When my sister-in-law showed me some of the cool strumming patterns her teacher had given her to practice, I realized I'd been missing something crucial. On my haphazard way to guitar mediocrity, I'd been focusing mainly on memorizing as many chord patterns as possible. As long as I could sing loudly enough, I reasoned, all I would need to do was hit the right chord every once in a while.
Not so, I'm afraid. A strumming pattern really can make or break a song. It is the difference between a quiet accompaniment and a sparkling interpretation. While I can muddle around a little until I find a strum that I like, it may not be the most consistent of beasts. So, I was very grateful when my sis-in-law generously shared her marked-up sheet music with me.
Among the pieces she gave me is "Brown-Eyed Girl," a song I can never hear without remembering a professor's horror stories about seeing a live Van Morrison performance. Apparently, during this concert, Mr. Morrison was a volatile, angry performer who would sort of lash out at the audience and throw tantrums and quit playing in the middle of songs. Hard to imagine that when you're swaying to a feel-good staple like his "Brown-Eyed Girl," isn't it?
Anyway, the prescribed strumming pattern—which omits the lovely little bridge that you're probably humming to yourself right now—is "down, down, up, rest, up, down." [For you beat counters out there, that's down (1 +), down (2), up (+), rest (3), up (+), down (4 +).] That double up with a rest in the middle is tricky for us beginners, so it took an hour or two to get that rhythm in my fingers. Then, suddenly, viola! I was playing "Brown-Eyed Girl," and I didn't even have to sing it to hear it.
The same strum was written out for the John Denver ballad "Leaving on a Jet Plane," which I pulled out next. Now that the strum was in my fingers, it was easy to try it out with a new set of chords. But something was off. Yes, the pattern was hitting the right notes, and yes, I could sing without a hitch over that rhythm, but the whole timbre of the song was wrong. "Leaving on a Jet Plane" isn't a jaunty pick-me-up like "Brown-Eyed Girl"—it's a quiet, melancholy poem. This is probably just an excuse to link to something "Glee"-related, but it should sound a little more like this version from "Glee"—with slow, melodic, open chords. My blocky little strumathon just wasn't working.
The lesson? One strum does not fit all. It's time to learn some others—and the words to "Brown-Eyed Girl," too!
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
My Dog-Eared Audience
The Fourth of July is our dog's least favorite thing in life. It even aces out her other nemeses like the UPS guy and the Goodyear blimp because the Fourth of July comes with random pops, fizzles, and bangs that set her doggy heart beating away a zillion times per minute. She is personally affronted by each and every boom—and in a city that only gets one day per year to set off fireworks legally, she ends up running herself ragged telling off the world each time a neighbor lights a match.
It's an admirable effort, as this dog takes no shortcuts. If ten pops go off at once, she won't just roll them into a single two-minute tell-off. No, no, she goes into a full 20-minute soliloquy, and then follows up with two-minute barkaramas for any pops and bangs that dared to interrupt her. Let's just say that her fireworks experience usually ends way after the grand finale.
To keep her from getting so agitated, we have tried light medication—but that doesn't always work. This year, it made her slightly lethargic, but she powered through. She had plenty of stamina to keep a low, constant growl going between crazed barking leaps to the window.
It was a sorry sight, so at one point, I pulled out the guitar and started playing "Edelweiss" to her. Suddenly, she was quiet. I mean, the growling kept on, but she saved the barking for only the most offensive of light displays. Stunned, I ran through everything I knew and then just started thrashing around familiar chords so as not to break her semi-trance. Luckily, she eventually accepted a loud TV action dramedy ("Burn Notice") as a substitute sedative, or I'm sure the neighbors would have called the cops the next time I trashed "Brown-Eyed Girl."
Now, the dog is back to her happy, normal self. Is it sad to admit that it was sort of gratifying that my guitar playing finally served a purpose, even if my first real concert was for a semi-crazed canine who would probably have been equally happy with radio static? The truth, I fear, is self-evident.
It's an admirable effort, as this dog takes no shortcuts. If ten pops go off at once, she won't just roll them into a single two-minute tell-off. No, no, she goes into a full 20-minute soliloquy, and then follows up with two-minute barkaramas for any pops and bangs that dared to interrupt her. Let's just say that her fireworks experience usually ends way after the grand finale.
To keep her from getting so agitated, we have tried light medication—but that doesn't always work. This year, it made her slightly lethargic, but she powered through. She had plenty of stamina to keep a low, constant growl going between crazed barking leaps to the window.
It was a sorry sight, so at one point, I pulled out the guitar and started playing "Edelweiss" to her. Suddenly, she was quiet. I mean, the growling kept on, but she saved the barking for only the most offensive of light displays. Stunned, I ran through everything I knew and then just started thrashing around familiar chords so as not to break her semi-trance. Luckily, she eventually accepted a loud TV action dramedy ("Burn Notice") as a substitute sedative, or I'm sure the neighbors would have called the cops the next time I trashed "Brown-Eyed Girl."
Now, the dog is back to her happy, normal self. Is it sad to admit that it was sort of gratifying that my guitar playing finally served a purpose, even if my first real concert was for a semi-crazed canine who would probably have been equally happy with radio static? The truth, I fear, is self-evident.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Tunes for Tots
Songs I am butchering this week:
The other day I heard singing coming from our two-year-old son's room. I peeked in the door, and there he was holding the storybook version of "The Farmer in the Dell" and belting out "the cheese stands awone!" with happy abandon.
So, of course, I ran to the computer to find the chords for the guitar accompaniment. Usually, my first stop for chords is Ultimate-Guitar.com, but I recently ran across StorytimeSongs.com, which has a lovely index of almost every children's song you can remember.
The arrangements—chords and lyrics only, no tabs—are simple, which is great for this novice. Sometimes an arrangement doesn't sound quite right—like maybe one chord is off—but the Web site is still a great free resource when you have a song emergency.
Within minutes, I was banging out "The Farmer in the Dell" like it was an old habit, and our son was singing merrily along. This was a big moment, as not so long ago, he would run away screaming when I pulled out the guitar. Hopefully, this doesn't mean I've ruined his musical ear forever!
- "The Farmer in the Dell"
- "Old MacDonald Had a Farm"
- "The Wheels on the Bus"
The other day I heard singing coming from our two-year-old son's room. I peeked in the door, and there he was holding the storybook version of "The Farmer in the Dell" and belting out "the cheese stands awone!" with happy abandon.
So, of course, I ran to the computer to find the chords for the guitar accompaniment. Usually, my first stop for chords is Ultimate-Guitar.com, but I recently ran across StorytimeSongs.com, which has a lovely index of almost every children's song you can remember.
The arrangements—chords and lyrics only, no tabs—are simple, which is great for this novice. Sometimes an arrangement doesn't sound quite right—like maybe one chord is off—but the Web site is still a great free resource when you have a song emergency.
Within minutes, I was banging out "The Farmer in the Dell" like it was an old habit, and our son was singing merrily along. This was a big moment, as not so long ago, he would run away screaming when I pulled out the guitar. Hopefully, this doesn't mean I've ruined his musical ear forever!
Monday, June 21, 2010
Getting Some Pluck
Songs I am butchering this week:
I have already waxed nostalgic here about my mom playing "Edelweiss" on her guitar for me when I was a youngster. So, you won't be surprised that "Edelweiss" is one of the first tabs I hunted down.
I found this lovely chord arrangement almost immediately, but obviously playing block chords wasn't cutting it. I tried arpeggios—that's playing the notes of each chord one string at a time—but my rhythm was pretty odd. So, my mom taught me a lovely pattern where you arpeggiate (how's that for a back formation?) up and down the chord in a soothing, lullaby rhythm. It's pretty and very easy with practice.
Anyway, I've been having fun with that, but lately, our son's favorite lullaby is "Good Night, My Someone" from The Music Man (more on this family favorite and others here). He sings along with the chorus, and it's just adorable. Also, when his Buzz Lightyear toy needs a nap, he tells him "sweet dreams," which he must have learned from this song.
Obviously, I needed to learn the accompaniment for this song, too. Unlike with "Edelweiss," however, my Google search for free chords or tabs came up empty. I did, however, find a whole page devoted to MIDI forms of songs from The Music Man. I'm allergic to MIDI music, so I didn't listen to any, but I think I'm going to have nightmares about the Mario Brothers playing little e-trombones for a long time anyway.
After the search came up empty, I did the unthinkable. I took my guitar by the neck and decided to pluck it out for myself. Using chords that I know—namely, G, D, C, an F, and a few D7s—and mom's magic arpeggio rhythm, I banged out a pretty decent approximation. Sure, this song is made for the piano, and my rendition can sound a little too heavy on the rhythm when it needs to feel quiet, but I'm going to call it a preliminary success anyway. I'm also a few hours of practice away from making the bridge of the song sound natural, but the basic chords are there.
I know that this is still Guitar 101— I mean, most of the people I know who play guitar can noodle around until they find any tune you request—but for me, this feels like Guitar 102. I'm not saying I can play requests—unless you ask for one of the seven songs I know—but at least if someone exiled me to a desert island with my guitar, I wouldn't be tempted to turn it into a six-stringed bow to hunt wildlife. Instead, I could spend my eternity plucking out all of the songs that I know and whittling the tabs onto coconut leaves. Woo-hoo!
Fun fact! Did you know that if you speed up "Good Night, My Someone," you get "76 Trombones"? Tell your friends!
- "Edelweiss" by Richard Rodgers and Oscar Hammerstein
- "Goodnight, My Someone" by Meredith Wilson
I have already waxed nostalgic here about my mom playing "Edelweiss" on her guitar for me when I was a youngster. So, you won't be surprised that "Edelweiss" is one of the first tabs I hunted down.
I found this lovely chord arrangement almost immediately, but obviously playing block chords wasn't cutting it. I tried arpeggios—that's playing the notes of each chord one string at a time—but my rhythm was pretty odd. So, my mom taught me a lovely pattern where you arpeggiate (how's that for a back formation?) up and down the chord in a soothing, lullaby rhythm. It's pretty and very easy with practice.
Anyway, I've been having fun with that, but lately, our son's favorite lullaby is "Good Night, My Someone" from The Music Man (more on this family favorite and others here). He sings along with the chorus, and it's just adorable. Also, when his Buzz Lightyear toy needs a nap, he tells him "sweet dreams," which he must have learned from this song.
Obviously, I needed to learn the accompaniment for this song, too. Unlike with "Edelweiss," however, my Google search for free chords or tabs came up empty. I did, however, find a whole page devoted to MIDI forms of songs from The Music Man. I'm allergic to MIDI music, so I didn't listen to any, but I think I'm going to have nightmares about the Mario Brothers playing little e-trombones for a long time anyway.
After the search came up empty, I did the unthinkable. I took my guitar by the neck and decided to pluck it out for myself. Using chords that I know—namely, G, D, C, an F, and a few D7s—and mom's magic arpeggio rhythm, I banged out a pretty decent approximation. Sure, this song is made for the piano, and my rendition can sound a little too heavy on the rhythm when it needs to feel quiet, but I'm going to call it a preliminary success anyway. I'm also a few hours of practice away from making the bridge of the song sound natural, but the basic chords are there.
I know that this is still Guitar 101— I mean, most of the people I know who play guitar can noodle around until they find any tune you request—but for me, this feels like Guitar 102. I'm not saying I can play requests—unless you ask for one of the seven songs I know—but at least if someone exiled me to a desert island with my guitar, I wouldn't be tempted to turn it into a six-stringed bow to hunt wildlife. Instead, I could spend my eternity plucking out all of the songs that I know and whittling the tabs onto coconut leaves. Woo-hoo!
Fun fact! Did you know that if you speed up "Good Night, My Someone," you get "76 Trombones"? Tell your friends!
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Changing My Tune
Oh, joy of joys! My sister-in-law and fellow guitar novice introduced me to the greatest invention ever over the weekend: The Intellitouch PT2 guitar tuner.
This delightful device hooks onto the guitar neck and literally checks your sound for good vibrations. If the string is tuned properly, you get six pointy arrows of jubilation on an electronic display. If not, you lose arrow points, which indicates which way and how much you should turn your peg.
The upshot? Fewer tears and faster tuning times. And because you're essentially tuning by sight, you can guarantee that your A string sings a sweet 440 Hz in the noisiest of rooms.
Of course, I share my mother's healthy skepticism of electronic tuning, and I feel like a slacker for not sticking to the tuning-by-ear method, no matter how miserable it's been lately. But the e-tuning demo my sister-in-law gave was very convincing. Her guitar sounded beautiful—as did her excellent rendition of Green Day's "Time of Your Life." I'm counting the days until my own magic tuning machine arrives. "The Wheels on the Bus" will never have sounded better!
This delightful device hooks onto the guitar neck and literally checks your sound for good vibrations. If the string is tuned properly, you get six pointy arrows of jubilation on an electronic display. If not, you lose arrow points, which indicates which way and how much you should turn your peg.
The upshot? Fewer tears and faster tuning times. And because you're essentially tuning by sight, you can guarantee that your A string sings a sweet 440 Hz in the noisiest of rooms.
Of course, I share my mother's healthy skepticism of electronic tuning, and I feel like a slacker for not sticking to the tuning-by-ear method, no matter how miserable it's been lately. But the e-tuning demo my sister-in-law gave was very convincing. Her guitar sounded beautiful—as did her excellent rendition of Green Day's "Time of Your Life." I'm counting the days until my own magic tuning machine arrives. "The Wheels on the Bus" will never have sounded better!
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Taking Five ... Days, That Is
After dinner at the hotel lodge in Jasper, Alberta, as our family meandered back to our rooms along the lake last week, my father-in-law turned to me and asked, "Did you bring your guitar?"
I thought about the thousands of tiny toys and socks we had stuffed into every crevice of every bag and laughed out loud. "No," I admitted. "It's about the only thing we didn't bring." My father-in-law laughed but had the good grace not to look relieved.
When packing up for last week's family vacation in the beautiful Canadian Rockies, I never once thought about hauling the guitar to the airport. What with the car seat, stroller, various backpacks, roller bags, stuffed animals, and one growing toddler, we just didn't have enough hands. It was either the guitar or my changes of clothes, if you see what I'm saying.
Not only that, but I really don't have the case for airplane flying. Sure, my guitar sarcophagus makes me feel plenty secure around the little one and the not-so-little dog, but I've seen Toy Story 2 enough times to know that what goes on behind the scenes along the luggage conveyor belt just ain't pretty. For international jaunts, I need something more durable—like Iron Man's suit, perhaps.
Days later, while checking our "oversized" stroller bag at the Calgary airport, we waited patiently in line behind three hunters who were working to clear their igloos full of bear meat, hides, and skulls—not to mention their cases of bows and arrows. Just when we thought the entertainment couldn't be better, a youngish guy rolled up behind us with what looked like a Picasso sculpture of a gleaming refrigerator. A double-take revealed it to be the gigantic roller case for a bass fiddle. The thing was taller than any man in line. Between such exotic cargo, I felt pretty boring clutching a basic black bag containing a run-o'-the-mill umbrella stroller.
Even less cool was the middle-aged woman with the smart haircut who couldn't wait to fire the following salvo at the bass player: "Makes you wish you picked up the piccolo, doesn't it?"
As she proudly rounded the corner at speed-walker pace, the bass player sighed, "Yeah, I've heard that one before."
My dreadnought is perfectly puny next to the massive bass viol, but I still won't be hauling it through airports anytime soon. Of course, the week's hiatus didn't do much for my playing, although I'm happy to say that my hard-won callouses are still functional.
What with weather changes and neglect, my strings are sadly out of tune indeed, and I am out of practice. You are technically supposed to detune your guitar when you take a long break like that so that the tightened strings don't put too much tension on the neck and wreck everything, but I failed to do this what with diapers to count and tiny jeans to fold. It happens. I hope there are no dire consequences. But no matter how bad my guitar playing gets, dear lady with the smart haircut, I'm still not picking up the piccolo. So there!
I thought about the thousands of tiny toys and socks we had stuffed into every crevice of every bag and laughed out loud. "No," I admitted. "It's about the only thing we didn't bring." My father-in-law laughed but had the good grace not to look relieved.
When packing up for last week's family vacation in the beautiful Canadian Rockies, I never once thought about hauling the guitar to the airport. What with the car seat, stroller, various backpacks, roller bags, stuffed animals, and one growing toddler, we just didn't have enough hands. It was either the guitar or my changes of clothes, if you see what I'm saying.
Not only that, but I really don't have the case for airplane flying. Sure, my guitar sarcophagus makes me feel plenty secure around the little one and the not-so-little dog, but I've seen Toy Story 2 enough times to know that what goes on behind the scenes along the luggage conveyor belt just ain't pretty. For international jaunts, I need something more durable—like Iron Man's suit, perhaps.
Days later, while checking our "oversized" stroller bag at the Calgary airport, we waited patiently in line behind three hunters who were working to clear their igloos full of bear meat, hides, and skulls—not to mention their cases of bows and arrows. Just when we thought the entertainment couldn't be better, a youngish guy rolled up behind us with what looked like a Picasso sculpture of a gleaming refrigerator. A double-take revealed it to be the gigantic roller case for a bass fiddle. The thing was taller than any man in line. Between such exotic cargo, I felt pretty boring clutching a basic black bag containing a run-o'-the-mill umbrella stroller.
Even less cool was the middle-aged woman with the smart haircut who couldn't wait to fire the following salvo at the bass player: "Makes you wish you picked up the piccolo, doesn't it?"
As she proudly rounded the corner at speed-walker pace, the bass player sighed, "Yeah, I've heard that one before."
My dreadnought is perfectly puny next to the massive bass viol, but I still won't be hauling it through airports anytime soon. Of course, the week's hiatus didn't do much for my playing, although I'm happy to say that my hard-won callouses are still functional.
What with weather changes and neglect, my strings are sadly out of tune indeed, and I am out of practice. You are technically supposed to detune your guitar when you take a long break like that so that the tightened strings don't put too much tension on the neck and wreck everything, but I failed to do this what with diapers to count and tiny jeans to fold. It happens. I hope there are no dire consequences. But no matter how bad my guitar playing gets, dear lady with the smart haircut, I'm still not picking up the piccolo. So there!
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Scaling the Next Hurdle
You know that your husband loves you when he presents you with two amazing guitar books for beginners on Mother's Day. The first is The Beatles Complete Chord Songbook (more on this little slice of happiness in a later post). The second is Total Scales Techniques and Applications by Mark John Sternal.
For the beginning amateur guitarist, the Internet is awash in resources—some free, some not so free. There are plenty of would-be guitar instructors on YouTube, and plenty more touting their own systems on their personal Web sites. While I appreciate these online sources, it is awfully nice to get one's hands on a music book. Not only are they easier to read, but you don't have to worry about your screensaver kicking on in the middle of puzzling out a line of music.
Up until now, I've been finding songs I like and strumming blockily through them to my heart's content. But this is only satisfying for so long. Block chords have their place, of course, but most songs use combinations of single notes and chords to create beautiful music. The block chord route can sound a little, well, shouty, if you know what I mean.
To get out of the block chord blahs requires homework, and that's where Sternal's book comes in. Sternal's step-by-step approach to learning scales not only teaches proper technique but also familiarizes beginning guitarists with the location of the notes on the fretboard and how they relate to one another. He also has included a handy CD to demonstrate what a beautiful scale is supposed to sound like. It's very therapeutic after struggling sadly from one note to another on my own!
Sternal's approach reminds me exactly of my piano lessons growing up, during which I was taught a new scale every week and asked to play it perfectly at the next lesson. Of course, I never did. Those scales, unless they were incredibly easy C major scales, always sounded like Syssiphus on the uphill trek with his ginormous boulder: halting and sweaty. Let's just say, I didn't practice.
As on the piano, scales on the guitar are an excellent orienteering exercise. So, I am motivated to learn this new terrain of the fretboard, no matter how slow my progress. But we're talking slow. I just spent a sad 15 minutes or so laboring up the "E position C major/ Am scale or Third Position" on page 12.
Part of the struggle is the addition of the pick. I have been finger-strumming up until this point, but as the pick is so prevalent these days, I'm going to have to learn it sometime. The book recommends picking these scales, and I am. But, yikes! That little piece of plastic is slowing me all the way down. I assume it will take me two or three hours to finally master page 12. With 152 pages to go, I will probably be at this book for a long time—if not for the rest of my life. Yikes!
A note for my fellow publishing types: Sternal's self-published book (2008, revised edition) is in pretty good shape, all things considered. There are relatively few typos, which for a presumably amateur publishing effort is quite impressive. But there is one quirk that makes me laugh every time. The manual will cruise along for pages in Times New Roman then—bam!—you're in Arial. If I were to give Sternal the benefit of the doubt, I would guess this was to separate the revised content from the original content. But I think it's probably just an oversight. Also, there is something a little bit hilarious about the author pic at the end of this book of scales—Sternal appears to be all hair and tank top. My husband confesses that he nearly passed on the book because of the picture, but caved due to rave reviews online.
For the beginning amateur guitarist, the Internet is awash in resources—some free, some not so free. There are plenty of would-be guitar instructors on YouTube, and plenty more touting their own systems on their personal Web sites. While I appreciate these online sources, it is awfully nice to get one's hands on a music book. Not only are they easier to read, but you don't have to worry about your screensaver kicking on in the middle of puzzling out a line of music.
Up until now, I've been finding songs I like and strumming blockily through them to my heart's content. But this is only satisfying for so long. Block chords have their place, of course, but most songs use combinations of single notes and chords to create beautiful music. The block chord route can sound a little, well, shouty, if you know what I mean.
To get out of the block chord blahs requires homework, and that's where Sternal's book comes in. Sternal's step-by-step approach to learning scales not only teaches proper technique but also familiarizes beginning guitarists with the location of the notes on the fretboard and how they relate to one another. He also has included a handy CD to demonstrate what a beautiful scale is supposed to sound like. It's very therapeutic after struggling sadly from one note to another on my own!
Sternal's approach reminds me exactly of my piano lessons growing up, during which I was taught a new scale every week and asked to play it perfectly at the next lesson. Of course, I never did. Those scales, unless they were incredibly easy C major scales, always sounded like Syssiphus on the uphill trek with his ginormous boulder: halting and sweaty. Let's just say, I didn't practice.
As on the piano, scales on the guitar are an excellent orienteering exercise. So, I am motivated to learn this new terrain of the fretboard, no matter how slow my progress. But we're talking slow. I just spent a sad 15 minutes or so laboring up the "E position C major/ Am scale or Third Position" on page 12.
Part of the struggle is the addition of the pick. I have been finger-strumming up until this point, but as the pick is so prevalent these days, I'm going to have to learn it sometime. The book recommends picking these scales, and I am. But, yikes! That little piece of plastic is slowing me all the way down. I assume it will take me two or three hours to finally master page 12. With 152 pages to go, I will probably be at this book for a long time—if not for the rest of my life. Yikes!
A note for my fellow publishing types: Sternal's self-published book (2008, revised edition) is in pretty good shape, all things considered. There are relatively few typos, which for a presumably amateur publishing effort is quite impressive. But there is one quirk that makes me laugh every time. The manual will cruise along for pages in Times New Roman then—bam!—you're in Arial. If I were to give Sternal the benefit of the doubt, I would guess this was to separate the revised content from the original content. But I think it's probably just an oversight. Also, there is something a little bit hilarious about the author pic at the end of this book of scales—Sternal appears to be all hair and tank top. My husband confesses that he nearly passed on the book because of the picture, but caved due to rave reviews online.
Monday, May 10, 2010
Thumbs Up for This Waltz
Songs I am butchering this week:
I am a sucker for romantic comedies. I don't like to think about the number of hours I've spent watching mediocre films in this category when I wasn't even on an airplane, nor do I care to admit how much I've enjoyed them. Let's just say that when I find one that's actually a good film, I feel more than satisfied—I feel vindicated.
Before Sunrise (1995) and Before Sunset (2004) are two of my favorites. They probably don't belong in the "comedy" category of romance films because the humor is subtle, but it's my blog, and I'm calling them that anyway. These films are thoughtful and funny and even talkier than a Woody Allen flick—in a word, lovely.
The premise of the first film is this: An American boy (Ethan Hawke) meets a French girl (Julie Delpy) on a train, and they end up walking around Vienna all night until they have to take their separate trains home. Mostly, they talk—and it's fabulous. I don't know what magic potion Richard Linklater and Kim Krazan used when writing the script, but somehow, they created two teenagers who are not only lost and confused like the cliche demands—but they are also intelligent, interesting, and funny.
In one night, these two characters tackle every topic under the sun: religion, politics, feminism, sex, hopes, dreams, you name it. By morning, these characters find a deep connection—and the audience can't help but connect with them, too. The sequel, which is as wonderful as the first film, explores what happens to these characters ten years later, and the rumor is that there will be another film every ten years—sort of like the "Seven Up" documentary series—which I would love to see.
One of my favorite scenes in Before Sunset is when Delpy plays a waltz that she wrote for the acoustic guitar. So, last week, I sought it out on YouTube. Some kind soul has also put the tabs for the song on the Internet, but seeing Delpy play it again taught me something brand new about guitar playing. To play "A Waltz for a Night," Delpy hooks her thumb over the fretboard to hold down the low E string. This gives the waltz its bass line. I know I've seen other players do this, but I didn't really understand what they were doing—I thought they were just resting their thumbs on the guitar neck!
Anyway, I practiced it and practiced it, and now I am ridiculously addicted to playing this song with its one-two-three, one-two-rest rhythm. Of course, I still struggle with a key part of the song which involves four rapid chord changes, and so I focus on playing the oom-pah-pah part ad infinitum instead. For some reason, no one in the family has run out of the room screaming yet. Perhaps it was because I was playing it on Mother's Day?
Not only do I like the weird fingering, I also love the imperfect, candid lyrics (for example: "It was for you just a one night thing / But you were much more to me / Just so you know"). Of course, the subject matter is a one-night stand, which makes me wonder how exactly this fits with my goal to further our son's musical education. As I was singing the telling line: "One night with you little Jesse / Is worth a thousand with anybody" last night, I couldn't help wondering if I shouldn't be working on a thumb-hookable arrangement of "Old MacDonald" instead!
- "A Waltz for a Night" by Julie Delpy
- "And Your Bird Can Sing" by the Beatles
- "You've Got Her in Your Pocket" by the White Stripes
I am a sucker for romantic comedies. I don't like to think about the number of hours I've spent watching mediocre films in this category when I wasn't even on an airplane, nor do I care to admit how much I've enjoyed them. Let's just say that when I find one that's actually a good film, I feel more than satisfied—I feel vindicated.
Before Sunrise (1995) and Before Sunset (2004) are two of my favorites. They probably don't belong in the "comedy" category of romance films because the humor is subtle, but it's my blog, and I'm calling them that anyway. These films are thoughtful and funny and even talkier than a Woody Allen flick—in a word, lovely.
The premise of the first film is this: An American boy (Ethan Hawke) meets a French girl (Julie Delpy) on a train, and they end up walking around Vienna all night until they have to take their separate trains home. Mostly, they talk—and it's fabulous. I don't know what magic potion Richard Linklater and Kim Krazan used when writing the script, but somehow, they created two teenagers who are not only lost and confused like the cliche demands—but they are also intelligent, interesting, and funny.
In one night, these two characters tackle every topic under the sun: religion, politics, feminism, sex, hopes, dreams, you name it. By morning, these characters find a deep connection—and the audience can't help but connect with them, too. The sequel, which is as wonderful as the first film, explores what happens to these characters ten years later, and the rumor is that there will be another film every ten years—sort of like the "Seven Up" documentary series—which I would love to see.
One of my favorite scenes in Before Sunset is when Delpy plays a waltz that she wrote for the acoustic guitar. So, last week, I sought it out on YouTube. Some kind soul has also put the tabs for the song on the Internet, but seeing Delpy play it again taught me something brand new about guitar playing. To play "A Waltz for a Night," Delpy hooks her thumb over the fretboard to hold down the low E string. This gives the waltz its bass line. I know I've seen other players do this, but I didn't really understand what they were doing—I thought they were just resting their thumbs on the guitar neck!
Anyway, I practiced it and practiced it, and now I am ridiculously addicted to playing this song with its one-two-three, one-two-rest rhythm. Of course, I still struggle with a key part of the song which involves four rapid chord changes, and so I focus on playing the oom-pah-pah part ad infinitum instead. For some reason, no one in the family has run out of the room screaming yet. Perhaps it was because I was playing it on Mother's Day?
Not only do I like the weird fingering, I also love the imperfect, candid lyrics (for example: "It was for you just a one night thing / But you were much more to me / Just so you know"). Of course, the subject matter is a one-night stand, which makes me wonder how exactly this fits with my goal to further our son's musical education. As I was singing the telling line: "One night with you little Jesse / Is worth a thousand with anybody" last night, I couldn't help wondering if I shouldn't be working on a thumb-hookable arrangement of "Old MacDonald" instead!
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Pulling Strings
Confession: I restrung the guitar about 10 days ago and was too afraid to play it for a week! Seriously, I couldn't even look at the case without imagining something horrible happening in there, like the guitar neck snapping in two from the tension, strings sproinging out every which way, or bridge pins shooting into my face. At night, I dreamed of the attack of the Killer Guitar with its sharp, stringy teeth.
Finally, my itchy fingers got the better of me. I unsnapped the case, cautiously lifted the lid an inch, flinched, and finally pushed it all the way open. All six strings were intact, and the guitar looked good as new. Phew! After tuning it and tuning it and tuning it some more, I can say we are friends again. I also like the new strings, which are thicker and—forgive my lack of proper jargon here—louder than the factory strings. Now, I just wish I could play something besides block chords.
The restringing process itself was rather educational. Things you should not do:
Finally, my itchy fingers got the better of me. I unsnapped the case, cautiously lifted the lid an inch, flinched, and finally pushed it all the way open. All six strings were intact, and the guitar looked good as new. Phew! After tuning it and tuning it and tuning it some more, I can say we are friends again. I also like the new strings, which are thicker and—forgive my lack of proper jargon here—louder than the factory strings. Now, I just wish I could play something besides block chords.
The restringing process itself was rather educational. Things you should not do:
- Pop your bridge pin into your sound hole. If this happens, I recommend skipping the suicidal thoughts and going straight for a pencil with a piece of Scotch tape attached to the eraser. If you're good at those tilt games with ball bearings, so much the better. Roll that pin into position and lower your rescue pencil. (NOTE: If you accidentally fling the pin outside of your guitar, you will probably need a bigger pencil.)
- Slice open your hand on a new string like a sissy. Those things are sharp—cat-claw sharp. Just don't do it. No one wants to see you bleed all over your guitar, unless maybe you're Jack White. But you're not. At least, I'm not.
- Get all cocky when you finally get the strings on the guitar, like, two hours later. You know that big dog cage at the foot of your bed? Still there. So, don't start walking around holding your guitar aloft like it's the frickin' Ark of the Covenant until you've checked the foot path between you and your case. You may not use your toes to play the guitar like this guy, but you still need them to walk your guitar to its case, now don't you?
Monday, April 19, 2010
Songs of a Different Stripe
Songs I am butchering this week:
Two of these are by the White Stripes—can you guess which ones? We recently watched The White Stripes: Under the Great White Northern Lights (2009), a rockumentary by Emmett Malloy about this controversial duo's 2007 Canadian tour. If you have any affinity for their music at all, you'll enjoy this 90-minute glimpse into their life on the road. The majority of the film showcases the songs played at various gigs, at venues that range from tiny bars and outdoor courtyards to giant concert halls.
It's fun, and it's disturbing. The alleged brother-and-sister team (Jack White on guitar and vocals; Meg White on drums) has an excellent back and forth on stage, where little nods of the head and juts of the guitar neck serve as shorthand to keep them in sync. But off-stage, the duo barely makes eye contact. The film partially explains this by highlighting Meg White's reserved personality throughout, both in direct interviews and in stolen moments. No matter the situation, she's quiet and reserved—so quiet, in fact, that all of her comments are subtitled.
With outgoing, talkative Jack as the frontman, the pairing with Meg is odd, and it makes for some uncomfortable moments. It's hard to know what's really going on with these two—who were actually once married to each other, although Malloy sticks with Jack's brother-and-sister explanation—and there are several points in the film where I wondered why Meg sticks with it. It seems like unending purgatory for her. Then again, it's hard to say. To paraphrase one of Jack's comments in the film: Nothing is what it seems with the White Stripes.
So, the film inspired me to learn a couple of tunes. This is a challenge, of course, because so many of their songs are made for the electric guitar and just don't translate that well to acoustic. I stumbled upon a nice arrangement of "You've Got Her in Your Pocket," which has a haunting, lilting melody with terribly misogynistic lyrics. Of course, I can't help but wonder now if Meg is the one in the pocket with "no way out"?
To make up for my betrayal of womankind by playing that song at all, I'm also working on "Little Ghost," which is a fun, fast-paced tale about a romance between a boy and his girl ghost. The line "The moment that I met her/I did not expect a specter" is only one of the reasons I love the White Stripes. My guitar-playing friends have pooh-poohed their guitar arrangements, but I defy them to dis their lyrics!
- "Little Ghost"
- "You've Got Her in Your Pocket"
- "Happy Birthday"
Two of these are by the White Stripes—can you guess which ones? We recently watched The White Stripes: Under the Great White Northern Lights (2009), a rockumentary by Emmett Malloy about this controversial duo's 2007 Canadian tour. If you have any affinity for their music at all, you'll enjoy this 90-minute glimpse into their life on the road. The majority of the film showcases the songs played at various gigs, at venues that range from tiny bars and outdoor courtyards to giant concert halls.
It's fun, and it's disturbing. The alleged brother-and-sister team (Jack White on guitar and vocals; Meg White on drums) has an excellent back and forth on stage, where little nods of the head and juts of the guitar neck serve as shorthand to keep them in sync. But off-stage, the duo barely makes eye contact. The film partially explains this by highlighting Meg White's reserved personality throughout, both in direct interviews and in stolen moments. No matter the situation, she's quiet and reserved—so quiet, in fact, that all of her comments are subtitled.
With outgoing, talkative Jack as the frontman, the pairing with Meg is odd, and it makes for some uncomfortable moments. It's hard to know what's really going on with these two—who were actually once married to each other, although Malloy sticks with Jack's brother-and-sister explanation—and there are several points in the film where I wondered why Meg sticks with it. It seems like unending purgatory for her. Then again, it's hard to say. To paraphrase one of Jack's comments in the film: Nothing is what it seems with the White Stripes.
So, the film inspired me to learn a couple of tunes. This is a challenge, of course, because so many of their songs are made for the electric guitar and just don't translate that well to acoustic. I stumbled upon a nice arrangement of "You've Got Her in Your Pocket," which has a haunting, lilting melody with terribly misogynistic lyrics. Of course, I can't help but wonder now if Meg is the one in the pocket with "no way out"?
To make up for my betrayal of womankind by playing that song at all, I'm also working on "Little Ghost," which is a fun, fast-paced tale about a romance between a boy and his girl ghost. The line "The moment that I met her/I did not expect a specter" is only one of the reasons I love the White Stripes. My guitar-playing friends have pooh-poohed their guitar arrangements, but I defy them to dis their lyrics!
Thursday, April 15, 2010
All Strung Out
And I want to play my guitar, but my guitar is out of tune.
—Antsy Pants
Tuning a guitar is the first lesson any novice player learns. In college, I was taught to tune by ear, but I'm still not very good at it. Lately, I've been even worse. My B string (second from the bottom) just won't cooperate. It's as if the only tone I need has been erased from its memory.
So I called my mom for an over-the-phone consult. Is the knot unraveled at the tuning peg? No. Is it frayed at the bridge? Huh. Yes, a bit. Just beside the tuning peg, the outer coating of the string looks loose, like it is unwinding.
Next stop: YouTube, which gave me the 411 on guitar stringing. Apparently I need one of these to pop the bridge pin. I suppose I could find something else in the house—a bottle opener, a staple remover, a nail file—to do it, but chances are I'd just make a nice big hole in my bridge.
So, I guess I need this thingamajig. Instead of ordering it online, I might brave the local guitar store for a demo. This project will likely have to wait until the weekend, which means a couple of days without the strains—and I mean strains—of "Walk or Ride" and "I Heard a Voice in Dresden." Perhaps the birds will start singing again?
—Antsy Pants
Tuning a guitar is the first lesson any novice player learns. In college, I was taught to tune by ear, but I'm still not very good at it. Lately, I've been even worse. My B string (second from the bottom) just won't cooperate. It's as if the only tone I need has been erased from its memory.
So I called my mom for an over-the-phone consult. Is the knot unraveled at the tuning peg? No. Is it frayed at the bridge? Huh. Yes, a bit. Just beside the tuning peg, the outer coating of the string looks loose, like it is unwinding.
Next stop: YouTube, which gave me the 411 on guitar stringing. Apparently I need one of these to pop the bridge pin. I suppose I could find something else in the house—a bottle opener, a staple remover, a nail file—to do it, but chances are I'd just make a nice big hole in my bridge.
So, I guess I need this thingamajig. Instead of ordering it online, I might brave the local guitar store for a demo. This project will likely have to wait until the weekend, which means a couple of days without the strains—and I mean strains—of "Walk or Ride" and "I Heard a Voice in Dresden." Perhaps the birds will start singing again?
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Guitar Dyslexia
During a brief period when I was eleven, if someone asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I would matter-of-factly reply: "I have a calling to work with the dyslexic."
Amazingly, no one laughed, punched me in the face, or even asked me why I thought I was God's gift to special education. At that age, I knew this many people with dyslexia: zero. So, where I got this idea is unclear. I suspect I only learned the word "dyslexia" from an elementary school jokester who pointed out that someone with dyslexia would likely pray to a canine deity. Nice.
I think I just liked the way the word "dyslexia" sounded. It was exotic and musical to my sixth-grade ears, and I thought it would look pretty on a business card. Needless to say, my flirtation with this vocation was short lived—which should be a relief to educators and students everywhere.
While no one punished me for my misguided hubris at the time, cosmic retribution is here in the form of guitar tablature. Guitar tabs are essentially "Battleship"-style grids that show guitar players where to put their fingers on the strings—for example, second string, third fret. This way, you don't actually have to know how to read music in order to play. (You can see the tab for "Happy Birthday" here.)
I can read music about as well as a second grader can read a story aloud. I haltingly sound out phrases and practice them over and over until I get up to speed, then move on to puzzle over the next section. But my music-reading skills are all based on the piano—I don't really know where to find the notes on the guitar strings yet. So, tabs are for me! Except: I can't read them.
Tabs feature six horizontal lines, each representing a string on the guitar. So far, so good. But here's where it gets tricky: The top line of the tab actually corresponds to the bottom string of the guitar ("high" E). I think this is because when you are holding your guitar and looking down at the fret board, you are practically standing on your head—so maybe this tab format was designed to make life easier for your brain.
I see the logic in this, but my instincts are the reverse. I always think that the top line on the tab should be the top string of the guitar ("low" E). So, imagine what my brain does when it sees this insane tab for "Stairway to Heaven." Try as I might, I can't wrap my head around it. Show me a tab half as complicated as this, and I will probably spend 20 minutes counting on my fingers to find the right string for the first note, second-guessing myself, reversing the count, and then throwing in the towel and searching for the song's chords online instead.
Short of seeking out an eleven-year-old with a calling to help me overcome my guitar dyslexia, my only choice is to buckle down and practice—and it's going to be hideous. Maybe I'd better start with "Happy Birthday" before I tackle "Stairway," eh?
Amazingly, no one laughed, punched me in the face, or even asked me why I thought I was God's gift to special education. At that age, I knew this many people with dyslexia: zero. So, where I got this idea is unclear. I suspect I only learned the word "dyslexia" from an elementary school jokester who pointed out that someone with dyslexia would likely pray to a canine deity. Nice.
I think I just liked the way the word "dyslexia" sounded. It was exotic and musical to my sixth-grade ears, and I thought it would look pretty on a business card. Needless to say, my flirtation with this vocation was short lived—which should be a relief to educators and students everywhere.
While no one punished me for my misguided hubris at the time, cosmic retribution is here in the form of guitar tablature. Guitar tabs are essentially "Battleship"-style grids that show guitar players where to put their fingers on the strings—for example, second string, third fret. This way, you don't actually have to know how to read music in order to play. (You can see the tab for "Happy Birthday" here.)
I can read music about as well as a second grader can read a story aloud. I haltingly sound out phrases and practice them over and over until I get up to speed, then move on to puzzle over the next section. But my music-reading skills are all based on the piano—I don't really know where to find the notes on the guitar strings yet. So, tabs are for me! Except: I can't read them.
Tabs feature six horizontal lines, each representing a string on the guitar. So far, so good. But here's where it gets tricky: The top line of the tab actually corresponds to the bottom string of the guitar ("high" E). I think this is because when you are holding your guitar and looking down at the fret board, you are practically standing on your head—so maybe this tab format was designed to make life easier for your brain.
I see the logic in this, but my instincts are the reverse. I always think that the top line on the tab should be the top string of the guitar ("low" E). So, imagine what my brain does when it sees this insane tab for "Stairway to Heaven." Try as I might, I can't wrap my head around it. Show me a tab half as complicated as this, and I will probably spend 20 minutes counting on my fingers to find the right string for the first note, second-guessing myself, reversing the count, and then throwing in the towel and searching for the song's chords online instead.
Short of seeking out an eleven-year-old with a calling to help me overcome my guitar dyslexia, my only choice is to buckle down and practice—and it's going to be hideous. Maybe I'd better start with "Happy Birthday" before I tackle "Stairway," eh?
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
The Guitar Pick
On Christmas morning, my husband handed me a small wrapped box about the size of a glasses case. I gingerly removed the paper, lifted the lid, and gasped. Inside was the most beautiful Christmas tree ornament I'd ever seen—a perfect replica of an acoustic guitar, down to the tuning pegs. You can't exactly play a song on it or anything, but if you strum the strings you can hear a high-pitched something. I was delighted.
"You know that's not actually your present," said my husband as I hung the ornament on the tree. "It's a symbol—I just thought you'd want to pick out your own guitar."
I was over the moon. I have always wanted an acoustic guitar—sometimes secretly, sometimes not so secretly. I couldn't wait to go guitar shopping.
Buying a guitar is not—as I thought—like going to the pound to pick up a puppy. You don't just enter a music warehouse, walk the aisles, and wait for a cosmic connection between you and your destined dreadnought (that's guitar-speak for a guitar body that looks like this). There are all sorts of variables to consider—makes, model numbers, materials, tones, aesthetics, not to mention price. It may not be as complicated (or expensive) as buying a car, but being uninformed can be costly.
Anticipating this, my husband read up on the best guitar options for beginners, so he had a handy list at the ready when we walked into the Guitar Center. This talisman served to keep option overload from swallowing me up when we walked into the guitar room, which was literally covered from floor to ceiling with instruments of all different shapes, sizes, and colors. I had no idea what to do. Do you pull the guitars off of the wall? Do you strum them in medias res? Apparently, neither. You point, and the sales guy magically plucks them out of the air for you.
The sales guy, Aaron, was patient and knowledgeable and covered in tattoos and piercings, like all serious guitar players should be. He'd obviously seen his share of newbies, but I was still mortified when he placed an actual guitar in my hands. I felt ridiculous, especially when the teenage customer behind me was holding court with his family, telling them what to look for in a guitar, all the while noodling "Stairway to Heaven." I felt like a total idiot holding an instrument I didn't know how to play.
I tried to remember one of the chords my mother taught me 15 years ago and managed to form a sloppy A major after several interminable seconds. I strummed it timidly once, winced, and prayed that I would turn invisible. Aaron finally left me with the guitar and my mortification to find a different model.
"That one," whispered my husband, pointing to the wooden instrument on my lap, "is on the list." I nodded, grateful to have some point of reference in this sea of strings.
Aaron returned with another guitar, slightly less beautiful than the first—more of a butter yellow than the mellow "Sandburst" finish of the one in my lap. He traded guitars with me, and I fumbled like someone trying to hold a baby for the first time. Finally, Aaron took pity on me and expertly played a few bars himself on first one guitar, then the other. "Hear the difference?" he asked.
I'm ashamed to say I did not. But we took the pretty "Sandburst" one, which he said had a "brighter" tone. Score! It also happened to be on my husband's list: a Yamaha FG700S. Double-score!
Of course, my puppy love was in full effect. It was this one, or no guitar at all. So, I let some things slide that I normally wouldn't have. For example, this guitar was a display model, which meant it did not come with a box—even this novice knows that is a no-no (thanks to the pontificating teenager in the store, of course). Aaron insisted that mine were the only fingerprints on the guitar—but this was demonstrably untrue, as he'd just played it for me. (Of course, it looked pristine to me—luckily, I haven't had any issues with it.)
Also, the store was out of cases, which meant I opted for the sucker's extended warranty just in case the guitar got crushed by a herd of elephants on the way home. Let's just say you're probably not getting a bargain when the sales guy throws in a set of free picks—those seemed like pity picks to me.
Still, I had that new puppy feeling. I gingerly carried my prize to the car and arranged a make-shift beach-towel bed for it in the hatchback. By the time we got home, I could hardly wait to play my A chord over and over and over and over again. Next time, we'll know to pick up some ear plugs, too.
"You know that's not actually your present," said my husband as I hung the ornament on the tree. "It's a symbol—I just thought you'd want to pick out your own guitar."
I was over the moon. I have always wanted an acoustic guitar—sometimes secretly, sometimes not so secretly. I couldn't wait to go guitar shopping.
Buying a guitar is not—as I thought—like going to the pound to pick up a puppy. You don't just enter a music warehouse, walk the aisles, and wait for a cosmic connection between you and your destined dreadnought (that's guitar-speak for a guitar body that looks like this). There are all sorts of variables to consider—makes, model numbers, materials, tones, aesthetics, not to mention price. It may not be as complicated (or expensive) as buying a car, but being uninformed can be costly.
Anticipating this, my husband read up on the best guitar options for beginners, so he had a handy list at the ready when we walked into the Guitar Center. This talisman served to keep option overload from swallowing me up when we walked into the guitar room, which was literally covered from floor to ceiling with instruments of all different shapes, sizes, and colors. I had no idea what to do. Do you pull the guitars off of the wall? Do you strum them in medias res? Apparently, neither. You point, and the sales guy magically plucks them out of the air for you.
The sales guy, Aaron, was patient and knowledgeable and covered in tattoos and piercings, like all serious guitar players should be. He'd obviously seen his share of newbies, but I was still mortified when he placed an actual guitar in my hands. I felt ridiculous, especially when the teenage customer behind me was holding court with his family, telling them what to look for in a guitar, all the while noodling "Stairway to Heaven." I felt like a total idiot holding an instrument I didn't know how to play.
I tried to remember one of the chords my mother taught me 15 years ago and managed to form a sloppy A major after several interminable seconds. I strummed it timidly once, winced, and prayed that I would turn invisible. Aaron finally left me with the guitar and my mortification to find a different model.
"That one," whispered my husband, pointing to the wooden instrument on my lap, "is on the list." I nodded, grateful to have some point of reference in this sea of strings.
Aaron returned with another guitar, slightly less beautiful than the first—more of a butter yellow than the mellow "Sandburst" finish of the one in my lap. He traded guitars with me, and I fumbled like someone trying to hold a baby for the first time. Finally, Aaron took pity on me and expertly played a few bars himself on first one guitar, then the other. "Hear the difference?" he asked.
I'm ashamed to say I did not. But we took the pretty "Sandburst" one, which he said had a "brighter" tone. Score! It also happened to be on my husband's list: a Yamaha FG700S. Double-score!
Of course, my puppy love was in full effect. It was this one, or no guitar at all. So, I let some things slide that I normally wouldn't have. For example, this guitar was a display model, which meant it did not come with a box—even this novice knows that is a no-no (thanks to the pontificating teenager in the store, of course). Aaron insisted that mine were the only fingerprints on the guitar—but this was demonstrably untrue, as he'd just played it for me. (Of course, it looked pristine to me—luckily, I haven't had any issues with it.)
Also, the store was out of cases, which meant I opted for the sucker's extended warranty just in case the guitar got crushed by a herd of elephants on the way home. Let's just say you're probably not getting a bargain when the sales guy throws in a set of free picks—those seemed like pity picks to me.
Still, I had that new puppy feeling. I gingerly carried my prize to the car and arranged a make-shift beach-towel bed for it in the hatchback. By the time we got home, I could hardly wait to play my A chord over and over and over and over again. Next time, we'll know to pick up some ear plugs, too.
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Songs I Am Butchering This Week
- "Walk or Ride" by The Ditty Bops
- "The Ballad of Davy Crockett" (Bruns & Blackburn/They Might Be Giants)
- "After Hours" by The Velvet Underground
- "I Heard Your Voice in Dresden" by Elvis Perkins
- A selection from the Juno soundtrack
Guitar Heroes
It was a warm September evening, and my husband and I were finishing up our first set of early Beatles tunes. We'd missed some notes here and there, but overall, the drums and the guitar sounded great. Even the vocals felt good.
As soon as the final note rang out, we received our first standing ovation. Barely balanced on his feet, our 15-month-old son clapped furiously while his eyes showered us with absolute adoration. "My parents," those eyes said, "are the coolest people on the planet. They can play music!"
My Catholic guilt roiled as the digitally-rendered faces of the Fab Four froze on the television screen.
"It's not real," I said, removing the plastic replica of Paul McCartney's Hofner bass guitar from around my neck and clacking the color-coded buttons with my fingers. "See?"
Of course, he didn't. The fact that his parents were playing "Beatles RockBand" for the Nintendo Wii held no meaning for him. As far as he was concerned, we were the Beatles.
That night, we played song after song—our son clapping jubilantly after each. I recognized the look of wonder on his face. It is the same one I give my own mother when she plays her real guitar—you know, the kind made out of wood with six nylon strings? From the moment my mother strummed the first few bars of "Edelweiss" for me when I was six years old, I knew I wanted to play the guitar, too. But as childhood plans often go, mine was sidelined when I was distracted by other things, like the piano (I loved it but never practiced).
In my last semester of college, I finally took a guitar class for beginners using my mom's first and only guitar. It was fun, but the week after the class ended, the bridge of the 30-year-old instrument spontaneously busted—which seemed like an omen to me. After all, in my mother's hands, the guitar is an articulate conversationalist—in mine, a grunting caveman with a frog in its throat.
However, as I clacked my way through "Twist and Shout" last September, I vowed to get a real instrument into the house so that our son would no longer be dazzled by pretty fakes. In the meantime, we set him up on the RockBand drums. With a drum stick in each hand, he sat on his daddy's lap as they tapped out the rhythm to "Yellow Submarine" on the corresponding colored dots. For now, at least, he can "play music," too.
As soon as the final note rang out, we received our first standing ovation. Barely balanced on his feet, our 15-month-old son clapped furiously while his eyes showered us with absolute adoration. "My parents," those eyes said, "are the coolest people on the planet. They can play music!"
My Catholic guilt roiled as the digitally-rendered faces of the Fab Four froze on the television screen.
"It's not real," I said, removing the plastic replica of Paul McCartney's Hofner bass guitar from around my neck and clacking the color-coded buttons with my fingers. "See?"
Of course, he didn't. The fact that his parents were playing "Beatles RockBand" for the Nintendo Wii held no meaning for him. As far as he was concerned, we were the Beatles.
That night, we played song after song—our son clapping jubilantly after each. I recognized the look of wonder on his face. It is the same one I give my own mother when she plays her real guitar—you know, the kind made out of wood with six nylon strings? From the moment my mother strummed the first few bars of "Edelweiss" for me when I was six years old, I knew I wanted to play the guitar, too. But as childhood plans often go, mine was sidelined when I was distracted by other things, like the piano (I loved it but never practiced).
In my last semester of college, I finally took a guitar class for beginners using my mom's first and only guitar. It was fun, but the week after the class ended, the bridge of the 30-year-old instrument spontaneously busted—which seemed like an omen to me. After all, in my mother's hands, the guitar is an articulate conversationalist—in mine, a grunting caveman with a frog in its throat.
However, as I clacked my way through "Twist and Shout" last September, I vowed to get a real instrument into the house so that our son would no longer be dazzled by pretty fakes. In the meantime, we set him up on the RockBand drums. With a drum stick in each hand, he sat on his daddy's lap as they tapped out the rhythm to "Yellow Submarine" on the corresponding colored dots. For now, at least, he can "play music," too.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Stay Tuned...
Coming soon:
- How RockBand inspired a midlife crisis
- What song I ruined today
- Fun facts about guitar anatomy!
- People who actually play guitar well and why
- Embarrassing videos (maybe...)
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