I was tidying up the other day, clearing up some small trinkets and such off of my dresser. There's a big mirror and my cat, when able, likes to hop up there and stare at himself in the mirror. He's a vain little guy, but if I looked remotely as good as him, I might find myself staring into the mirror, too.
Among the trinkets and doo-dads, I found a guitar pick. A solo, dark red pick that I immediately placed between my forefinger and thumb and made out like I was playing a guitar. I don't know why, as I've not played a guitar since I was a very young boy and it can be debated whether or not the sounds that were emitted from that guitar, when I was a child, would be construed as being musical or reminiscent of a car accident. It was probably better than I recall, but not nearly as good as my fellow students.
For decades, I've reflected on that time with a great deal of regret. Not because I never followed through on my quest to become a guitarist, but because our family didn't have a lot of money.
We weren't poor, or at least I never felt like we were poor, but knowing what I do now, opposed to then, the money that was, for lack of a better term, wasted on my silly dream, was a lot of money. Money that might have been spent better, elsewhere. For that, I will always feel regret, but as best as I can recall, my mother was smiling when she was following me around the showroom of the shop where I had been taking my lessons. (*Thinking about that, is genuinely bringing tears to my eyes. Remind me, someone, to apologize to my mom.) We never struggled, but maybe that was the image that my parents wanted to show in front of the kids. Parents are good that way, aren't they?
After a year of taking lessons, I lost interest and the guitar, amp and stand that my parents had purchased for me, got shoved away, into the back of a closet, where it sat for many many years, untouched. (A few years ago, while on one of my many unemployment stretches, I had a friend check out the guitar and amp and help me sell it. We didn't get very much, but those feelings of regret, did come rushing back and I was overwhelmed with grief.)
Why did I quit? For years, I believed it was because "my fingers hurt" or "I wasn't good right away", the latter being an excuse I heard from a favourite rock singer, which I always took some jaded source of pride for. That's just dumb!! However, that morning that I found the red guitar pick on my dresser and placed it betwixt my fingers, I realized why it was that I had quit playing guitar and, of course, many waves of emotions swept over me, once more. Regret and shame and many other emotions, because that reason was so miniscule and stupid. My parents wasted all that money on me for something this stupid!!
The reason wasn't because I wasn't good enough, right away. It wasn't because my fingers hurt from pressing down the guitar strings. The reason I had quit guitar lessons as a kid was because I didn't like holding the guitar pick. Even all these years later, holding the pick in my hand and faking strumming motions on my upper thigh, I hated it. After a few seconds, my hand began to cramp like it had when I was a child. This... This was the reason for my quitting guitar.
Now, in the days since this discovery, I've thought about what if I would have stuck with it. I know that my fingers would have toughened up. That the strength in my fingers would increase to where I didn't have so much difficulty pressing the strings into the neck of the guitar. Even, perhaps, I would have earned an ear for music and even wrote some original music. Even now, I find music playing in my head that I don't recognize from any of the influences around me. I believe an artist staked the claim, once upon a time, that everyone had original music in their minds and hearts, it was just a question of being able to convey it onto paper and into the airwaves. Of course, I'm paraphrasing, I don't recall the actual quote, but it's along those lines.
Now I'm thinking, 20/20 hindsight in play, of course, that if I had stuck it out, that I could have traded up to another instrument. (I always liked the drums. My dad loved the drums, but given our financial hardships when I was a kid, drums were definitely off the list.) However, playing a bass guitar has it's advantages, namely, not having to use a pick. I know that some people use a pick, but not needing to use it is a huge advantage, I think.
In the weeks that have followed, I've found myself really watching and listening to the bass riffs in songs and videos. I watch Hagar on the Late Late Show with James Corden or Metallica's Robert Trujillo as he hammers on his bass during concerts. Would I have been as good as either of these artists? Would I have been any good at all? Unfortunately, time has eroded away the answers to those questions.
Today, I... I wouldn't call myself successful, per se, but I don't think I am as poor now, as my family was then, but I certainly can't afford to buy a bass guitar, take lessons and see if I'm good enough to entertain myself. Nah. I'll leave that up to the young uns. For now, I'll continue to appreciate what might have been and entertain myself via other ducts. Like writing this blog. Contributing to the long list of topics on my Brain Matter page. I'm finding myself inspired more and more, daily. It's just organizing my thoughts in a way that can be accurately conveyed onto the page.
Robert Trujillo of Metallica
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