He sat his plate on the floor and opened the box. Eric whistled when he picked up the shiny instrument. He let his fingers glide over the strings.
“This is an amazing piece,” Eric commented lazily.
“Can you play it?”
“Sure! I play a lot of instruments: sax, guitar, drums. But guitar is my favorite. We have quite a few, right Paulie? A Gibson six string, a J-165, a couple of Strats...” his voice trailed off as he tried to remember all of his guitars.
He could have been speaking Spanish for I all I knew. Paulie laughed.
“You have no idea what he’s talking about, huh?”
Shaking my head, I laughed and admitted I didn’t.
“There are many different types of guitars,” Eric explained. “They all sound different. Do you know what kind this is?”
“My dad called it a Stratocaster.” Glad I remembered that little detail. I already looked foolish enough.
“Yeah, a 58. This guy-” he pointed to the autograph, “used to play one just like this.”
“See what you started!” Paulie grinned at his father’s impromptu history lesson. “You know he’s obsessed with anything related to music.”
“That’s cool. No one in my house is obsessed with anything.”
As soon as I said it, I wished I hadn’t. How sad is it that no one in my family has any interesting hobbies? Mom’s coupon cutting and Sara’s incessant studying do not count.
I heard someone say that hobbies are healthy obsessions that indicate that you have passion in your life. There’s no passion in the Tyler household. We’re kinda like robots on autopilot; just going through life but not really giving a shit about it. Ouch.
“Do you want to learn how to play?” Eric asked me.
“I’m not really into rock and roll.”
“Rock stars aren’t the only people who play guitar,” Eric grinned slightly. “Matter of fact, some of the best guitarists aren’t rockers at all. Most of them are blues men.”
He started running down a list of guitar legends off the top of his head. I’m impressed. Eric really knows his shit.
“I’ve heard of B.B. King,” I mentioned. “He’s old.”
“You’re fifteen. Everyone’s old to you. Have you ever heard of Hendrix?”
Paulie looked up from his pizza. “Now that’s a legend! There’s nobody out there that’s better than him!”
“Paulie is a Hendrix nut,” Eric warned.
“Because he’s the greatest! I can’t believe you saw him in person!”
“Who is he?” I asked, enjoying the back and forth between father and son.
“Who is he?” Paulie repeated. “He is like the James Brown of rock and roll! You do know who James Brown is, right?”
I nodded. I’m not completely oblivious to everything.
“Jimi Hendrix is the Godfather of Rock and Roll! What he was able to do with his guitar; man, I’d give anything to play like that.”
“Dad, start the movie over. You’ve got to see this dude in action. And pay attention, Aiden,” Paulie ordered when the movie started. “Jimi will change your life.
I doubt that. It’s just music. Music doesn’t change lives. It’s just entertainment; background noise when I’m lifting weights or eating at restaurants.
“There’s Jimi,” Paulie whispered when a skinny black guy with an afro stepped on the stage.
I burst out laughing at his baby blue fringed poncho. “What the heck is he wearing?”
“Don’t worry about the clothes, dude,” Paulie insisted. “Just listen and learn.”
About halfway through the first song, I slid closer to the television. What is this?
I was expecting something that sounded like Bon Jovi or Guns N Roses. This sure as hell didn’t sound like that. I watched Jimi’s hands fly over his guitar strings while he sang words that I could actually understand.
“Is this rock and roll?” I heard myself ask but I don’t think anyone heard me since no one answered. In fact no one said anything throughout Jimi’s entire performance. When he left the stage, Paulie stopped the tape.
“So?”
“That dude is,” I tried to come up with the perfect word but I couldn’t.
“I know,” Paulie acknowledged.
“Bro! You’ve got to let me borrow this movie. And some CDs. I know you have some!”
Eric laughed. “Paulie has never shown you his Hendrix collection?”
I frowned at my best friend. “You’ve been holding out! You made me listen to that Smashing Pumpkins crap and I could have been listening to this! Not cool, bro.”
“Smashing Pumpkins isn’t crap. Come on,” Paulie stood up. “I’ll show you what I’ve got.”
We walked down the short hallway and Paulie nudged me in the ribs.
“I told you, Jimi changes lives.”
Apparently so. By the time Eric dropped me off at my house, I had tapes filled with Hendrix, B.B King, and some dude named Stevie Ray Vaughn that I’ve never heard of. I fell asleep with my headphones on. I even skipped a shower the next morning, just so I wouldn’t have to take the headphones out while I got dressed.
This is what music should always sound like. I don’t know what Sara and my football buddies are listening to but whatever it is, it isn’t music. I had my headphones on all the time, listening to this new music, even when Sara started teasing me about it.
“Did I just hear you sing Layla?” she asked one morning at breakfast.
“Yeah. What’s wrong with that?”
“Didn’t think you were an Eric Clapton fan, that’s all,” she replied.
“Eric Clapton is a freakin’ guitar God! As many books as you read, you should know that. Step your game up, nerd,” I teased.
Discovering new old music quickly became my new hobby. I spent every dime of my allowance on any thing I could find by Muddy Waters to Buddy Guy, Bob Dylan to The Beatles. I became obsessed.
Finally! Something to be passionate about.
****
The Saturday after my dad had missed yet another Friday night football game, Paulie and I were in my room watching a special on VH-1 called “Guitar Gods”.
Lately my father has been missing a lot of our games. His job requires a lot of traveling back and forth across the state and we all understand that, but he’s been M.I.A so much that I can’t help but be pissed. Playing football was his idea. He should at least be at my games.
“Aiden, you need to take my dad up on those lessons,” he commented. “Wouldn’t it be cool if we could jam like they did back in the day? I mean, you do have Keith Richards’ guitar. It seems disrespectful to keep it in a box and never play it.”
“It’s not his guitar,” I corrected. “It’s just some Strat that he signed. Besides, I’ll never be able to play like Keith Richards, even if he taught me himself. That dude is awesome! I wouldn’t do that guitar any justice.”
My introduction to the Rolling Stones was similar to my introduction to Hendrix; complete and total immersion.
Only when my dad wasn’t around.
We weren’t supposed to touch his “vintage” record collection, but how could I not? Out of our Hearts and Sticky Fingers just sitting around collecting dust and not being listened to was sacrilege to me and Paulie.
“I’m not saying you’ll be any good,” Paulie joked. “Just learn how to hold the damn thing and play a few chords. Come on man, it’ll be fun!”
“I don’t have time,” I argued. “We have playoffs. Then Dad wants me to try out for the basketball team so I’ll stay in shape all winter.”
“You don’t even like basketball.” Paulie frowned. “You can’t play sports just because your dad wants you to. Just give it a shot, man.”
I stole a glance at my closet where the guitar was still tucked away safely. In a way, I wanted to be able to say that I own a Keith Richards’ autographed guitar and I can play it. I just can’t see my dad letting me do it. Can’t hurt to ask though.
There
’s never an easy way to approach my parents about anything that they might not be on board with. I’ve tried many times and many times I’ve failed. Since there’s no good time to ask, I decided to rip the band-aid off at dinner. The worst thing that they can do is say no, right?
I waited until Sara was done telling us this extremely long and boring story about the meeting she’d had with her guidance counselor. I cannot wait until she graduates! Delilah and I are so sick of hearing about colleges she’s applying to and the SATs.
“Mom, Dad,” I finally got a chance to speak after Sara ended her story.
“Yes, Aiden?” my mother answered. My dad kept eating. He hadn’t been paying attention to Sara’s story either. I’m sure of it.
“Umm, I want to take guitar lessons,” I managed to choke out through a mouthful of pot roast.
That caught my dad’s attention. He looked up. “What?”
“Well, umm…I mean, you bought me that guitar so I figured that I should learn how to play it.”
My father sat his fork on his plate. “Aiden, I didn’t buy that guitar so you could mess it up. It’s a collectors’ item.”
“Well, can’t you get me another one? I mean, not another one like that, but something I could learn to play on?”
“I don’t think so.”
“You’ve never said anything about playing guitar before. Why now, Aiden?” my mother asked.
“Besides,” Sara threw in, “you’re too old to start playing an instrument now. Most of the good musicians started playing when they were very little.”
I frowned at the know-it-all. “That’s not true. A lot of the great players started playing in their teens.”
“Name one,” she replied.
I rattled off four.
“Wow, Aiden,” Delilah giggled. “I guess you told her.”
I smiled at my little sister then glanced back at my parents. Neither of them were smiling. My mother looked torn and confused.
“Well, Aiden,” she said slowly. “You have a lot on your plate right now, but if this is what you want to do,” her voice trailed off as she gazed at my dad. “He does have the guitar-”
“Dina!” Dad snapped. “Do you have any idea how much that damn guitar is worth? Keith Richards actually played it in concert with the Stones. I’ll be damned if our careless ass son ruins it!”
I didn’t even hear the last part of his sentence. All I heard was that the guitar sitting in a box in my closet had been played by Keith Richards! I thought he just signed it. Now there’s nothing that my father can say. I’m going to play it.
****
Despite my father’s warning that the guitar “better not leave this house”, I walked out of the house the next weekend with the white box tucked under my arm. My little sister trailed behind me.
My mother had half-heartedly tried to stop me but I ignored her. For years, I’ve done everything that my parents have wanted me to do. It’s time for me to do something that I want to do. My father was being a jerk.
I felt like such a spazz during my first lesson as Eric showed me the different parts of the guitar and how to hold it. All I really wanted to do is play but I can’t do that if I can’t recognize the parts of the guitar.
Even though the first hour of the lesson made me feel like I was back in my elementary school music class, there was nothing boring about what Eric and Paulie were showing me. I soaked it in like a sponge.
When he felt confident that I had the parts down, Eric showed me how to correctly hold the guitar. He didn’t have to though. Since the day I’d decided I was going to learn how to play, I’ve been messing around with the guitar, mimicking the way I saw real guitar players hold their instruments. After a few days, the guitar felt natural in my hands.
Sometimes I feel odd when I refer to my guitar as “she”, like Paulie and Eric do. I gave her a pretty good nickname though. When no one is around, I call my guitar, Dee-Dee.
I picked Dee-Dee because it sounds like what I call my baby sister; Dee-Lee. I picked that name because I feel the same way about her that I did when my parents brought Delilah home from the hospital. I was scared to death of the tiny pink wailing baby. I was afraid to touch her.
That same irrational fear practically stops my lungs from working when it comes to my guitar. It’s the same fear that had me thinking I was going to be a crappy big brother. Turns out, I’m a pretty good brother. Delilah thinks so. She tells me all the time how much she loves me. Maybe I’ll turn out to be a pretty good guitar player too.
That would be awesome!
Something about learning how to play Dee-Dee feels right. I think there’s a reason that this guitar came into my life; a reason far better than my dad’s bragging rights.
I think God might have a plan that will take me out of Mt. Vernon forever.
Dee-Dee. My ’58 Strat is my way out of endless football practices, boring classes, and eventually, a nine to five job like my dad’s.
It happened for Buddy Guy, Jimi Hendrix, Stevie Ray, Keith Richards, Eric Clapton, B.B. King...the list is endless. If it could happen for those guys, it can happen for me. I know it can. I just have to be focused and disciplined and practice. Practice is key. My gut is telling me that this is what I’m supposed to do. So I’m going to do it. I’m going to learn how to play and play like the best. I’m not going to let anyone stop me.
Chapter 4
“Aiden, get your ass down here!” I heard my father bellow from the bottom of the stairs.
I was supposed to be studying for my Algebra final but I wasn’t. Instead, I was listening to a classic Muddy Waters tune and trying to copy the frets on my own. It’s only been a couple of hours but I’m catching on. I’m good with learning songs. Once I hear it a few times, I can usually play it, especially if I really like the song.
One of the first songs that I learned how to play was Hendrix’s Little Wing. I fell in love with the song from the moment I heard the opening chord. Two days later, I knew every note, every riff; the entire song. Eric says that I have natural talent and that I play with pure instinct. He was very impressed.
My parents were not.
My parents were surprised that I’m enjoying this; that I’m in love with my guitar. Neither of them have been particularly supportive of my playing. Every day when I come home with my guitar tucked under my arm, my father scowls. My parents’ plan for me is to play college football and then go pro. He wishes he’d done it. Now he’s trying to push his dream on me. Not happening.
Dad overestimated my abilities on the football field since my first pee-wee game. Maybe if he came to more games he’d see that I’m not as good as he thinks I am.
Or he could just listen to his best friend.
Coach Jordan has told him that I’m only good enough to maybe get a walk on spot at college. That doesn’t bother me a bit. I don’t even want to play college football. I just want to play my guitar. I’m really good at it.
I practice every day for hours. When I get good enough, Paulie and I are going to form a blues rock band like Jimi Hendrix and the Experience. I’m going to be famous. My parents just aren’t in on my secret yet. Judging from the deep baritone of my father’s voice, my mother had told him how I wanted to spend my summer vacation. I leaned my guitar against my bed and opened the door.
“What did you say, Dad?” I yelled down the stairs. “I’m trying to study.”
“I said, get down here! I want to talk to you!”
This is going to be fun. NOT! Dad and I haven’t been on the best of terms lately. I don’t know why. All I’m doing is playing music with a guitar that he bought me. Football season has been over for months. Not playing baseball in the spring was no reason for him to still be mad at me.
No matter what I do, Dad still loses his cool whenever I open my mouth. He acts like I’m such a disappointment. He thinks I’m wasting my time.
I bounded down the stairs, winking at my little sister on the way past the kitchen where my father was making
her sit until she finished every last drop of food on her plate. He still treats her like a kid. She’s almost thirteen!
“You’re in trouble,” she whispered. I smirked and walked into the family room.
My father took in my wrinkled t-shirt and my baggy cargo shorts and the frown on his face became much deeper. He was already turning red and I hadn’t said a word.
My appearance bothers him. He wants me to dress like Sara’s boyfriend. Polo shirts and khaki shorts aren’t my style. I’m comfortable the way I am. But to Doug Tyler, I’m a blemish on the family portrait that he sees in his mind.
“Sit down, Aiden,” he ordered.
“Dad, I’m trying to study,” I told him. “What do you want?”
“Aiden, please sit down,” my mother asked politely, taking time from her coupon cutting and grocery list making to acknowledge my presence.
I slid to the floor with my back against the wall. “What’s up?”
“Your mother just told me that you want to go to Tybee Island with Paulie,” my father stated. I nodded.
“And you think this is a good idea, I suppose,” he continued.
I nodded my head again.
“I don’t think so.”
“Why not? It’s not like we’re going anywhere this summer,” I reminded him. “Why can’t I spend the summer with my best friend?”
“Football camp,” was my father’s answer. “You need to be perfecting your football skills, not slacking off on the beach with that that damn guitar.”
“Is this about my guitar?” I asked. “Dad, I’ve been playing for six months. Get over it.”
“This is about your future, Aiden,” my dad countered. “There will be college scouts at every game next season. You need to be in your best condition. You’re going to have to practice all summer. If you had played baseball in the spring, like I told-”
“I don’t even like baseball,” I interrupted. “And I’m in shape. I’ve been playing football since I was six. How much better shape can I be in?”
My dad turned to my mother for help. She kept her eyes focused on the pad of paper she was writing on.
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