I don’t think there was any specific thing that drew me to the guitar. There was no sudden epiphany, no specific artist that I wanted to emulate, not at that time anyway. But by the time I had reached the age of six, I do recall having had an almost clandestine desire to play an instrument of some sort. The guitar seemed like something that my parents might have been able to afford, and no one else in my family had played that instrument. For me, that was important.
My
older siblings had all taken piano lessons and played with varying degrees of
proficiency although none of them were what you’d call “good” at it. You see,
growing up in the sixties, many parents required that someone in the family
take piano lessons whether they wanted to or not. But tough times soon ended that
tradition in our house and I never did get my turn at lessons. Besides,
I was painfully shy and my older
siblings would have heckled me for a lifetime at the sound of my first wrong
note. Being born smack in the middle of
seven wasn’t exactly the best ranking to have in a family where making fun of
each other was the daily pastime. I came
to accept that poking fun with each other was our way of getting through the monotony
of the daily struggle to survive. We never had much but I never believed
we were poor. Looking back on it all
now, yes, we were poor but then so was everyone else and somehow we all got by.
One chilly December afternoon my
father took me for a ride in the old Ford Country Squire station wagon. I had
thought I was merely tagging along with him on another one of his grown-up
errands. It was common for him not to mention where we were going until we got
there, and so I would never ask. I think he knew that I enjoyed the spontaneity
and the adventure of not knowing where we were going. We arrived at a suburban
mall and began our father-son stroll down the aisles. We passed several
storefronts, mostly clothing stores that featured mannequins frozen in
unrealistic poses and lifeless facial expressions. We passed the indoor fountains and busy
escalators before slowing our pace to a stop at a brightly lit music store. That’s when it hit me – my father was going to
buy me a guitar for my birthday.
There were guitars everywhere, mounted
on the walls, standing upright in racks, and several dangled from the ceiling,
suspended like ornaments in a life-sized mobile. My father introduced me
to Chester Ward, a polite man with a thick but non-threatening mustache. I was
surprised and delighted to know that he would become my very first guitar
teacher.
Mr. Ward greeted my father as though
they had been friends for years. They shook hands and turned all of their
attention to deciding what type of guitar would be best for a twelve year-old
boy who, in my father’s eyes, would likely be throwing his hard-earned money
away on yet another childish whim to be abandoned in a matter of
weeks. Even at that young age I was
determined to prove him wrong. The
prices ranged anywhere from forty to four hundred dollars. Some had cost even more. Before I could get
too starry-eyed about which of the fancy electric guitars I would settle for, I
was immediately escorted to the section of the store that contained the folk guitars. Those were the ones with the hole in the
middle. The kind I had wanted was
electric – no hole in the middle. I
thought about how my friends would not be impressed.
My father was elated to hear Mr. Ward
affirm that the fancy electric guitars were not appropriate for me as a beginner,
and that I should upgrade only when my skill level had sufficiently increased.
After an in-depth inspection of the size of my hands by Mr. Ward, and a
thorough interrogation from my father as to the quality and value of the
instrument, they settled on an ordinary-looking, undersized, folk guitar that
they had agreed was just right for me.
Final cost after taxes, and including the flimsy, cardboard case:
approximately forty-two dollars.
Mr. Ward pulled the guitar down from
the hanger and gave it a quick tuning. He sat me on a tri-legged stool and had
me assume a playing position, placing the guitar on my knee. It felt awkward
and unnatural but I was anxious to learn to play it. Mr. Ward then took a tiny,
triangular piece of plastic from his pocket that had the name “Fender” stamped
on it.
“Hold the pick like this. Now bring
your other hand up here on the neck and press your finger right here on this
string.”
My father watched this process,
making certain there was no insincerity in my desire. At the same time, he admired the intricacy
involved in getting the thing to actually produce a sound. I struggled to press the thin wire down
without touching the other strings, as my teacher had instructed. It seemed impossible to do at first, and the
tip of my finger smarted from all the effort.
“Now, use the pick to strum the
bottom three strings.”
I positioned my pick so as to be
sure that I would only strum the strings that I was told to play. The three
notes rang out in clear unison. Mr. Ward seemed stunned.
“That was great! You just played
your first C major chord.”
My father’s eyes widened.
“What do you think, son? Do you like
it?”
No, I didn’t like it.
I wanted a cool guitar – a red one with knobs on it and a “whammy bar – and no hole in the middle. Mine was the cheapest guitar in the store. I don’t even think it had a brand name. But there was something about that experience with my father that brought a joy to him unlike any that I had ever seen. I didn’t understand it but I knew it was from the heart, and that made me feel special. Later it had all become clear to me that my father had known that the guitar he had bought for me was not the one that I had wanted. It was simply the only one he could afford. He had done his best to make me happy. That alone had made me happy. He had bought me a guitar, and it was brand new, with its own case - and it was mine. By the time we got home I didn’t just like my new guitar, I loved it.
I wanted a cool guitar – a red one with knobs on it and a “whammy bar – and no hole in the middle. Mine was the cheapest guitar in the store. I don’t even think it had a brand name. But there was something about that experience with my father that brought a joy to him unlike any that I had ever seen. I didn’t understand it but I knew it was from the heart, and that made me feel special. Later it had all become clear to me that my father had known that the guitar he had bought for me was not the one that I had wanted. It was simply the only one he could afford. He had done his best to make me happy. That alone had made me happy. He had bought me a guitar, and it was brand new, with its own case - and it was mine. By the time we got home I didn’t just like my new guitar, I loved it.
A year later my father had still
been taking me to my guitar lessons with Mr. Ward, and according to him I was
learning at an incredibly rapid pace. The two of them had decided that I had
finally reached the skill level that justified me being able to purchase an
electric guitar. The new ones at the
store where Mr. Ward had taught were still too expensive for my father to
afford. So, off we went to an old music shop in Highlandtown, a little place on
Eastern Avenue called Pete’s Music Store.
I had never been there before but somehow I just knew that there would
be a used Fender Stratocaster there just for me. That was the guitar that Jimi
Hendrix had used, and that was what my heart had been set on.
We entered the music shop to the
sound of cowbells clanging against the back of the door. The place was dingy
and dated. Musical instruments of every sort were crammed into every available
space. We stepped lightly and spoke in hushed tones as if we were in a museum. Saxophones,
harmonicas, bongos, tambourines, banjos, kazoos - these were just a few of the
many instruments that cluttered Pete’s Music Store.
We inched our way through the narrow
aisles, my father stopping occasionally to marvel at some obscure instrument
that neither of us had ever seen. The
elderly storeowner led the way, scooting his cat away from his more prized
musical items. Eventually we reached the guitar section of the store which was
slightly more organized and a tad roomier.
My eyes sparkled at the sight of all those guitars.
“There’s got to be at least one
Strat in here,” I thought.
Sure enough, there it was. A candy-apple
red Stratocaster with its own hard-shell case and the name “Fender” emblazoned
across the body for all my friends to see and envy. A small paper tag dangled
from a string tied to one of the knobs.
In hand-written blue ink, it read:
SPECIAL! $150.00 (case included).
My father took Mr. Pete aside. Meanwhile,
I scanned the many beautiful shapes and sizes of all the guitars. Red ones,
black ones, white ones, blue ones – they all captivated me. That dingy old store had magically
transformed into a musical fantasyland.
It was as if the guitars had all come to life, like the way puppies in a
pet shop window perk up when passersby stop and admire them. Each and every
model seemed to have its own personality, its own spirit - its own heart. But as I took in all the beauty and awe, I
knew that there was only one guitar for me.
It was that candy-apple red, Fender Stratocaster, with the hard-shell
case included - for one hundred and fifty dollars. When my father and Mr. Pete
returned from their chat, I crossed my fingers and awaited the verdict. It took
only a moment for me to realize that I was not going to walk out of that store
with my dream guitar.
“Take a look at this one,” Mr. Pete
said.
He climbed onto a rickety step-stool
and pulled down a well-used white, solid-body electric guitar. The neck looked
like it had been hand-painted to cover up previous nicks and scratches and
there were areas where the body molding had chipped off. A heavy layer of dust had gathered around the
tuning keys and covered the brand name. The man peered over the top of his
glasses, and blew off the dust.
“This is a very popular model in
Europe, and it plays just as good as any one of those big name guitars you see
in here.”
At first I did not believe him. But
when he handed the guitar over to me, I saw that his passion was sincere and
there was no mistaking the fact that he loved those instruments, including the
one guitar he was about to sell. He handed me the guitar the way a nurse hands
over a newborn to its mother. That very moment I claimed that old guitar to be
mine. It bore the name “Hagstrom,” a name which, at the time was never heard of
by me nor any of the other thirteen yr-old musical experts in my circle. I am
now proud to say that I still own that guitar today in spite of the occasional
snickers and grins that I had gotten from my youthful friends.
I have since bought other fine
guitars, including a Gibson Les Paul Standard, and a Takamine, classical
electric, currently my favorite (and yes, it has a hole in the middle).
Although I now have the good fortune to afford a Fender Stratocaster, I have
never purchased one. I don’t know exactly why that dream has faded, and even
more perplexing to me is the fact that I have not played my old Hagstrom in at
least thirty years. But I do know this much - if my father were alive today, I
would play that old guitar for him. I
would play it strong and proud – and I would play it from deep in the heart of
me, just for him, and no one else.