love of the guitar

I remember the first time that I saw a guitar. I was helping my dad’s friends Joey and Teddy to clean out their yard and do some miscellaneous chores. One of the things they had me do was to move a bunch of boxes from their daughter’s room of their third story house into the attic. Their house was made of country cut lumber and stood for more than 100 years as had many of the homes in the area.

I carefully walked up the stairs into the attic and slid the back against the wall from my awkward standing position on the top of the staircase. To my left I saw a guitar leaning against the far wall. It was standing in a part of the attic that had no floor and was open insulation. It looked lonely.

I went back downstairs and got another stack of boxes and made my way back up. Joey went downstairs and upon my third trip into the attic I creepy across the beams and reached for the guitar. It made a slight ringing sound as I picked it up, almost as if coming alive to touch of a person. I set it against me and strummed it a few times. It rang out though upon pushing on the strings I found that I could make no intelligible and pleasing sounds. I caressed its curved form and dusted it off a little. I longed to have it.

I set it back in its place, being careful to position it exactly as it was. I crept back across the beams and made my way back downstairs pausing to look at it once more before stepping out of sight.

I finish my trips up and down the stairs moving the boxes. When I finished, I went back to the top of the stairs and looked once more. I wanted it. I made my way back downstairs and into the yard where Joey was cutting wood. I helped stack the wood in the neat pile which extended around the back of the barn and alongside the foundation from a building which stood many years before. I asked if I might have the guitar. He said that it was Teddy’s father’s and that I’d have to talk to her though she’d probably not want to part with it.

I finished my work that day and found Teddy. I asked her if I could have the guitar to which she replied no. I offered to trade my work for it. She said that she wouldn’t part with it. I thought about stealing it. I thought it such a shame to have such a thing of beauty stuck in the back of an attic for no one. I knew that stealing was wrong and figured I’d find a way to get it eventually.

I can’t remember if I asked my mom about getting a guitar or not. Objects didn’t come easily to us. We weren’t dirt poor, but lived pretty humbly.

In the 4^th grade, I got a saxophone which was much more ‘acceptable’ to play than the guitar. I was good though got bored with it before too long. Our band teacher, God rest his soul, was a frustrated musician. He was an amazing trumpeter and an alcoholic. He would stammer, all red-faced, as a bunch of 10 year old kids would struggle through “Hot Cross Buns” which bears a striking resemblance to the tune of “Three Blind Mice.”

In the 7^th and 8^th grade, I made the jazz band and was one of the better players. I still avoided practice. In the 9^th grade I was kicked out of my band class. I was caught chewing tobacco in the back of the class with another boy, Steve Hadley. I didn’t like him much but yet I felt some need to impress him. He had a black leather jacket. I liked the music they were playing at that time but kept forgetting to bring my instrument to school. I told myself something like: “I never really liked that stuff anyways.” My mom, I’m sure, was heartbroken.

In the Navy I had an opportunity during a six-month deployment to take lessons with another fellow in my shop. I worked on electronics from the F-18’s (the same type of plane as the Blue Angels). I had lots of free time when not working and practiced a lot. He would show me a chord or two and then give me some music to listen to that had those chords. I would pick out where the chords were and try to jam along. I sometimes played 12 hours a day. Within 6 weeks I was sitting in circles with other guitar players on the ship. I loved the power I could create with the guitar. I frustrated other guys that had been playing for years and I liked it.

After my discharge I found myself spending a lot time in bars. I gravitated toward bars that had live music. I loved listening to acoustic guitar players/ singers. I loved soul music. Gimme the beat boys…

I performed my first time at My Place Bar & Grille. I was pretty lit. I played something and messed it up pretty good. Perhaps it was "Blackbird" by the Beatles. I got up embarrassed to leave the stage and the host encouraged me to try again. He told me to do my favorite song. I chose a song which was featured in the film Desperado called “Cancion del Mariache.” I sang in Spanish and the song had some solid rhythmic parts to it. When I finished everyone applauded. The host clapped and said “hell yeah!” I was hooked.

I have played more than 2,000 shows now. I have supported myself for almost 8 years with my music and have made approximately $250,000. Not bad. When I decided to quit my job to play guitar my dad said “a man has to work… not a good idea son.” Heh. Dad, you were wrong about this one.

It is work, don’t get me wrong. I show up and play. I have missed 3 gigs in these last 8 years. I've been in fights and a part of all that goes along with the bar scene. It is however the best work I have ever done and my longest lasting and most consistent job. Who'd a thunk.

Today I get to share a piece of my soul each time I perform. Been loving some "Halleluiah" by Leonard Cohen here recently. mmm.
So thanks to you all for making my love and passion a reality and something I can live off of. Pretty cool.

JS