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| When I have a guitar in my hands, I feel like I'm home again. It's been that way since the late 1960s, when a delicious musical stew of the British Invasion, folk-rock, Motown, country, R&B, surf music, Dylan and much more dominated the radio airwaves, and I soaked it up like a sponge. At home, the stereo was playing Tchaikovsky, Andres Segovia, Ferrante & Teicher, Chet Atkins and the Chad Mitchell Trio.
Locked in my bedroom for hours on end, I'd slave over a chord chart and try to make something approaching music on the little Gibson flattop I borrowed from my grandpa. Later, there would be a sunburst Silvertone six-string from Sears, then a nylon-string classical from Japan. Before long, I owned a used Gibson 12-string, a Fender bass and an amp, and I was playing in a band called the Inmates. (We had matching outfits. Don't ask.)
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After high school, I survived four years in the Navy, including a
particularly lonely year in Iceland, thanks largely to that Gibson
12-string. Looking back on it, it was a pretty awful guitar, terribly
hard to play, and it probably started the hand problems that I
struggle with today. But some great sounds came out of it, and
I developed some strange techniques that I still use now in
playing my fancy-schmancy Goodall and my workmanlike
Larrivee.
It's been a great ride, and the journey has only just begun.
Whether I'm working out new tunes on my front steps, singing
and playing solo at a coffeeshop, finger-picking "ambience
instrumentals" at a cozy restaurant or (best of all) performing
onstage with the incredible Barb Piper, it's a joyful noise I
make. I hope you enjoy it half as much as I do.
Hear clips at CD Baby!
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