The Heart of My Guitar - Part 3: Sunshine

The first song I learned to play on the guitar was “Sunshine,” by Jonathan Edwards.  It wasn’t exactly my idea of the kind of song that I had thought might make me the popular guy in school. I had hoped to learn something by George Benson, or Jimi Hendrix, or even something that was at least on the R&B charts.  My instructor, Mr. Hess had promised me that “Sunshine” was a big hit, and that learning to sing and play it (simultaneously) would be an invaluable skill for me down the road.  I had never once heard the blessed song on the radio, and I simply didn’t believe him.  But even though it was a song that I didn’t want to play, and surely did not want to sing, I had to admit that I was proud of the fact that after only one lesson, I could actually play it.  

One day, on the way home from my lesson, my father pushed one of the buttons on the car radio that had been preset to one of the local white stations, as he would sometimes do.  I had always liked the fact that he appreciated all kinds of music. Whether the artist was black or white never mattered to him.  He liked music that entertained him.  He loved the richness in Johnny Cash’s voice as he sang “A Boy Named Sue,” just as much as he loved the soul-stirring elegance of Dinah Washington’s “September in the Rain.” My father would enjoy any music in which the artist displayed quality and sincerity.  So when the familiar open-chord strumming of Jonathan Edwards’ “Sunshine” came through the single radio speaker on the dashboard of the station wagon, I was not surprised to see Dad happily tapping his fingers on the top of the stirring wheel as we cruised down York Road.

“Sunshine go away today, I don’t feel much like dancing … “

I visualized the fingering positions of the chords to the song that Mr. Hess had taught me.  After a silent debate with myself, I waited for the tune to end, and drew a deep breath and exhaled.

“I can play that song,” I muttered.

Just as I had figured, my father couldn’t wait to get me home and hear me play it. I, on the other hand, was not so anxious. This is because I had already evaluated the extent of my father’s musical capabilities, and I knew that the song would be unrecognizable to him unless I provided the melody and lyrics.  For me, singing out loud was, still is, and probably always will be a frightening proposition for me. My siblings would have had no mercy on me if they were to have ever heard me singing that song. But I wanted desperately for him to see that I could play it.

When we arrived at the house, I sheepishly retrieved my guitar from a closet in my room and took it out of the cardboard case.

“Okay, son.  Let’s hear what you got!”

Again, I took a deep breath.  My palms were suddenly cold and clammy. I ignored this and began to strum.  Three minutes later, I had finished playing the song in its entirety, having never uttered a single word of the lyrics. My father’s response was lukewarm.

“You’re getting pretty good there, kid. You need to sing along, though …”

To this day, I am still too shy to sing. It would not be until about thirty years later that I would realize and understand that my fear of singing had turned out to be the primary reason that I adopted the “finger-style” method of playing that I currently employ.  Instead of using a pick, I now use all of the fingers on my right hand to play, giving me the ability to simultaneously strum the chords, finger the melody, while thumbing the bass line to many classic songs that are conducive to this particular style of guitar playing.  I am by no means a master at this technique, but it brings me joy in knowing that I have achieved a respectable level of skill at it. Funny how life can bring you something good even when you think you’ve failed.  Guess it’s all in how you look at it.

G.
(This is the third installment of a continuing story.