I know it may be hard to believe but a conservative looking guy like me is deep down a Rock God. In my dreams, I look like a member of White Snake or Poison (1980’s hair bands) wearing my tight leather pants, prancing around the stage, wagging my tongue while tearing off a epic guitar solo…in my dreams. In real life, I’m a middle aged guy (that is if I live into my 130s) living with the regret of never learning how to play an instrument. It wasn’t for the lacking of wanting to.
I blame my parents. I never could understand why they wouldn’t buy me a set of drums to play. In a house of two parents and 8 children, would anyone have noticed me banging on the drums all day (Todd Rundgren reference)…would they?
For decades I moped about my lost opportunity to become a musician. Apparently my three sons got tired of hearing me whine and bought me a guitar for my birthday. The note that came with it said, ”You wanted to learn to play an instrument, do it.”
My guitar was a beautiful blue thing and I had know idea what to do with it. At first, I couldn’t figure which end to blow into. Give me a break, I wanted to be a drummer. At my advanced age, maybe a guitar would be a good start. Besides, my fellow residents in the retirement community wouldn’t call the security guards on me (Did I just give away my age? Damn!).
For about a year, I depended on YouTube to be my guitar instructor. I searched for specific songs that I liked, looked at the chicken scratching they call music, and watched somebody, who’s been playing a guitar since they were 3 years old, talk to me in a condescending manner. Didn’t learn much that way. The best sound I could produce was finger nails on a chalk board (geez, another reference to my advanced age. Kids, chalk boards are what were used in schools before white boards and iPads). After my failure, I thought my guitar would be collecting dust in the closet next to my pocket fisherman and collection of 8-trak tapes.
For my following birthday, my sons decided they were going to force my dream down my throat and purchased guitar lessons for me at the local instrument/music store. My mother-in-law liked that idea so much, she pitched in a bunch more lessons. I now had no choice, I was going to really learn how to use my guitar for more that just a croquet mallet.
I went down to the music store and was guided into a booth that was the size of a very small linen closet. There I met my instructor Jym.
Jym is a true musician. He is my age, tall, slender, with a long white pony tail and loaded with talent. We’re like twins, except for the tall, slender, long hair and talent thing. You would think his life was just sex, drugs and rock and roll. Truth be told, his whole life is about music. He eats, drinks, sleeps and lives it. He explained that he didn’t smoke, drink or use drugs because it got into the way of his music. Boring! I was hoping to hear about decadent parties and how he destroyed hotel rooms while on tour. Instead, he talked about not working with some well known rock musicians because of their tendency to party instead of being creative. Maybe that is why he didn’t die young, a tragic rock legend, and is teaching me how to play guitar in a broom closet. I truly respect the dedication to his craft.
The first thing Jym wanted was to see my guitar. I pulled my blue wonder from it’s garbage bag like guitar case and showed it to him. After he finished laughing, he carefully examined the instrument and explained to me that it would probably cost me more money to get it in playable condition than what my boys payed for it. My first lesson…get a real guitar. Good thing I was in a store with hundreds of guitars hanging on the walls. By the next lesson I was ready to shred a riff on my new axe (have no idea what that means).
It has been two years since my first lesson and I can actually plunk out a few songs. I’ll never reach the level of someone who has been playing for years but thanks to Jym’s patience, I learned how to play an instrument. Ok, I concede it may sometimes sound like someone strangling cats but it’s a start.
You will now find me in my den, playing to an audience of one, me. Why torture innocent bystanders. I’ve started to let my hair grow and I’m looking for a pair of those tight leather pants. I’ll be prancing around my room, throwing my hair back, wagging my tongue, while trying to figure out where the epic guitar solo is in “Mary Had A Little Lamb.”
©2020 BBRiley.net
bbriley.net 