In 1991, music became a major part of my life. I was 13-years-old and I bought my first CD player, then that summer, I started taking guitar lessons. It was a new experience, although my mother had always kept us musically inclined. I played in the middle/high school band and I took piano lessons for however long, so it was not my first exposure to music scales and notes, but in reality, guitars are cooler for teenage boys than any other instruments (except drums, and maybe the saxophone).
I played a lot through high school, less through college. I think my interest in wrestling overtook my interest in music, and the reality of the situation was that I was never that good. It was fun to play guitar, but less fun if you cannot sing. There was one, maybe two songs where I could sing along, most memorably Faster Pussycat "House of Pain," but my voice was so awful that it was better if I didn't. I never became particularly creative on guitar either, so eventually, my guitars just became a thing of my past. Playing guitar did, not music itself.
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| My first "real" musician "friend" |
He played upwards of three to four times a week across the Valley, and it didn't take long before I started attending at least half of the shows. I enjoyed going out to new places in new locations in the Valley, and of course, since becoming a regular, he and his fans began to remember me, so I formed a friendship with most of them. I was working my first "real" job (post-college) at a call center, and the rest of my time was free of responsibilites. I wasn't the type to stay at home to watch anything on television, so Chris Hiatt's shows became more and more often my preferred entertainment for the evening.
I had known a couple musicians in my life, but none as closely nor as talented as Chris Hiatt. The most mind-blowing part about his shows was how effortless he played. If you've seen Stevie Ray Vaughan's performances on Austin City Limits, then just imagine that. Except, I was watching it live. And, talking to the down-to-earth guy between sets.
For the most part, it was a positive experience, except a growing twinge of jealousy as a failed musician. Chris Hiatt made it look so easy. How could I not get anywhere close? It was never something I felt strong enough that I said it out loud, but it came out in other ways. Specifically, at church. I would never sing along, and the reason I told people was "if God wanted me to sing, he would've given me a voice to do it."
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| Looks simple, right? |
For the next two years, I played often. I played songs I loved, I played songs I had just heard. I listed "No Woman No Cry" as my New Year's Resolution for 2003, and I learned how to play that song on January 1st, then I would often make up my own lyrics to the song as I played. I had never been able to think so creatively before, and I haven't been able to since then. I just considered it another gift from God.
It was 8 years since I graduated high school, and I had never performed before an audience, which was my goal in high school. I didn't mind much; except now I had the platform where I wouldn't need to coordinate with another group of people. I could (in theory) do it by myself, if ever given the opportunity.
"American Idol" was still new as a ratings sensation, so one day at work, they advertised an "Arizona Idol" talent contest. My friends at work knew I could play guitar, so they told me that I should sign up. I figured if it were anything like "American Idol," they would need off-key losers, and this was the perfect vehicle for me to accomplish my high school self's dream. I figured I owed it to him since, if I had been given this gift then, I could have had countless performances by now (in other words, more than 10).
The day of the show, July 1, 2003, we had a five-minute block of time to perform. That was basically one song, maybe two. I had not really decided which song to perform, but I had a few options. Most of them sentimental favorites. When I arrived to work, though, I learned that half of the "performers" abdicated their slots (as it turned out, it was not a contest, but rather a talent showcase) so instead of five minutes to fill, I now had 20.
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| Only pic of my only performance. |
As it turned out, what he meant was that when all eyes are on you, there is a burst of adrenaline filling your body. The same sensation that enables you do do things you never thought you could will also prevent you from doing things you were certain you could. I don't know how much easier it gets with multiple performances, but at the very least I learned what it meant to perform.
My first song was "Rainbow Connection," the classic Muppets ode to accomplishing your dreams. It was fitting since, regardless what happened, this had been my high school dream/goal. It went horribly. The song itself is challenging enough, and the opening riff (written for a ukulele) is tricky on guitar, so I think I played it correctly about one in three attempts. Which was significantly better than the number of notes I sang on-key.
After that song (which I knew was awful immediately), I tried playing a fingering exercise to loosen up. Unfortunately, it had the exact opposite effect. My fingers were moving about three notes behind my brain, and I could not get them in sync. That's when reality hit: I was screwed! I still had at least 15 minutes to fill to play a guitar that my fingers couldn't play. It was overwhelming, in the bad way. I literally felt myself burst into tears. Fortunately, my whole body was behind my brain, so those mental tears switched to panic before they got to my eyes.
"The only thing I knew how to do was to keep on keepin' on."
In that moment, those Bob Dylan lyrics served me well in two ways. First off, it was exactly what I did. And secondly, I decided to play "Tangled Up In Blue" from which those lyrics came. It was only a few chords, so I only needed the most basic finger movements. Plus, I could read each word from the songsheets that I brought with me, which was initially what I had wanted to avoid, but like Shawn said, you figure out what to do when you have to do it.
Somehow, the choice was the perfect selection. I was later told that I "have a good voice for Bob Dylan songs." Thank you? That was the nicest way possible to compliment my singing voice. I knew the song was going well, and I felt myself getting into the song as I neared the final verse, and the big question started: end strong, or play another?
I was still playing the last verse when I decided that none of this would feel complete unless I did the song that turned it full circle in the first place: "The Origin Of Love." In Autumn 2002, I submerged myself in "Hedwig & The Angry Inch." Nursing my own broken heart, I identified perfectly with its story, and at least once a day, I would turn on that movie (even if only the music). "The Origin Of Love" is one of the most beautiful songs, and that Christmas, the only thing I wanted was to be able to play that song on guitar myself. I had found the chords online in December, but the sequence of notes was far too complicated, so the chords were a poor substitute for the notes.
On Christmas evening, I was waiting to join my roommate's family for dinner in Mesa while surfing online. Alone in my place, I searched the song again, and I found another website with the music. I quickly realized it was the actual music! It was the note-by-note transcription that I had wanted. I put it together almost entirely that night. I think the only break I took from playing it was when my roommate came back from dinner. I was completely emersed in the song. Successfully.
As far I was concerned, this was a gift from God, my Christmas present.
If God had gotten me this far, I figured it was only appropriate to complete it and end with the song. The fact that I was only a little over 10 minutes into the set justified playing another five-minute song. So I started, and I played, and I was awful again, but this time, I didn't notice as much. The song itself meant more to me than the performance. Afterall, the audience would forget my performance in a month, but I knew this moment would be with me for the rest of my life, and I knew that I had to play this song. If not at this performance, then the next one.
But there was no next performance. I didn't need one. I finished my last song, and thanked everyone, then invited anyone to borrow my guitar for a song, saying that I had set the bar so low that it proved anyone could do it.
Whether or not that last part was true or just hyperbole in the moment, my performance at least vindicated the 13-year-old inside of me who learned guitar for me and eventually promised himself that he would play in front of people one day.
