I Guess I’ll Know When I Get There

Rediscovering the guitar as I approach the tender age of sixty

When I was around seven or eight years old, I became fascinated by the guitar. I had a toy model with plastic strings that I would strum along to the radio, believing that at least some of the time I was in tune with whatever I was listening to. This was the instrument of choice of both John Denver and Johnny Cash, two revered artists in our household, but it was my uncle Newell in Oklahoma who first allowed me to hold a real guitar and attempt to make it sing.

He would later give me that very same guitar for Christmas, a cheap, beat-up acoustic that would become my most valuable possession. I have a vague memory, years and many moves later, of my little brother dragging it down the stairs by the neck, the poor instrument hitting each carpeted step on the way down. The back had become unglued from the body and bowed out several inches, leaving a horrible gap. I wish I could claim that I cherished that guitar and cared for it well, but alas, that was not to be.

I would receive yet another gift, some years later, when my parents gave me a brand new, but still inexpensive guitar, which I would keep until my best friend Mark Bowman borrowed it one weekend. I wasn’t doing anything with it, he mused, so he asked to borrow it so he could learn to write songs. This is more than I ever did with it. Mark started several bands in Philadelphia in the early 90s, mostly as a frontman and not a guitarist, and I never did see that guitar again.

Mark is gone now. He always had a wild rock star streak, so I guess he finally had enough of a civilian’s life. Soon after getting married, he put the barrel of a rifle in his mouth and pulled the trigger. It was shocking, while not terribly surprising, as it had always been a very real possibility with Mark. I don’t think he ever learned to love the guitar,  but he certainly loved performing. He craved the limelight but struggled with his manic nature. In his mind, Mark was always the rock star, just one who had failed to find his place in the pantheon of greatness. Still, he went out with a bang, not a whimper, and on his own terms. I miss him, some days more than others.

Throughout all my various guitars (including an electric bass I still don’t understand), I never learned to play any of them properly. I remember a few chords and have a basic understanding of the instrument, but it never became a serious part of my life. I never learned to love it, let alone understand it. It was an object of desire, but never the tool of an artist.

The last time I took lessons, my mother explained to the teacher that I was interested in finger picking in the style of John Denver and was told that this was too difficult and that I should dream smaller. I needed to start with learning chords and scales, I was told, or some other tedious bullshit. Of course, I quickly became bored and quit soon after I’d begun. There’s absolutely no reason why they couldn’t have taught me a few chords and let me practice finger picking a song I knew and loved. You don’t need to be able to diagram a sentence to develop a love of stories. 

I still blame that teacher for my lack of progress, but if I’d really wanted to learn, I would have. The truth is, I had too many interests, and playing music was never a central focus of my life, so it fell by the wayside. Nearly every one of my friends ended up in a band. Everyone but me. I just never had any interest in performing. I was always the guy behind the scenes, and happy to be so.

This morning, I bought a guitar. I did it impulsively and hastily, even though I’d been researching guitars for weeks—maybe months. I didn’t do what I was told, which was to go play a bunch of guitars and see which one I liked best. The problem is that my local guitar store didn’t have the guitars I was considering in stock. I was going to either make a choice or take multiple trips to the guitar store.

After a good bit of reading, it seemed clear that for a beginner such as myself, and given the price point I was willing to pay, it really came down to one of two models of essentially the same guitar. The Yamaha FG800. The two options were the larger Dreadnought body or the smaller folk style. I learned, after reading multiple reviews, that the Dreadnought had a bigger sound but that smaller individuals, such as women and smaller adults, found the smaller folk size easier to manage. As I’m of average size, I made the executive decision to go with the larger body with the fuller sound, and just call it a day. How bad could it be?

I have a theory about such things. If you want to master an instrument, be it a guitar, car, camera, or piece of sporting equipment, the equipment itself doesn’t matter much until you know what to do with it. After decades of commercial photography, I can take a great photo with my phone even though I understand the difference. I’ve bought multiple automobiles without test-driving them first, and I never had any regrets. A Porsche drives a lot like you’d expect it to. You’ll get used to anything, so banging around on one instrument versus another for ten minutes in a strip mall isn’t going to tell me much. I decided I knew enough to make an informed choice.

I ordered the guitar, along with a stand, case, and capo. No picks. No strap. No crazy gizmos. I had it shipped to the store so they can make sure it’s properly set up and tuned before I pick it up. It’s supposed to take 3-5 days to arrive, so I should be able to drive up this week sometime and grab it.

While I was thinking about the prospect of buying a guitar, I watched a bunch of tutorial videos on YouTube on simple fingerpicking techniques. They seemed entirely doable and well within my grasp to learn. Repetitious practice would be enough to allow me to play some simple progressions and learn a few songs. One chord at a time, one setup at a time, built into a sequence, and practiced over and over again. I hope to think of it as a meditation and not a chore. Something for my hands to play with while my mind goes to town. A fidget spinner with greater auditory upside.

I have no delusions of grandeur, no dreams of becoming a musician. I will never be anything other than a mediocre amateur, serviceable at best. Still, I thought it might be a nice thing to noodle on, in between projects, an outlet for writing. I’m mostly interested in the poetry of songwriting, as opposed to the music, as the songs themselves can be quite simple and elementary. Many of my favorites are just that. Simple, three-chord arrangements with sharp, insightful lyrics.

I would even go so far as to say that I have no intention of ever playing in public, and currently not even in front of my family. It’s something I’m doing for myself, not for anyone else. I’m interested in an audience of one: me.

But that doesn’t mean I won’t write about it.

Creativity Guitar Music