The music of garages

BLACK FRIDAY – THE DAY AFTER THANKSGIVING.

 I’d rather eat my pancreas and climb Mount Everest naked than venture near to any shopping center or mall on that day. But there I was in Greenwood, Ind., with Robyn hitting a fabric store for gifts she would make for Christmas 2010. Knowing there was a slight possibility of escape, I took the rational course of action and ducked into the Guitar Center next door.

Love that place, and I go there from time to time. Mostly to dream.  It’s like stepping into a Holy Sepulchre of Telecasters, Strats, Martins, Gibsons and other Excaliburs for any squire shouldering a guitar.  Not to mention myriad accessories that any self-respecting ax-swinger seeks to stuff into his or her gig bag. And if you’re a non-musician without talent – say a person who plays keys or drums – it’s a pretty fascinating place, too. The GC caters to all.

On that dismal, dark November day a few months ago, I sought refuge. I did my usual entry, walking past the advertised specials and made my way over to the amp area, all surrounded by wall-mounted well-strung cornucopia.
The seduction is made easy: Select a guitar, plug it in and do your thing. And the store is wise enough to leave out picks.


Strum, play, -- do whatever Muse might strike you. Then move on and try more.
But the real craziness going down was in the acoustic showroom, a nicely sequestered soundproof area. I stepped in to investigate. This sanctum contains not only guitars, but banjos, mandolins, Dobros, ukuleles and other stringed oddities I can give no name to. The frenzy was on for potential buyers and perhaps other saps like me killing time.

All around me there was a cacophony of 4, 6 and 12-string sounds from different music eras: Someone squeezing out a Carl Perkins rockabilly. A skeletal Snapes-looking dude playing twisted a succession of minor chords. A wannabe Clapton plunking out a flat Layla, and Creedence Clearwater Revival, ‘60s Stones, and blowzy Stevie Ray Vaughan licks. More than a dozen playing a strange gumbo of sound I could not recognize. Thank God Manilow never chose the guitar.

I got caught up in the frenzy quick, thank you very much. I found myself plunking out America rhythms on a "Git" beyond my pocketbook. James Taylor standards, and a Ticket to Ride lead. An assortment , of commercial lead riffs such as Walk, Don’t Run, Batman and Twilight Zone. It was both fun and amusing to be in that room before I checked out.r later.

It felt good to get out of the rain.

The older I get, the more some encounters nudge make toward long-ago days. I remember the very first guitar I bought – a polished white, cheap Kingston with a “vibrato” stick. Today, it’s called a “whammy bar” by many. I picked it up from a guy in our neighborhood for a firm $25. Just the tool I needed for the band I was forming with my best buddy Mark, who swung a Harmony and later an Ovation (a model now among my modest collection). We formed a couple of bands with others circa 1970 and beyond and went under the names of New Dawn and Jark McVille. Then we were stupid enough to join the U.S. Army. Never made a dime but had a helluva lot of fun before we raised our right hands.

Down the street there always was a good and ever-changing sound at the Marrs’ garage. Doug, Jim and Gary on guitars; brother George bellowing the lead, a guy named Mark plinking out notes on a Farfisa mini-organ and Billy banging the skins. They went through many name changes and earned a few bucks here and there. They were damn good. They could do anything from Jimi Hendrix toThe Guess Who. So good, that the cops were frequently called out to tell them to squelch their volume. And they had groupies, so to speak. A few of them are still picking up a dollar or two on the side doing this.

 I use to be envious a bit, but not jealous. The prize of mediocrity, at any skill,  is realizing it doesn't earn your keep.

But that was a long time ago, you see. Thereafter, for many years, playing a guitar – much less being part of a band – was not in my scene.

Oddly, about  11 years ago, I picked that damnable piece of finger furniture and began to play again when I was invited to play in a contemporary band at my church. Not stroking those dusty, droll hymns, but actually incorporate tunesand tempos and tunes that are more in the key of life. Since that time, I have, from time to time, maintained a revolving door of guitars. You can wail a bit of blues and rock and still rock the meaning of "How Great Thou Art." I don't think the Almighty minds a bit of different noise from time to time.

And each Sunday morning, a guitar slides into my pudgy, Vienna sausage fingers, allowing me to re-live a good time of my earlier life, and give praise for the many things I have been given. I’m nothing to scream about whenever I hold an ax. I'm just chopping for the joy of it.

I am blessed today to be making music with a band of brothers and sisters called Upon This Rock. It seems to transcend much more when I was slinging that cheap Kingston. But not entirely as the kind of fun I had as plugging into a battered, cheap amp in an old garage.