A First Gig

“Four for a dollar.”

This Thursday evening called up those Thursday nights from long ago, leaning on the glass counter of the guitar shop, choosing the week’s supply of guitar picks.

First, there would be the sacred pilgrimage to the electric guitars. Look at the flame on that. (Even before I knew This is Spinal Tap existed, that phrase bubbled up from the ancient depths. Flame maple must be a culturally-universal religious experience for musicians anywhere.)

Then, a look at the amps, squat and blocky and silent, bouncers unprovoked. Everything cost so much for a teenager. So I’d get a few picks, choosing carefully, but not taking too long.

So much happened since picking those, and choosing these yesterday in Roanoke, VA.

I walked out into the late sunshine on Brambleton ave, twelve guitar picks in three colors in a clear bag, remembering.

The bands, the endless practice, the new friends, working the sound at the punk club on Friday nights, teaching at the same guitar shop, learning to play street music, then a singalong on the 7 train high above Queens. The posters and the broom guitars and the dive bars and spending time with hundreds of kids and adults in my studio as we all got better at the craft.

And learned a lot about life.

After a while, it was time to put it up. That’s another story, and not a bad one but:

After typing it out last night, a new thought showed up.

Pointless self-importance often walks as “raw, honest introspection.”

So, instead, I’ll leave it at this:

I’ve got twelve new picks, and after two years of “retirement”, I’m playing a show at an arts festival tomorrow. Gone is the goal of looking cool, of being artistically important and appreciated. In fact, it’s going to be hilariously lofi and zany.

It’s off to pack the electric broom guitar, the electric stop sign guitar, the drums with foot pedals, the cigar box guitar, the shakers, and the foot tambourine. And, of course, the little battery-powered “campfire” for the telling of THE BEST SONG IN THE WORLD (Tenacious D’s “Tribute”), and the heavy metal rendition of “Three Little Pigs.”

The strategy there is to involve the kids, with extra instruments for all to make a racket with, and of course, the Wolf & Pig Choir:

The little boys will chant “LITTLE PIG LITTLE PIG LET ME IN” towards the girls, who return with a shriek “NOT BY THE HAIR OF MY CHINNY CHIN CHIN!”

Oh, this is going to be fun. (They really get into character.) And you never know what people take with ‘em.

“Jordan”, an old guitar student dropped me a note the other day. He’s out of state, but sent me the biggest smile:

Since then I started to pursue video production and game development and recently graduated with a degree in electronic arts and game design. Even though I haven't played music in a while, the time playing it and having lessons with you inspired me to be in a creative/artistic career.

Man, that’s everything.

What a journey it’s been.

The guitar served as a life raft, bringing a bunch of us across a stormy sea to a welcoming shore of the rest of our lives.

We all got to meet at a point in history, to study, to marvel, to dream, and then go into the world.

The old “students” dazzled me with their success, and have turned around, calling me forward to do big things.

Now, look, there’s a six-string in the window. Huh, I wonder where it will take me this time.

I’ve got twelve picks, and my first gig tomorrow. If you’re in Solomon’s Island, MD, stop on by and pick up an old guitar. I’d love to see you.

(Maybe I’ll have to dress like the first little pig.)