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He finds a streetlight, steps out of the shade, says something like,
you and me babe how about it?
My brother started to learn guitar in high school, like many nerdy teenage boys who are fascinated by music and feel tortured in their lives. His first guitar was electric and bright red, because he wanted to be a sexy rockstar. I remember him attempting to learn the opening notes of Stairway to Heaven, playing them over and over and over again while I laid in bed in the room next door, trying to will the humidifier to mask the noise while I lay there sweating and feeling feverish. I'm sure it was just a cold or possibly flu, nothing major, but it was made worse by the repeated bad notes on the guitar. Maybe this is why I sort of hate Led Zeppelin even when I like them. That and stealing everything from Willie Dixon and Howlin' Wolf. But I digress.
You shoudn't come around here singing up at people like that.
Anyway, what you gonna do about it?
My first guitar was acquired in high school as well, but it was an old crappy acoustic piece that my brother had inherited from someone for free than stuck in the back of a closet. I pulled it out and learned to tune and play from a book. When I proved my commitment to the instrument, my parents and brother bought me a nice acoustic guitar for my 17th birthday as well as an expensive case to keep it in. This guitar and case are in a closet in my apartment now. I've carried them with me since I left Atlanta in 1995. The first guitar I gave as a gift to my high school best friend, so he could learn to play and have an outlet for his inner wannabe poet. He was extremely appreciative and flattered that I was giving it to him for free even though all the previous owners had acquired it for that price as well.
Last night I dreamt my brother brought this guitar into my apartment and in the process of moving furniture it got broken. I thought he would be mad, but he told me that he was just giving it back to me anyway, so he didn't care. (This dream happened before my dream involving being interviewed by Katie Couric while walking around NYC and shopping in a travel bookstore.)
The dice were loaded from the start and I bet, and you exploded into my heart
Once you learn a dozen chords and their minor versions, and you're able to switch between all of them in less than a beat, then you purchase a capo to change keys without changing fingering, you can play rhythm guitar on 95% of all songs ever written. I would constantly sit in my bedroom and figure out chord progressions to pop songs, in between the songbooks I purchased to learn Indigo Girls and Mary Chapin Carpenter and Bob Dylan songs. I was all about the folk music. I would woo women through my sensitive brooding side, rather than the harsh ego-heavy sexy appeal of electric lead guitar. It sometimes worked.
When we made love you used to cry, you said
I love you like the stars above, I'll love you till I die
I've only written one song on guitar. It might be on a piece of paper in my guitar case. If not, I have no idea where it might be written down. I don't really remember the chord progression, though I'm sure it some variation of 12-bar blues, starting in G. I remember most of the words I think. At least the first verse. The chorus worked better as a bridge, but then I didn't have a chorus. The last verse was a lame recap. I think there were just a few lines I liked a lot.
I can't do the talk like the talk on the tv,
and I can't do a love song like the way its meant to be
It was a love song, or more accurately a broken-heart angry love song. Though it was inspired more by my father than any person I dated or who I had an unrequited crush on. I think I only played it for one person -- Dave, to whom I gave the hand-me-down guitar. He was sufficiently impressed and complimentary. I'm sure I blushed and felt flattered though not proud. I knew it was just a mediocre song.
All I do is keep the beat, I keep bad company.
All I do is kiss you through the bars of this rhyme.
Eight years of piano lessons. Five years of playing guitar consistently. Twenty years of listening to music nonstop. Twenty years of reading nonstop. Two and a half years of daily journaling. This seems like a recipe for a possible songwriter or composer.
But instead I'm a music sculptor who works in found objects.
you and me babe how about it?
My brother started to learn guitar in high school, like many nerdy teenage boys who are fascinated by music and feel tortured in their lives. His first guitar was electric and bright red, because he wanted to be a sexy rockstar. I remember him attempting to learn the opening notes of Stairway to Heaven, playing them over and over and over again while I laid in bed in the room next door, trying to will the humidifier to mask the noise while I lay there sweating and feeling feverish. I'm sure it was just a cold or possibly flu, nothing major, but it was made worse by the repeated bad notes on the guitar. Maybe this is why I sort of hate Led Zeppelin even when I like them. That and stealing everything from Willie Dixon and Howlin' Wolf. But I digress.
You shoudn't come around here singing up at people like that.
Anyway, what you gonna do about it?
My first guitar was acquired in high school as well, but it was an old crappy acoustic piece that my brother had inherited from someone for free than stuck in the back of a closet. I pulled it out and learned to tune and play from a book. When I proved my commitment to the instrument, my parents and brother bought me a nice acoustic guitar for my 17th birthday as well as an expensive case to keep it in. This guitar and case are in a closet in my apartment now. I've carried them with me since I left Atlanta in 1995. The first guitar I gave as a gift to my high school best friend, so he could learn to play and have an outlet for his inner wannabe poet. He was extremely appreciative and flattered that I was giving it to him for free even though all the previous owners had acquired it for that price as well.
Last night I dreamt my brother brought this guitar into my apartment and in the process of moving furniture it got broken. I thought he would be mad, but he told me that he was just giving it back to me anyway, so he didn't care. (This dream happened before my dream involving being interviewed by Katie Couric while walking around NYC and shopping in a travel bookstore.)
The dice were loaded from the start and I bet, and you exploded into my heart
Once you learn a dozen chords and their minor versions, and you're able to switch between all of them in less than a beat, then you purchase a capo to change keys without changing fingering, you can play rhythm guitar on 95% of all songs ever written. I would constantly sit in my bedroom and figure out chord progressions to pop songs, in between the songbooks I purchased to learn Indigo Girls and Mary Chapin Carpenter and Bob Dylan songs. I was all about the folk music. I would woo women through my sensitive brooding side, rather than the harsh ego-heavy sexy appeal of electric lead guitar. It sometimes worked.
When we made love you used to cry, you said
I love you like the stars above, I'll love you till I die
I've only written one song on guitar. It might be on a piece of paper in my guitar case. If not, I have no idea where it might be written down. I don't really remember the chord progression, though I'm sure it some variation of 12-bar blues, starting in G. I remember most of the words I think. At least the first verse. The chorus worked better as a bridge, but then I didn't have a chorus. The last verse was a lame recap. I think there were just a few lines I liked a lot.
I can't do the talk like the talk on the tv,
and I can't do a love song like the way its meant to be
It was a love song, or more accurately a broken-heart angry love song. Though it was inspired more by my father than any person I dated or who I had an unrequited crush on. I think I only played it for one person -- Dave, to whom I gave the hand-me-down guitar. He was sufficiently impressed and complimentary. I'm sure I blushed and felt flattered though not proud. I knew it was just a mediocre song.
All I do is keep the beat, I keep bad company.
All I do is kiss you through the bars of this rhyme.
Eight years of piano lessons. Five years of playing guitar consistently. Twenty years of listening to music nonstop. Twenty years of reading nonstop. Two and a half years of daily journaling. This seems like a recipe for a possible songwriter or composer.
But instead I'm a music sculptor who works in found objects.
