I am aware of how much of a social media junkie I have become. It’s kind of like a scratching block for the obsessive / compulsive type. I honestly try to use it to look up other guitar players and factoids and music in general, but then get lost in the minutiae of fast food philosophers, and McDonalds grade spirituality being slung across the wire. It really has become a marketer’s playground of self-promotion, pandering, and sludge for the soul. Like I am doing now. But I defer.

About 10 years ago, I found myself in Nashville, and walked in to a honky tonk on Lower Broadway (think that’s what it’s called!). This street was pretty much what you’d expect – colorful neon lights, inviting honky tonks with ads for $2 beers, and people dressed in a Tennessee type of way, etc. Well, this one place had a country band playing in a very informal setting. As I walked in I spotted this guitar player sitting on a pool table with a Telecaster in his hand, and plugged in to a Fender Princeton amp. He didn’t look like much as he slouched over, looking about as bored and jaded as someone could look, so I sort of only glanced (It’s always good to judge a book by its cover). It took a few moments to take in the surroundings and soak in the atmosphere of this place, and to sort of “get” where I was. But when his turn came to solo I knew. He barely flinched – and my God! The things that came out of that guitar. The most twisted, hillbilly, bluegrass licks I had ever heard up to that point that quite simply tore my head off. I had no head, basically. This guy was like nothing I have seen on the west coast, or anywhere else for that matter. It was disturbing how easily he threw out this phenomenal, twangy, genius. In a good way of course. I looked at my friend Karl (who was with me) and probably gave him a look of fear, after of course, my $2 beer spit-take.

I walked down the street and turned in to the next place. There was a boogie woogie piano player ala Jerry Lee Lewis. Same thing. Two words; holy crap! (Oh, and another wasted beer via spit-take). And this repeated itself in every place I walked in to. What the hell was going on around here? So I finally broke down and asked a cab driver a very astute question, “What the hell is going on around here?!” He told me that most of the session and tour guys played here from 6-9 during the week when they are off tour or not working in the studio to keep their chops up. I think the “very descriptive” epiphany that popped in to my brain went something along the lines of, “Huh”?

One night later I was in Memphis and same thing; Blues players all up and down Beale Street playing like the masters. A sixteen year old throwing out BB King songs like they were nothing. This was a serious uprising for this guitar players now shattered ego.

When I got back to the west coast I thought about those nights, and had a theory that you really only could play that way if you lived there. To receive it through osmosis or something. I tried to gather all the material I could find but still couldn’t quite stay with it, because it wasn’t being played here. It wasn’t in the air. And the further I searched, the more I came up short. The competitive balance in those places was on an entirely different level. You couldn’t be just okay, because the guy next to you was throwing down greatness nightly, and the audience had got used to hearing it that way. They could tell the difference.

So now I use social media to seek out these same people who are not only promoting, but posting video of licks and tips and things of that nature. But it still isn’t the same as seeing it live in a small setting where you pick up the nuance, the sound, the overtones, and the vibe. And every now and then I find it. It’s like digital travel. Every time I travel somewhere I hear how the musicians are doing basically the same thing as I am, but just a little different. That has to be because of geography and what they are used to hearing. Only difference is that now I can do it from my computer chair. But inevitably, I get lost in the hamster cage that is Facebook and Twitter and lose focus. Wait, what was I saying?

A long time ago, in a galaxy far far away, I was in a band called Ballistic Missiles. We had a little local notoriety and it was all good. We also had a manager who’s name I think was Jonnie Teagarden who we were about to fire because she hadn’t made us in to international stars yet. I mean, I had been playing guitar for seven whole years so why not? One day she called and told us to go in to San Francisco to audition for this television show called Star Search. And being the too cool for school, jaded rock stars we thought we were at the time, we did it as a favor to her. So we went to Hyde Street studios with a bunch of other bands and finally got in a room and played a song in front of one camera, and one cameraman. He said thanks, we walked, and that was that.

Weeks later, after completely obliterating the memory of that audition, I walked to my mailbox (yes, mailbox – no cells, no email at that time) and opened a letter from Bob Banner associates stating, “You have been selected from over 20,000 bands in a Nationwide search to perform on the premiere of Star Search 1985. You will be flown to Los Angeles (in a plane I hoped) and staying at the Sunset Hyatt and receive a per diem of $?? per day until your stay has ended.” Or something to that effect. This created a different feeling altogether than what that of jaded teenager zit faced self described rock stars perceived. One of an aura of excitement and pressure; Holy crap! We’re going to be on TV!

We flew to Los Angeles and were picked up at LAX. They brought us to our hotel and gave us one hour to get ready to go to the studio. I think it was the Rainbow Theater on Sunset Blvd. This was an old theater that had a rotating stage. So when you were ready to go live, you started facing the back wall and the stage was rotating towards the audience as you were being introduced to the audience, the cameras, and the celebrity judges. I wandered through the bowels of this old theater as I was told it had tunnels that crossed under Sunset Blvd so that gangsters could disappear in the face of trouble back in the 30’s and 40’s. Very curious was I. As I went through every knook and cranny of this theater, I came across a handsome dark haired man singing to himself in an old mirror back stage. The moment I heard the words come out of my mouth (“Hey, are you in the vocal competition?”) I realized it was David Hasselhoff. Big star at the time, and a big singing star in germany (He says with dripping sarcasm). He looked at me like I was a flea, and I felt like one.

Well, I never found the gangster tunnel, so I headed back to the green room (which wasn’t green) with my tail between my legs. A producer herded our band together (Carol Bozzio (my wife at the time), Matt Kyne, Chuck Terpo, and John Crowther) to tell us that Morgan Fairchild was arriving soon and had a laundry list of rules on how she was to be treated. Ahem; “Do not speak to her unless she initiates. Do not look at her. Do not touch her, etc”. She arrived in a white limo, dressed in white, with white hair, and white skin. It was like the abominable snowman had arrived fresh off shooting with Rudolph the Red Nose reindeer. Oh, but much more attractive in a completely false way. Seriously. (There was nothing real about her). So of course I, as I always pay attention to rules, said Hi the second she walked in. John, our drummer, touched her hair. She was fine with it.

Later that day we went to make up. I believe it was Shelly Winters, Morgan Fairchild, Casey Casum’s wife, and me. Well, the hair stylist decided that I needed curls and everyone in the room agreed. I was apparently too timid to say no in the face of fame surrounding me, so I watched her put curls in my straight hair. Not just any curls mind you, TINY CURLS. Like Little Orphan Annie curls. Wait, she had curls right?

It was after that that I was whisked to my place behind the stage on the giant rottisserie that was to be my launching pad of multiple world tours, billion selling albums, and enough fortune to buy islands. As I stood with my trusted Les Paul, another associate producer handed me a pearl white, God awful Yamaha electric that I again, was too timid to say no too. And as the stage was rotating, we heard the band name announced, you could just see the bright lights start to peek around the enormous curtain – I looked around to see my wife on the verge of throwing up and me, in curls and a white guitar.

The lesson is, to be true to yourself – for no one knows you as well as you do. It’s hard to say no sometimes, especially when it’s a big stage – but the bright lights are only a mask. What got you there in the first place, was you. Oh, and we won. More on that later.

Yesterday was a good day. I saw three students and then played last night. That was a good music day. My students were a 12 year old, a 42 year old, and a 54 year old- so it was a broad spectrum. The thing I forget and what makes teaching guitar so interesting, is you have to go back to the rudiments (hand position, pick technique, upstroke/downstroke, etc) and I realize how awful my own technique has become due to just playing without thinking. So last night when I played, I did put some thought in to technique and I have to say – it made a difference.

Another thing is, I find that teaching guitar can’t just be mailed in. It’s about teaching the right way to the right person. Everyone is unique in how they look at a guitar and think about it, especially when they are just starting out. For instance, the 12 year old was having a real problem playing certain chords because his hand is small! Duh. So I put a capo at the 5th fret and made him play the basic chords that way. It worked like magic. That little discovery inspired me and makes this whole thing worthwhile. It’s a good clean living I guess.

“Let me explain something about guitar playing. Everyone’s got their own character, and that’s the thing that’s amazed me about guitar playing since the first day I picked it up. Everyone’s approach to what can come out of six strings is different from another person, but they’re all valid”
Jimmy Page

Today was of course, one of those days. Meaning, I am at a loss due to the amount of responsibility that was thrown at me like a sandwich (inside joke, don’t ask). But I digress so, let me start over. I gave a lesson to a certain student – I will call her L. She’s 14 and an absolute beginner so I thought I would be showing her chords, shapes, strumming, simple fingerpicking, etc. Well damn. She crushed that in no time then opened her mouth to sing. What had I got myself in to? I was stunned by her tone and felt I could not mail this one in. Good Lord – what a natural! But a serious, self critic. I realized that I had a responsibility to not only teach notes and technique, but to instill belief. How am I to do that?

I drove away from that lesson wondering what the hell happened? It took me a few hours to figure out exactly what was simmering in me. And then it became clear; I feel I have a great opportunity to shape this person in to an amazing musician. I mean, she has amazing tone, pitch, and understanding without really, any practical musical knowledge except for her own idea of it. I don’t want to change that. This what we all come back to after learning all the techniques and theory anyway.

So not only am I teaching her, she is inadvertently teaching me as well. Teaching me to figure out the perfect way to teach her back. And to remember – that music is not only about notes, but more so about that ephemeral, unexplainable talent that some possess. These are the lucky ones. And I am very clear on the thought that all it takes is one good teacher, or one bad teacher to change their progress. Yes, that responsibility will not be taken lightly. Duly noted and humbled.

As I begin this journey teaching the fledgling rock stars of the world what I know, I feel inspired. Inspired in that I have to go way back to where I was at that moment when I first discovered guitar. I think I received an acoustic guitar on my 9th Christmas, accompanied by a chord book. This was possibly the most exciting gift I could imagine and maybe too large a proposition for me. I didn’t touch it more than once to actually try to figure out how to play it, but used it more as a prop when I would open the living room curtains (like a stage) and perform for anyone who would look as I mimicked to Santana, Miles Davis, and Beatles records.

When I was 13, I decided enough – time to get an electric and rock. I bought a cheap Matteo SG and knew I was ready. I took some lessons from jaded teachers that basically ate sandwich’s through my lessons as they showed me “Greensleeves” and exciting (not) stuff such as that. Very uninteresting. It was then that I met a country player who taught me Van Halen songs. A country player who plays Van Halen? That didn’t sound like a conflict of interest at all! Once I knew the intro to “Running with the Devil” and then the major parts of “Purple Haze” by Jimi Hendrix, I knew my place in the world of guitar divine was set. This teacher who’s name eludes me, had a magnificent Fender Strat that sounded like butter.

After putting that thing in my hands, it seemed reasonable to purchase a real guitar – after all, I knew the better part of two songs, how could I be denied? I saw a 1976 Starburst Les Paul Custom (like the one the other Jimmy played) in a music store for $350, and had to have it. But I wasn’t sure if I deserved that magnificent Les Paul until I felt comfortable with my ability. Sort of a self worth thing, or possibly paying my dues. He told me to get it because I would then be inspired to earn my dues.

Long story short, choosing a teacher who not only shows you the technicalities of playing, but to believe in what I was doing as well – made all the difference. I will never forget him. But his name still eludes me.