Friday, January 25, 2019
Growing up with singers
Growing up with singers
When I was a kid, music was always around me. But, not where you’d think. We never had a record player till I begged for one from the RCA record club at the age of 10. There was very little music available on the 3 channels we got on TV. Dick Clark’s BandStand on Saturdays and an occasional lip sync on variety shows. I had a variety of transistor radios over the years. But, the majority of music I grew up with was the acapella voices of my mom and dad.
Mom and dad sang all the time. Mom was the song leader at the Baptist Church. Dad was the deacon. When we were in the car, or at home, mom and dad would often sing hymnal songs together.
Mom would sometimes sing non religious songs to us… such as “Mary Ann, down by the seashore sifting sand…” and dad had a collection of old 78 RPM records including “Wabash Cannonball” that I never saw him play, but did sing out loud occasionally.
It was not unusual to find dad sitting alone on the porch, singing a gospel song out loud to no one.
Mom and dad would sing special music at church occasionally. Sometimes as a solo, often as a duet and one song I remember in particular with my Aunt Bonnie. “Surely, Goodness and Mercy.” So, we decided that they were the title. My mom is named SHirley (Surely), and dad was goodness and Bonnie was mercy.
There is one song that still sends chills up my spine. MY dad, did not read music, but loved to sing. He would often sing a solo of “How Great Thou Art.” He would stand at the front of the church, beside the podium, his glasses held in one hand, while his gurff, deep voice sang out the words that were the basis of his faith. Dad and mom sang the songs because they believed the songs.
My family wasn't a family that played musical instruments, even though my little sister Jo, finally became the first real musician in the family. My family’s instrument was their voice. A good voice is not something I share with them.
ALthough, in my lifelong love of music, to this day, when I am outside, looking at the night time sky, I still hear my dad’s voice singing out “I see the stars. I hear the rolling thunder. Thy power throughout, the universe proclaim.”
That is the music present in every night of stars or in every storm.
Becoming a Guitar God
Becoming a Guitar God
I had always wanted to play guitar.
From a very early age, I idolized the rock bands I loved so much. I wanted to be that lead guitarist out front, Leaning back, hair flying out , sweat drenched, making that instrument wail!
Music lessons really weren't a priority with so much going on in our family anyway. After my 2 older brothers and sister were out of the house, there was still the 5 of us from the second batch of kids. Between the sports we all played, being in church every time the door cracked open and just life, there was never really the time, or the money to do that.
At one point, I managed to get an old guitar that had only 4 strings. I used to twang about on it, most likely tuned to some imaginary tone and pretend I was making music. I’m sure it sounded pitiful and made my mother cringe.
I was jealous when my best friend, Larry, began to take guitar. Larry was an only child who lived with his mother, and grandmother. LArry and I would sit around listening to Beatles albums and he would strum the guitar and talk about what he learned in lessons. Larry and I played baseball and basketball together… and eventually football, but as an only child, he had a lot more free time than I. I spent a lot of time with my brothers and sisters out on our hilltop home in the countryside. A lot of my free time was spent in the pasture… or listening to my albums on a tiny, tinny record player.
Larry got to playing pretty good. By the time we were in high school, he and a couple guys formed a band. They played at some school dances. I would sit at Larry’s house while he played riffs from “Spirit in the Sky” and “Long Cool Woman.” All the time, I wanted to play too.
Finally, after graduation I went to college on an academic and football scholarship. It took me two years, but I soon realized that I could take guitar lessons as a class for a humanities grade. I found what I thought was decent guitar at a pawn shop, with all 6 strings, and prepared for rock stardom.
I signed up. The first day, I met my instructor…. A small lady who also taught violin. Mrs. Powers. She was the wife of my chem professor. She was more interested in classical style music and was a bit perplexed by my desire to learn rock and blues.
The first year of lessons started off well, but then I broke a couple fingers on my left hand in a football game. A fracture. It was never casted, but wrapped for the games. It was painful to use on the frets. I could hardly depress the strings and and Mrs. Powers, who was not a football fan, was miffed that it affected the lessons. In fact, she gave me a “C” for the semester.
My guitar plating improved and I spent time doing scales and runs she had shown me. My roommate, Scott, one day said”when are you going to actually play a song?” I could strum some elementary songs.
I wanted to be a guitar hero, but life kept getting in the way. MY senior year, I reinjured that hand and played games and practice with it basically wrapped like a club. Once again, my lessons suffered.
Finally, spring semester rolled around. MY hand was better. I was working on the guitar. Mrs Powers and I selected a song that I would pick out at the spring recital. It was “Michelle” by the Beatles. With her help, I was working hard to master the tune.
Two weeks before the recital, I was walking back to my 2nd floor dorm room, guitar strapped across my back as the traveling guitar troubadour I imagined myself becoming. As I walked up the stairs, the strap at the top attached to the neck of the guitar broke, and the guitar crashed down on the stairs, neck first, cracking the neck.
I grabbed the guitar, inspected the damage and let out a wail of anguish in the stairwell. I didn't have the kind of money to go out and get another guitar.
I tried gluing the neck together while I had the guitar bound to the bedposts with belts to hold it in place over the weekend and hopefully, hold together. When the weekend passed, I unstrapped the guitar, and the tension of the strings immediately pulled the neck into a crooked position. Distraught
I went to see Mrs Powers. We decided that at this close date to the recital, I would play her guitar. The trouble was, my guitar was a full size instrument with steel strings. That's what I had been playing. Mrs Powers was a diminutive woman with a smaller size guitar and nylon strings. It was like trying to adjust to a completely different instrument. Her hands were small… mine large. The practice time I got was frustrating.
When he day arrived, I sat on the front row of the auditorium with the other performers. I sat there, sweating, compulsively fingering the fretboard over and over to make my hands more familiar with the smaller guitar. Nervous nervous
Beside me sat this guy, also ready to perform with a much nicer guitar than my pawn shop special. He was the kind of guy you always pictured as the “I’m better than you” smartass. He just had that look, and that bothered me even more.
Finally, my turn arrived. I grudgingly climbed the stage steps and took a seat mid stage. I placed the guitar on my lap, placed my hands on the strings and frets and scanned the crowd. I have never hated a Beatles song, but at that moment I dreaded that song more than anything in the universe.
What my rendition sounded like to the audience...I don’t know. But to me, I heard every muffled note, every missed string, every over lapped fret on the neck as I plodded through history's worst version ever of “Michelle.”
Drenched in sweat, mercifully, I finally reached the last note. I gathered Mrs Powers guitar under my arm and descended the stairs to my seat. There, the smartass guy sat with a smirk on his face, obviously enjoying my ineptness. I was both embarrassed and angry as I plopped into my chair.
The only redeeming feature of the recital was that smartass guy was up next. He and his expensive guitar proceeded to produce the worst version of “Classical Gas” that I had ever heard. I smiled. It was much easier to share failure and I was glad to see his smirk disappear.
I did get another guitar. I played with Larry that summer. We even played , at my mom’s request, a few tunes at her church…..including Clapton’s reggae version of “swing Low” and “we’ve Been Told.”
A couple years later, I bought Larry’s electric guitar, that I would pound around on less and less as my coaching career took more and more time. Larry struggled a lot, and was down on his luck. I gave him back his guitar because I knew playing was one of his real joys.
I never became a guitar hero. But, I am still a fan of that wailing, blues lick. In my vivid imagination, I still stand at the front of the stage, wild hair blowing as I make my guitar scream! I’m sure it entertains the other drivers at stop lights while I play air guitar in my car.
I had always wanted to play guitar.
From a very early age, I idolized the rock bands I loved so much. I wanted to be that lead guitarist out front, Leaning back, hair flying out , sweat drenched, making that instrument wail!
Music lessons really weren't a priority with so much going on in our family anyway. After my 2 older brothers and sister were out of the house, there was still the 5 of us from the second batch of kids. Between the sports we all played, being in church every time the door cracked open and just life, there was never really the time, or the money to do that.
At one point, I managed to get an old guitar that had only 4 strings. I used to twang about on it, most likely tuned to some imaginary tone and pretend I was making music. I’m sure it sounded pitiful and made my mother cringe.
I was jealous when my best friend, Larry, began to take guitar. Larry was an only child who lived with his mother, and grandmother. LArry and I would sit around listening to Beatles albums and he would strum the guitar and talk about what he learned in lessons. Larry and I played baseball and basketball together… and eventually football, but as an only child, he had a lot more free time than I. I spent a lot of time with my brothers and sisters out on our hilltop home in the countryside. A lot of my free time was spent in the pasture… or listening to my albums on a tiny, tinny record player.
Larry got to playing pretty good. By the time we were in high school, he and a couple guys formed a band. They played at some school dances. I would sit at Larry’s house while he played riffs from “Spirit in the Sky” and “Long Cool Woman.” All the time, I wanted to play too.
Finally, after graduation I went to college on an academic and football scholarship. It took me two years, but I soon realized that I could take guitar lessons as a class for a humanities grade. I found what I thought was decent guitar at a pawn shop, with all 6 strings, and prepared for rock stardom.
I signed up. The first day, I met my instructor…. A small lady who also taught violin. Mrs. Powers. She was the wife of my chem professor. She was more interested in classical style music and was a bit perplexed by my desire to learn rock and blues.
The first year of lessons started off well, but then I broke a couple fingers on my left hand in a football game. A fracture. It was never casted, but wrapped for the games. It was painful to use on the frets. I could hardly depress the strings and and Mrs. Powers, who was not a football fan, was miffed that it affected the lessons. In fact, she gave me a “C” for the semester.
My guitar plating improved and I spent time doing scales and runs she had shown me. My roommate, Scott, one day said”when are you going to actually play a song?” I could strum some elementary songs.
I wanted to be a guitar hero, but life kept getting in the way. MY senior year, I reinjured that hand and played games and practice with it basically wrapped like a club. Once again, my lessons suffered.
Finally, spring semester rolled around. MY hand was better. I was working on the guitar. Mrs Powers and I selected a song that I would pick out at the spring recital. It was “Michelle” by the Beatles. With her help, I was working hard to master the tune.
Two weeks before the recital, I was walking back to my 2nd floor dorm room, guitar strapped across my back as the traveling guitar troubadour I imagined myself becoming. As I walked up the stairs, the strap at the top attached to the neck of the guitar broke, and the guitar crashed down on the stairs, neck first, cracking the neck.
I grabbed the guitar, inspected the damage and let out a wail of anguish in the stairwell. I didn't have the kind of money to go out and get another guitar.
I tried gluing the neck together while I had the guitar bound to the bedposts with belts to hold it in place over the weekend and hopefully, hold together. When the weekend passed, I unstrapped the guitar, and the tension of the strings immediately pulled the neck into a crooked position. Distraught
I went to see Mrs Powers. We decided that at this close date to the recital, I would play her guitar. The trouble was, my guitar was a full size instrument with steel strings. That's what I had been playing. Mrs Powers was a diminutive woman with a smaller size guitar and nylon strings. It was like trying to adjust to a completely different instrument. Her hands were small… mine large. The practice time I got was frustrating.
When he day arrived, I sat on the front row of the auditorium with the other performers. I sat there, sweating, compulsively fingering the fretboard over and over to make my hands more familiar with the smaller guitar. Nervous nervous
Beside me sat this guy, also ready to perform with a much nicer guitar than my pawn shop special. He was the kind of guy you always pictured as the “I’m better than you” smartass. He just had that look, and that bothered me even more.
Finally, my turn arrived. I grudgingly climbed the stage steps and took a seat mid stage. I placed the guitar on my lap, placed my hands on the strings and frets and scanned the crowd. I have never hated a Beatles song, but at that moment I dreaded that song more than anything in the universe.
What my rendition sounded like to the audience...I don’t know. But to me, I heard every muffled note, every missed string, every over lapped fret on the neck as I plodded through history's worst version ever of “Michelle.”
Drenched in sweat, mercifully, I finally reached the last note. I gathered Mrs Powers guitar under my arm and descended the stairs to my seat. There, the smartass guy sat with a smirk on his face, obviously enjoying my ineptness. I was both embarrassed and angry as I plopped into my chair.
The only redeeming feature of the recital was that smartass guy was up next. He and his expensive guitar proceeded to produce the worst version of “Classical Gas” that I had ever heard. I smiled. It was much easier to share failure and I was glad to see his smirk disappear.
I did get another guitar. I played with Larry that summer. We even played , at my mom’s request, a few tunes at her church…..including Clapton’s reggae version of “swing Low” and “we’ve Been Told.”
A couple years later, I bought Larry’s electric guitar, that I would pound around on less and less as my coaching career took more and more time. Larry struggled a lot, and was down on his luck. I gave him back his guitar because I knew playing was one of his real joys.
I never became a guitar hero. But, I am still a fan of that wailing, blues lick. In my vivid imagination, I still stand at the front of the stage, wild hair blowing as I make my guitar scream! I’m sure it entertains the other drivers at stop lights while I play air guitar in my car.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
