box of Jack

Tagged: guitar, high school, music

I’ve owned a guitar for about 11 years. That’s kind of mindblowing to think about since I only took lessons for maybe 6 months.

Flashback to 1998: The palpable anticipation to party like it was actually 1999, World Cup fever and Ricky Martin’s Cup of Life, Aero Smith’s epic ballad I Don’t Want To Miss A Thing, and Green Day’s Good Riddance riding on the coattails of Seinfeld’s final episode. Meanwhile, I was trying to fit into my suburban Catholic school without much luck; my report cards always mentioned I needed to participate more in social situations and make more friends.

I discovered music was one way in. The cool kids in class listened to Metallica, Nirvana, Korn, Foo Fighers, Marilyn Manson, Sepultura and some other names long evicted from my memory. I picked up on a few songs, borrowed a few CDs and pretty soon I was… still a lonely kid. But at least now I had music as an outlet.

For all the criticisms of their academic standards, this high school did have a well-staffed music program. Surprisingly so, now that I think back on it. Some very patient guitar and drum teachers that tolerated a never-ending stream of angsty teenagers halfheartedly picking up instruments in the hope that they’d finally get noticed and/or laid. My classmate was taking guitar lessons and I signed up with him. My parents were surprisingly ok with this idea; they always wanted me to learn an instrument, they just couldn’t get me excited about one.

I shared weekly lessons with my classmate for 6 months. During that time, I learned a few chords, I passed the entrance exam for a better high school, I developed a crush on a blonde girl with freckles. The first instrument they rented to me was an electric guitar that was more of a mauve abomination. It played well enough for my beginner lessons but it weighed a ton and I managed to break two of the machine heads when it slid off the wall it was leaning against and collided into the floor. The replacement they gave me was a much more modern white-on-red Stratocaster. Played like a dream and I felt like a rock star.

I left that school behind and said my goodbye to the guitar and to the blonde girl with freckles. Like all teenagers, I was ready to give up on my instrument. I was headed to an elitist school full of music scholars and I wasn’t interested in learning about theory and classical style. But my parents insisted I should at least own a guitar. So it was with typical teenage reluctance that they dragged me into a music store and asked to be pointed to the beginner guitars. It was there I picked out a starter kit — a white-on-black Squier Stratocaster with a gig bag and a small amp. It’s spent most of its life propped against my closet door.

Over the many intervening years, I’ve picked it up for short spurts. Learning to sing sad breakup songs as my fingers toyed with the metal strings. Sometimes I’d pick it up and imagine playing on an intimate little stage in a old-fashioned coffee house. Other times, I’d imagine some enchanting girl that would just sit on my bed and listen to me play my saddest songs that I wrote just for her. But most of the time, it remained propped against a wall. I brought it with me to Seattle and it enjoyed being propped against a wall on an entirely different continent.

Well, yesterday was momentous because I finally got my Strat a $10 guitar stand.

Also, I bought him a sibling, another guitar that was probably built in Mexico. I forked out $450 for a Big Baby and it’s a guitar that is so much more suited to me. The Strat is cheap and worn, a symbol of teenage rebellion that never quite lived up to its expectations. The Taylor is smaller but warm, round and surprisingly loud. He’s that plain-looking boy that doesn’t say much but sings like an angel. All he needs now is a name, any suggestions?

I’d be lying if I said I’ve never kissed my guitars. *cough*

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