For a bit of a while, now, I've had a particular itch that's needed scratching. It's not what you think. It's an itch that's come to the fore from a time back in the olden days when I had quite different passions than my current ones. It's a an itch that became more intense recently, somewhat due to Otis and Daddy, among others. And, no, it's still not what you think.
I'll give you a hint. I bought a guitar this past weekend. Need more? Step into my time machine and travel back with me.
There I am, hiding under the coffee table, all the lights are off and my big sister is sitting in the easy chair. Rocking back and forth. And singing. I'm listening, and learning. It's not long before I take my place in the easy chair, fold my hands in my lap, start rocking back and forth and sing, too. Somewhere in there I discover my brother does this, as well.
In fact, all three of us created quite the concert sitting in the back seat of the car, rocking back and forth and singing. Completely independent of each other - we'd sing our own songs, or just hum - making it up as we went along. I have a dim memory of my mother looking back at us from the front seat and shaking her head - I couldn't figure out why. At least not until many years later, on the cusp of adulthood, I discovered that no-one else in the world behaved thusly.
But during those early times, singing was it - a favorite pastime. We had an organ, and when the easy chair just wouldn't do it for me any longer, I'd fire up the organ and pick out songs on the keys. Then I discovered musicals and would pile the albums inches thick on the record player and sing along for hours.
And then, during the last few minutes of the Family Trip one summer, I was captured by a tune on the radio - and, more acutely, by the guitar accompaniment. The group was The Animals and the song House of the Rising Sun. I wanted to sing that song - and I wanted to sing it with a guitar.
Failing at the beg routine with my parents, my brother and I made a bargain - we'd go halvsies on a guitar and share it. We each put in $25 ( a fortune in the olden days - today my share would've been $157) - memory fails as to how I managed to have $25. Most likely christmas money I'd stashed. Anyway, with the bargain sealed with the soft wax of sibling promises, we bought a $50 Framus guitar. A little guitar - smaller than a standard acoustic, but the price was right.
My brother never laid a hand on it. It was mine from the moment I took it out of it's case and set it on my lap. I taught myself how to play it with a guitar book and a bowl of ice for my fingers. The first song I learned, of course, was House of the Rising Sun. A year or two later, I bought a $90 Gibson ($556 in today's dollars) and was playing in earnest. I formed a duo with a friend - we were going to be The Surfer Girls. When that fizzled, I sang and played with another friend, attempting to write my own music. That fizzled fast. But I didn't give up. The folk scene was hot and I was becoming a part of it.
I discovered Joan Baez and bought her music books - most notably the Child Ballads which was a collection of traditional folk tunes. I began to play in a couple of the local coffee-houses...
...pause a moment for a little history lesson - coffee-houses of the 60s didn't have names like Starbucks or Espresso to Go. They rarely even served coffee, really. Exotic drinks like "purple passion" and "orange boogalloo" were more the order of the day. Non-alcoholic, of course. These first sprung up out of the Beatnik era and were overrun by hippies before succumbing to the virus of franchises and mega-malls.
Our local ones were The Sword and the Stone, the Brick and En Rapport. The Sword and the Stone was the venue most desired by up and coming folk singers. A gig there meant the big time. They had an amateur night once a week and I eventually got the nerve to play. If you did well, you'd be invited back.
I have a vivid memory of standing in a small pool of light, clutching my guitar for security. As an added measure, I'd taped a chord progression to the top of my guitar for a particular tricky song. I know I was nervous, but I remember that fading as I got into my set.
Then disaster hit. In the middle of one Baez tune, the lyrics flew out of my head. I stood there, strumming for what seemed an eternity, and then I finally said "I forgot the words to this verse." Someone in the audience yelled "that's ok - sing the first verse over again.." Everyone laughed and so I complied. The audience gave me a nice response and I got asked back.
I found a home at En Rapport. It was a coffee house several us helped to put together. I was a weekly, if not nightly, fixture there, guitar in hand on a teeny-tiny stage singing away. After I got to college, though, time and new passions pushed the music further and further to the background. A couple of years after graduation I had to make a choice when I was returning from Oregon to live in Oklahoma. The guitar or the camera/darkroom equipment - there wasn't room in the car for both. I reluctantly sold my guitar to a friend.
I didn't pick up a guitar again until I was in graduate school, four or five
years later. It was during summer stock (I was company manager), I decided to
enter a talent contest at a local restaurant just off campus. I borrowed a guitar
from a classmate and learned two songs - Roberta Flack's Jesse and
an old folk tune I Never Will Marry. I remember my friends rooting
me on from the corner booth. And I remember the hush at the end of Jesse.
It was a bit of a 'white
moment'.
I won the contest, but in so doing I had to do an encore. I was a bit embarrassed when I took my place on the stool - I told the audience I'd only had two songs in my repertoire. Someone said "sing Jesse!" I complied.
I played and sang a little after that, but not enough to say I'd "come back" - heh. It was no longer a passion. But, of late, as I said when I started this, I've a bit of an itch that's starting to require attention. I've been listening to some great acoustic music and then, in Greenville, hearing Daddy talk about his banjo and reading about the early morning Otis serenade, which I regret terribly missing, I feel a little bit of the passion coming to life again.
I was glad no-one was standing near me in the pawn shop last Saturday as I pulled guitars down one by one - I couldn't even make a chord. I chose the guitar - a Yamaha - for price (even with the 20% on-the-spot discount, I probably paid too much) and for "action" - I needed something not too stiff. Arthritis is a major obstacle these days. The guitar and I aren't friends, yet - it is not like riding a bike. I'm having to start all over. The voice isn't what it once was, either. But that's okay. This is for me and for no-one else. A chance to tap the shoulder of someone I once was and say "hey, wanna jam?"
