Life and Laughter - Time to face the music
Jan 28, 2025 02:33PM ● By Peri Kinder
(Adobe Stock)
With visions of Jack White, Prince and Sophie Lloyd strumming in my head, I started taking guitar lessons last year to prove that old dogs can still be tricky. After months of lessons, I confidently state Jack White can rest easy. I won’t be coming for his job.
Guitar lessons have challenged my patience but expanded my capacity for playing incorrect chords on a slightly out-of-tune instrument. I pluck through terrible-sounding riffs and know practice time is over when I drop the guitar pick in the sound hole for the hundredth time.
Each week, I meet with the ever-patient Emily at Guitar Center so I can go over my lesson. I spend most of the time trying to convince her I really did practice while ignoring the eye twitch she develops whenever I play an F chord.
She’ll give me advice like, “Press the strings harder” or “Change the position of your thumb” or “Maybe take up baking.” I go home and practice chords and strums and fingerpicking until even the dog leaves the room. But after practicing “Blowin’ in the Wind” for six weeks, my husband finally recognized the chorus.
I’ve gained an appreciation for guitar players, and I get enraged by people who say they taught themselves to play the guitar because that can’t possibly be a thing. Like every child in Utah, I took piano lessons, and that background has helped with counting and timing but that’s the extent of its helpfulness when it comes to the guitar.
The hubby and I visited Nashville in October, where even toddlers can play the intro to “Stairway to Heaven,” and it highlighted how much I still have to learn. Every dive bar had an exceptional guitarist strumming chords while holding a beer bottle. I ate chicken wings and sipped margaritas, mesmerized by their talent.
Not only were they exceptional, but they could play any song by heart. My brain has no storage capacity. My hard drive is full. I can’t memorize songs, and I can barely remember chord progressions. I’m still looking at chord charts like they’re hieroglyphics.
Learning guitar is mostly about finding new ways to use your nondominant hand. In theory, a plucked string should create a musical vibration. In reality, a plucked string provides a muffled thud because I’m not on my fingertips or I’m too far from the fret or I can’t stretch my hand into a barre chord or I’m just inept. All of those things can be true.
After I played “If I Had a Hammer” for several weeks, my husband said if he had a hammer he’d smash my guitar. Not nice. But fair.
I grew up listening to singers like Joan Baez, Bob Dylan and Johnny Cash. Mom and my aunt would visit assisted living centers (they were called rest homes in the ’70s) to sing and play the guitar, entertaining the captive audience. Sometimes I’d sing along and screw up their “Leaving on a Jet Plane” harmonies with my squeaky 8-year-old voice.
Learning to play the guitar is a connection to my late mom. I can’t say my guitar music honors my mom because no one deserves that kind of honor, but I can imagine her smiling (and probably grimacing) whenever I pick up the guitar. Maybe there are earplugs in heaven.
Watching Prince perform at the Super Bowl, seeing Jack White in concert and hearing Sophie Lloyd shred has become an act of reverence. I stand in awe at their talent as I slowly pick through “Five Hundred Miles” for what feels like the 500th time.