I remember it as if it were yesterday. It was 1980, I was 7, and my Mom permitted me to take the $25 Harmony guitar she owned and never played for years and string it backwards to accommodate my left handedness, so I could learn to play it.
This was huge. I was going to be the next Doobie Brothers. Sadly, I never took the time to learn that classic opening lick from "Long Train Comin'" until 2008. When I did learn it, I realized how easy it would have been to just apply myself a bit when I was a sponge, instead of taking my mediocre abilities for what they were.
But that's life right? Everyone could do better. Hind sight is always 20/20.
Main Street music was a small music shop in town that my brother worked at, and Paul, the owner, gave lessons. So, I strut in there for my first lesson gleaming with pride, cause little does Paul know, I've already been practicing. Smoke on the water, Another one bites the dust, shit like that. I was sure to impress.
I take the warped piece of sweat shop particle board out of the case and sit down, a little nervous, but very excited. This is where I learn to melt faces.
Paul sees me take the guitar, assuming rock position, then says, "Yeah, uh, that's not gonna work."
Needless to say I was dumbfounded, so I asked "What's not gonna work"?
" Since you don't know how to play yet, I'll teach you how to play right handed, so later in life, you can jam with anyone, or play any guitar in a music store." he said. Don't know how to play? Who the fuck does this guy think he is? I can play Smoke on the water, some 3 chord Cars tune. Shit, I even know the opening to Fly by night from Rush.
Reluctantly, I hand the Harmony over to him, and for most of the next 15 minutes, I watch him string the guitar for the majority of players who unlike me, aren't in their right mind. Jimmy was a lefty. Paul McCartney was a lefty. Shit, even Dave Matthews was a lefty. I had somehow underestimated this guitar virtuoso Paul. He obviously doesn't know shit.
So finally he hands me my new guitar, and shows me how to hold it backwards, and gets my left hand to contort to a G chord. This felt similar to when the evil nurse forced my broken hand into an "Okay" position and had me hold it for an excruciating 5 seconds while she fumbled for the x-ray button. From top to bottom I strum and barely make out 3 of the 6 notes that are supposed to be coming out. Now I'm pissed. Before I know it, Paul takes out a pen, takes my left thumb, and on the tip of it draws a smiley face. Evidently my thumb isn't supposed to be coming over the neck, and this 7 year old is here to amuse him. ("Am I a fuckin' clown? Am I here to amuse you?")
Out of respect, I hold back my anger and move onto the C. A little easier, but still awkward as shit.
Finally, a natural feeling D chord was explained and all the notes rang out. Hey, I knew that chord Left handed. That's the Fly by night chord. So, basically, the lessons over, and all I got out of it were these 2 chords and I get to re-train my brain into thinking I'm a righty? What the fuck. I put the guitar back in the case, find my coat, and go outside to wait for my Mom to pick me up. Disappointment was in full force, and I decided if I were the one paying for the lessons, this would be my last. I'm going to have to search the land for a left handed guitar instructor. Someone who blows doors down. Someone who could kick Paul's ass in a fight, and in a guitar battle like the one with Ralph Machio and David Lee Roth's guitar player from that short solo career he had. Yeah, fuck this guy.
So from down the street I see the yellow AMC Hornet wagon pulling up to fetch me, and as the car stops at the corner, I open the back door to gently place my Harmony inside, and low and behold, there on the ground lies a $20 bill. It might as well have been a hundred. I quickly snatch it up, and think to myself, Holy shit! Twenty bucks! I'm fuckin' rich! I slip the bill into my pocket and slide onto the front seat, without mentioning the lucky find. I guess I thought my Mom would have made me put it in the bowl at church. Come to think of it, she would have. Fuck that. I can buy whatever I want with it, cause nobody knows about it but me.
She asks how the lesson went, and I was still excited from the found money, so my enthusiasm was falsely taken as feedback from the lesson. Next week was lesson number 2, and I had to practice 15 minutes every day so I could put my new found chords to good use. This is where why I suck at guitar comes in. Fifteen minutes a day of practice was 13 minutes to long for me. To this day, for me to run up and down the neck with a chromatic scale for more than 3 minutes is an achievement. Although I have played in bands, and by myself for almost 30 years, I never practiced. I only played. Practice is work, playing is play. I don't know if that makes me A.D.D., lazy, or just a hedonist, but that's why I suck. If Paul had instructed be to religiously practice for 4 minutes everyday, I would be a guitar master. You know. Like Eddie Van Halen, or Joe Satriani, or any one of those pompous dick heads that nobody likes, and couldn't fight their way out of a wet paper bag. Yeah, Paul kept me mediocre for a reason. I'd like to think he did it for my own good, he was a religious guy, so he was probably looking out for me, but I was too young to understand. In my second and last lesson with Paul, he had me tie the 3 chords together and sing the tune "Hang on Sloopy." Thanks Paul.
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