a mantra.

And Spelling Bee—don’t get me started. That show is a masterclass in capturing people on the brink. Not kids, not yet adults. They are just trying so hard to spell their way into being seen. I remember watching it and thinking, “How does he know me?” The answer was simple—he knew himself. And he put that self into everything he wrote.

Finn never catered to commercial. I felt that he wrote with gut instinct and a wicked sense of humor. His lyrics weren’t always tidy, but they were true. His characters didn’t always resolve cleanly, but they lived fully. That honesty—unfiltered, courageous, human—made him a genius.

I never met him, but I felt like I knew him. He gave us all the most beautiful, neurotic, hilarious map of his mind. And now that he’s gone, I want to say thank you.

Thank you for reminding us that heart and music really do make a song.

And thank you, Bill, for making so many of us feel seen—really seen. Your voice lives on in every note, every harmony, every offbeat lyric that makes us laugh and sob and believe again.

You mattered. You matter.