Guitars, Guitars, and More Guitars

        

    Like just about everyone, or most guys, my age, I got into music because of guitars, or more accurately, a guitar sound. An evocative calling luring me into a lifelong obsession. In my case, it was the opening rhythm guitar refrain from the Doobie Brothers, “Long Train Running“. The guitar of my early adolescent crush was a Gibson SG, which, unremarkably, I could not afford, nor would anyone buy one for me. Even now I have a certain longing to have one. The problem is I don’t need one as I have way too many guitars already, and, as then, an authentic SG ain’t cheap. This got me thinking about guitars in general. After many years of playing and recording, I stopped mainly due to time restrictions, and feeling played out and having nothing left to say. I believe I was 30 at the time. Listening back on all that stuff I created, I probably blew that call, but that’s how life can occasionally run you off the road.

            Lately, however, I have given in to my singer/songwriter jones and have been doing my part to increase the amount of modulated sounds, or noise, being sent out into the ether. To do this I had to retrieve my collection of instruments from their cases in the crawlspace. Remarkably, 15 or so years in hibernation did them not real damage. I also felt the need to subscribe to a few guitar magazines, one electric; one acoustic, so that I could become hip to the times, if you know what I mean. Amazingly, little has changed overall. A lot of the same old bands get covered, still, and there are many, many bands and players I know nothing about, and won’t if I try to find them on the radio. Fortunately there’s Spotify, but I’ve whined about that before. As for guitars, there is no lack of interest in that. Vintage. Faux vintage. Knockoffs. Cheaper Asian versions. Cheaper Mexican versions. Oddballs. Very expensive luthier grade one offs. From a mere mental sampling, I believe there are about a thousand different Strat version from Fender alone. Amps galore, and an incomprehensible number of stomp boxes to do what about 5 used to do in the old days when we cursed analog tube powered crap that had to be babied, but is now viewed as like really cool and stuff.           

            The process by which I acquired my beloved collection of non-Fenders, Martins, and Gibsons is a tale told by need proffered by economic reality. It’s not that I didn’t want a Fender or a Gibson, I was either too poor or too cheap to pony up the requisite dough. I started playing young and had 2 seriously cheap guitars, one a Mosrite knockoff; which is a cheap version of a cheap guitar, and a cheap acoustic. Both buzzed, had high action, and sounded tinny. Fortunately, I marshaled on despite these afflicted instruments. However, when I was shipped off to Hawaii ( Navy days ), I got rid of the terrible two and vowed to never buy another cheap crappy guitar. This led me to the world of good, sometimes great non-Fenders, Martins, and Gibsons. I have a Peavey, a Takamine, a Ibanez, an Ovation, a Dobro, a Godin, a Fender Squire bass, a Mexican Martin ( so yes, I have a few name, though non-US made, instruments ), Nancy’s Yamaha, a banjo, and a homemade Strat made with the guts of a guitar I inadvertently ruined. I think that’s all of them.

            They were all bought to do, or produce different sounds. So you have the Peavey, which is like a Telecaster, good rhythm guitar, bright sound. The homemade Strat, with the guts of an old Vantage guitar, has a thicker blues/lead sound. The Ibanez, a semi hollow body has that fat twangy sound. The acoustics are pretty straight forward, the Takamine is an excellent Martin copy, the Ovation a 12 string, the Dobro is a resonator, the Yamaha a classical, the banjo’s a banjo, and the Godin is the mutant nylon electric which can be used with a guitar synth. The bass is a bass, and the Mexican Martin is for performing as I couldn’t bring myself to drill holes in the Takamine. All are well made and serve a different purpose.

            I don’t know exactly where I’m going with all this, other than to say that I have a lot of guitars that are exactly what I needed them to be: playable and affordable, and that there’s a world of them out there for those so interested. The only problem is actually finding time to play them all, because I know that, though they are inanimate objects, like dogs, they are people too and long for human contact. So I do what I can. Now I just have to figure out how to work all of the new digital recording stuff. Fortunately, it’s all  sort of the same.

            Wish me luck.

It’s the Next Big Thing! Who Cares

            Ever since I got back into playing and writing songs, a certain ennui has quietly stalked me. As with most people my age; at least those paying attention or remotely curious, I was blessed to be witness to the golden age of Rock and Roll. For a guitar player this has meant being able to say I, personally, was blown away by the power and the glory of any number of seminal guitar rock gods: Hendrix, Clapton, Page, Beck, Allman, Van Halen, Richards, Santana, as well as less well known       ( outside of guitar circles ) players: Morse, Vai, Satriani, Lowell, and Felder. Unfortunately, I didn’t get to see all of them live, but I was able to experience their music and playing when it was first created; when it was new and fresh. That they are all still venerated says a lot about both their time then and our time now, as in have we have reached the twilight of such gods? The days of listening to the radio and hearing a signature sound, instantly identifiable, and grooving to it with the masses is over. Whether at the Crossroads, hearing that Long Train Running, knowing it’s More than a Feeling, Truckin’, being Experienced, or a Day Tripper, or on a Stairway; it’s safe to say that while rock may not be dead; it ain’t the same.

            As distinct from Pop music in some ways, Rock and Pop have intersected and intertwined over the years, but Pop was always created to sell, to be a product; to be the McDonald’s of the music world, prefab, processed, and mass produced. It works because it’s created to hit those cranial sweet spots that get our feet tapping. Rock was, in essence, more primordial; at least in its early formative period; strident, edgy, loud, and different. When I was a teen, we did not listen to 40 year old music. That was on geezer stations or Lawrence Welk, when they weren’t inducing cringe-worthy renditions of popular current songs. We listened to Rock, man! Now I hear the music of my youth being blithely listened to by people in their 20’s and 30’s. I’m thinking why? Is there nothing better? Newer? Pursuant to this, I made a concerted effort to listen to the new sounds, the hip new thing. Here are a couple of unscientific observations. Other than a few small college stations, of which there is a conflict over what constitutes worthy, radio ain’t the place. I could be specious and note that radio sucks, but radio is a commercial business and as trapped by the changes in how and who listens as the record ( Are they still referred to as that? ) companies are to declining sales.

            That means that to find what you want, or to seek out new stuff, you’re online hitting websites, Spotify or other streaming content providers, publications, and blogs; you have to let them know you’re looking. That means you need to be proactive if you want something new. Or, you can continue to listen to the past or the pabulum that has always passed as popular music. On the plus side, there is a lot of stuff out there. People who love to play, perform, and create. There’s the surge in roots based bluegrass and traditional acoustic music, and it’s easier than ever to get your music and ideas out there. Whether or not anyone will hear it, or whether you can make any money doing it remains a crapshoot, no matter how hard you may want it or work at it, but it’s always been that way. Some things never change. I don’t know how much A&R plays into getting the music out these days. They used to; I assume they still do. Maybe for Pop, but Rock? I wonder if they still do? Rock, like Jazz, has splintered into a myriad of sub-genres. Take Metal as an example: speed metal, thrash metal, death metal, etc. Here’s another thing about guitar driven Rock n’ Roll: in every decade since the 60’s, the number of well known, successful bands with a back catalog spanning more than 2 or 3 albums has declined through each successive decade. Think of it this way, is there a single well known, platinum selling band with a signature guitar sound from the late 90’s on? Remember I said signature sound. Maybe one or two; maybe.

Looking for great guitar driven Rock and Roll? It’s out there. Will any of them scale the guitar god mountain to claim international stature and acclaim? I doubt it. why? Because that time has come and gone. Hence the ennui. That’s not to say that there aren’t great young players out there; there are. They can certainly play me under the table. And the music is fun, creative, and energetic. The problem is when I listen, much as I might like it, I still hear the past coming through it. That not a concern for those new to it, but for someone who remembers hearing the Beatles coming over the radio in the car when he was five; I’ve already been there. I hear all those ghosts haunting Rock. Today, they still play the same guitars, use the same amps, or ones that “model” the sounds of all the great old amps of yore. You can mash unusual instrument combinations, but it’s not good ol’ Rock n” Roll. For good ol’ Rock n’ Roll, it is guitars, bass, drums, maybe a keyboard. You can hit the archives or do your version of it. It is what it is, but it’s not new. As a matter of fact it’s 60 years old!

Maybe something new will come along. Maybe someone will come along to reinvigorate Rock, bring it back to prominence, make it the strutting drama queen that it was, but in my heart of hearts I think it’s time has come and gone.

10 Years Younger in a World of Change

            Why is it important, or worthy of the time and investment, to look younger than you are? You aren’t actually younger than you are no matter the cosmetic sleight of hand. And what is driving the desire to look, say 10 years younger; like the women in the creepy Stepford wives commercial? Is it to be younger now? Or is it trying to keep the world in homeostasis at the time when you were 10 years younger? Saying, as it were, that I want to be forever in 1998, as an example, because it was a good year, and, as I’ve lived through it once; I can make it even better and more to my liking or benefit. Some of it is vanity; one would think, particularly if you were once young and beautiful. No one dreams of being old and ugly. We can, without much fuss, blame it on our youth obsessed culture. Youth being our golden idol. We can also invoke the grim spectre of death icily rubbing our shoulders, whispering sweet nothings into our baleful ears. Our time will come. Unless we can somehow keep it at arm’s length.

            The notion or desire to be, or look, younger, paradoxically, runs right into the invariability of change. With the passage of time all things, particularly ourselves, change. Even our memories change as we age. The longer we live, the more we experience change, the further removed we become to those times in the past infused with memories good and bad. Yet they continue to influence us. This as we continue to question the veracity of those memories. When asked about our favorite movies, music, or TV shows, we almost always refer to those of our youth; when we’re the most impressionable. I’ve been listening to music all my life, and have been exposed to nearly all members of the rock n’roll family tree. Consequently, all of the new music I hear in some way reminds me of what I heard in the past. That doesn’t mean it’s not good or enjoyable, but it inevitably must go against all that’s gone before it. It must stand against the memories that the old songs evoke; something the new ones can’t do.

            If you could defy biology and time in order to be 10 years younger, does that mean that every 10 years you once again revert back; perpetually reliving the same 10 years, or just those 10 years? You can only lord over those you seek to impress for so long; at some point they would age out. Then what? Would it be as important to impress those with whom you have no connection? Why would they care? Naturally, this is all just talk. No matter how well you paper over an aging body or face, it continues to age, and at some point begins to fail. Therein lies the problem. Aging means getting old, which means infirmity, loss of mental acuity, sexual function or desire, age spots, big ears, and wispy white hair. We no longer venerate the old, rarely seek their wisdom, assuming they have any, and have no day to day relationship to death; something our forebears deal with as a normal course of affairs. We don’t lay out the dearly departed in the parlor; we don’t bury them.

            A lot has been written about our allotted time on this Earth. It’s brevity; it’s supposed purpose; it’s inevitable end. However you describe it, however you choose to live it, including how you choose to appear, it is finite. It then strikes me as odd to try to circumvent that arc of existence with the notion of being younger when no matter the effect; it cannot be.

Rock n’ Roll Hair

            In the latest edition of Guitarworld magazine, we find ourselves looking at the visage of Mick Mars, guitarist of the band, Motley Crue, which is embarking on their final tour. Whether they tour again, or stay true to their pronounced exit from the stage, matters little to me, instead, what amazed me most was that even in his sixties, Mars has a full head of black hair, just as he did those thirty years ago when the Crue burst onto the world stage. Of course, Mars is not alone in this, even in his own band; all the Crue maintain the look they had back in the eighties. Now his face has the lines and cracks we all must suffer as we grow old, but the hair…..

            And this isn’t to pick on Motley Crue; any number of bands, performers from the sixties, seventies, and eighties still cling to the image they created in their youth, but young they ain’t. It’s this incongruity that fascinates me especially as younger artists outside the pop spectrum seem less inclined to create an image aside from body art and piercing. Why should we expect the remaining members of the Moody Blues, as an example, to have all that hair when we, their listeners don’t? Our hair has thinned and greyed; just survey any concert by a vintage act and the audience looks its age and then some. Shouldn't their's do the same?

            There are, of course, those who have chosen to change their appearance as they’ve gotten older; Rush, Peter Frampton, Ringo, and Charlie Watts as examples. After all, rock n’roll isn’t young anymore, either. It’s at least sixty years old, and denials aside, isn’t really the kids taking it to the Man. The whole nature of rock is in question as it ages and gentrifies into its many sub-genres. Name a great new rock band akin to those of the past! If the media is to believed, and I’m not necessarily anti-media, country music is on the ascent as rock fades, but today’s country isn’t exactly the rebirth of Maybelle Carter or Hank Williams; more Eagles lite than George Jones. Is that rock’s fate? To be warmed over Country? Is rock, as once conceived, like Jazz or Blues, trailing off, never to regain its former glory?

            And Hair? Well, it certainly isn’t a big thing these day, at least for men. This is my personal prejudice, but young men should glory in their hair while they have it. There’ll be many years left to run around looking like you just got out of prison or boot camp ( I’m probably dating myself here ). So maybe the whole hair thing is a nod to the virility it once conveyed to those strutting the stage, and those watching. We can, at least, pretent that virility doesn't decline with age. And if that means wigs, toupees, dyes, extensions; then by all means do what you’ve got to do; even if I don’t buy it. Besides, I understand it can be claimed as a business expense.

Because it's important to whine

The question arises for those with artistic ambitions; just how important it is that what they create is then presented to the wider world around them? For me, thanks to a rather severe case of the existential ‘why am I doing this’ blues; in which I seriously considered selling off all my instruments and equipment, it’s whether there’s worth in putting the work out there to begin with. Unlike when the material, in this case music, was first written and recorded back in the age of cassette tapes, when getting it out meant running around town trying to get people to listen, now we have the means to expose it to the great wide world, but, it also has to compete with the other billion voices seeking an audience as well. Ironically, you can now go from no one can hear it to no one wants to hear it. That may be overly pessimistic, but is there enough value to the person creating the work, to then spend the time necessary for it to be viewed or heard with the understanding that it may not be heard at all, or may be derided, criticized, lambasted, or flagged as a gross waste of anybody’s time?

As I write this, I sit on a pile of 90 plus songs, and 1 book, and vacillate as to what to do. On the one hand, I do want them to be listened to and read; on the other, I’m keenly aware that even if I put them all out there that doesn’t guarantee that they’ll be anything other than out there. It’s not even a matter of whether they will be like or appreciated, or dismissed as so much dreak. It’s the sinking feeling that it’s all a great waste of time. None of this happens in an afternoon, as anybody who has fallen into this habit will attest. It’s a lot of work, time, and effort. So, at some level, there needs to be some form of payoff, or acknowledgement, whether in personal or social recognition.

Am I whining? Absolutely. I believe it’s part of the artistic milieu. I want to be loved, admired, gloried; don’t judge me; love me! Yeah, it’s not going to happen, but I can dream. The more prosaic answer to all of this is do it, found your legacy and let history be the arbiter of it quality and benefit to mankind, because if history has to do something, it’s to determine our place in the human pantheon. I can cling to that in this roiling sea of existence. How's that for prosaic. Anyway, plod on and we won't ponder whether there's any monetary value to consider. That is a whole other can of hash.

Mr. Primitive

      After a lengthly sabbatical, during which I, in no particular order, wrote a book, had open heart surgery, and thought about nothing of any significance, the nature of my existence became clear to me: write more crap. So here it is in all it's misshapen horror, but first let us consider the moniker by which I ply this ignoble venture so that you may better understand what in God's name I'm talking about.
      Mr. Primitive. Meaning what? Well, it's pretty simple, no matter how hard we may seek to distance ourselves from our primate nature; our animalistic nature, we are what we are: animals. Voracious, solipsistic, occasionally funny animals. We are, in fact, physiologically no different from our caveman ancestors. If either were dropped into the world of the other as a child; either would be no worse off assuming who they ended up with were reasonably functioning. And isn't that really the operative phrase in any situation: reasonably functioning? I believe so.
      Naturally, we humans believe ourselves superior to the rest of the flora and fauna, not just our primate cousins. Never mind that gorillas and chimps are stronger than we are and could beat us to a pulp. We'd simply use our superior intellect and nuke them. We then prostrate ourselves; well, some do, about saving the Earth as if we would go on should something bad happen to her, the Earth. We're like that. The longer I live the more amusing I find the human condition. Our fraught head banging as something we do to wile away our time here, continuously plowing the furrows of the past; blithely ignorant that we are forever trod-ding the same miserable soil.
      Fortunately, many forsake the past, mostly by knowing nothing of it, as a means of avoiding the notion that we continually repeat the same mistakes as our forebears; you know, grandpa. Still, we confess our love for grandpa whether we have any idea of his misadventures or not. If it was good enough for him; why not us? Yes? Sure, what the hell. We do our time and pass the torch to the  young(er) so they may persist in the human folly that we so joyfully embrace. What else can they do? We're stuck here. We can dream that we're not held to the same limitations as our less fortunate Earthly cousins, but we're of the same biological limits and frailties which means we will not be traveling through time. We're good ol' Earth bound clodhoppers.
      So as we strut and fret upon this mortal coil, stuck like rats on a spinning ship; doing our best not to toss our cosmic cookies, I shall endeavor to persevere in voicing my own particularly pointless, or pointed commentary on what passes for existence at the particular moment in the ever spinning and expanding universe of which we're along for the ride.