So life takes strange turns.

I used to be a professional guitar player. When I lived in New York. It was a long time ago. I think maybe before Clinton. During Bush's daddy. And also during Clinton. But probably before Lewinsky.

I use 'professional' lightly. I used to wait tables for money and play the guitar also for money but usually less. A lot less. I was fairly good: I played a lot of New York clubs, I did a few tours. No one threw a bottle at me. Except maybe in Finland. On rare occasions a producer would hear me and hire me to do session work (mostly, for reasons I can't explain, for ex-pop stars from the 80's who had come out of rehab and wanted another breakthrough record). Once I was offered a lot of money to be a band leader for some new singer guy a producer was putting together.

So, to give you an idea, let's say I was functionally adept. There were guitar players in New York who were much, much better than me. But there were fewer of those than there were of the ones who were much, much worse.

I was an upper-middle kind of guy. Every now and then someone would come up to me in a club and ask if I gave lessons. I usually said no. Why ruin their lives as well?

Then I quit. My mother died. I hated the music I was playing. I lost interest. My mother died. A bunch of reasons.

People would ask why I didn't play any more. I didn't know what to tell them. I would pick the guitar up every now and then. But it didn't feel right. I used to play 5 - 7 hours a day. Now I couldn't for more than a few minutes without having to put it down.

12 years passed. 

And one day when I wasn’t paying attention like I should have, I picked up a guitar again.

I’d kept 3 instruments for no good reason. Nostalgia, mostly. And it felt... interesting again. The fingers came back quicker than I deserved. Within a few weeks I was suddenly able to do some things that I couldn’t 12 years ago. Just goes to show – it’s all in the head.

I needed an amp. I went on Ebay. I found a 1974 Fender Vibrosonic for a low price. It was more than I needed.  Much more. Like going out and buying a 67 Mustang on a whim.

So I bought it.

("You bought an amp?" Kate asked, looking worried. She's known me for 10 years, and never seen me play.

"Yeah, I kinda did" I told her. "Don't worry, I won't play it when you're in the house."

Our marriage - plus a kid - plus a mortgage and a car - is hard enough to do the math on. Putting a loud guitar in there, well, I might as well start an Eastern European baby smuggling ring while I’m at it.)

As I began to play every day, I started thinking about going back on stage. Not for the sake of performing, but because if you want to play, the best stuff only comes in that setting. With other musicians. Don't ask me why. Everything else is transitory.

When I went to buy guitar strings, I would ask the guys in the shop (it's always guys in a shop) if they knew of any good sessions where someone like me could join in. They mentioned a couple. One was near where I live.

("You want to go on stage?" Kate asked, looking worried.
"Yeah, I guess I kinda do."
"You haven't played for 12 years and you want to go straight back to performing?"
"Well... not really but... it's complicated," I would say.)

I found a rehearsal space a few minutes up the road. I took the amp there so I could play with some volume. It felt... interesting again. I began noodling around. A few Vaughan and Hendrix changes. A couple of my own things. Nothing too adventurous.

I didn't use my whole time slot. Baby steps, I thought. No rush.

When I left, there was a group of musicians on a cigarette break. I realised they had heard me playing. Oh well. Humiliations come and go. I'm sure they’ll have heard worse.

A tall guy nodded to me. Guitar players do that to each other. It means something, though I never figured out what. Best to pretend.  I nodded back and went to pay my bill.

The guy who runs the rehearsal room is chatty. He starts talking about his lawyer wife understanding him the way that no one else does. I agree; having an understanding wife is a good thing. They have a sausage dog dachshund. He thinks if they can keep the thing alive for a while, who knows? Maybe it means they should have a kid. I agree again. Maybe it does mean that.

I notice the tall guy from downstairs is standing behind me. I presume he wants to speak to the guy. I stand aside. Instead he turns to me. He has a European accent. He mumbles. He said he's an engineer and producer. He heard me play. He thought it sounded good. Would I be interested in some session work? Maybe also - er - to give some lessons?

I'm a bit shocked. "Erm... sure."

He takes my number. Says he'll call me. Leaves.

The guy behind the counter looks at me. "Wow," he says. "You should definitely work with him."

"Oh you know him?"

"Well. Kind of. He's good. Seriously, if he calls you, you should say yes."

Well, I say, I guess I will.

And as I turn to go.

"Oh," he says, "and he runs a jam session every week. A lot of session guys show up. You should check it out."

It's the one. The one I was thinking about trying to get involved with but didn't know how. And the guy who runs it just asked me for guitar lessons.

I get in the car and turn on the radio. There's a favourite song of mine from 25 years ago.

I know, I know, but still.

It has to mean something.

 

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