Fifty-some-odd years ago, a friend of mine, Jimmy Bolin, decided he wanted to open a guitar store. It didn’t matter that he was in high school or that he didn’t have any money to work with. He loved playing guitar and he wanted to open a guitar store. He taught private guitar lessons until he had enough money to rent a tiny storefront in Jonesboro, in what was then called the Spanish Mall. The building his shop was in, still sits at the corner of Caraway and Stallings Lane.
His shop was upstairs, on the northeastern-most portion of the building. It was a tiny shop. He had about four guitars and a couple of amps for sale. As he taught more lessons, more and more guitars appeared on the wall for sale. A small business was born. It would eventually grow into a major cash cow.
In addition to owning a guitar shop, Jimmy was in a band. I don’t remember the name of the band, but I do remember that his band played one of the proms that I attended when I was in high school. One particular prom was held in Hillcrest Elementary’s lunchroom because all the other large venues had been destroyed by the horrific 1973 tornado. The thing that sticks in my mind still today, is watching Jimmy, who was by no means a stud, strut into that lunchroom like he owns it. He’s wearing tuxedo tails, a white tux shirt with ruffels, jeans and sneakers. He’s got a guitar slung on his back and on his arm is the most beautiful girl in the room. I don’t remember her name, but I do remember the onset of hyperventilation. She was stunningly beautiful. While he played in the band that night, she sat at the table reserved for those who were with the band. She watched him like a cat watches her prey. While he was stalking the stage bending strings and sweating, she rocked with the music and watched him like he was hunka hunka burning love. She didn’t blink. There was hunger in those eyes.
That’s when I decided I wanted to learn how to play the guitar.
Throughout my college years, nights frequently ended with me sitting around with friends, enjoying a beer or two, and playing songs on my guitar. I was just a strummer, not a real guitarist like Jimmy was. Jimmy could do the soaring solos that sounded so cool. No, that wasn’t me. I just strummed the chords to the melody of the song and everyone sang to the best of their ability.
I played a lot of Jimmy Buffet, including “Margaritaville”,“God’s Own Drunk” and “Pencil Thin Mustache.” I thought I was really good at “Bad, Bad Lee Roy Brown” and “Me and Bobby McGee.” I enjoyed playing “Piano Man” and “American Pie.” I don’t think anyone who ever heard me play “Alice’s Restaurant” will ever forget it. We had a lot of fun.
College drifted into the past, and my real life began. Children magically appeared and grew up singing my favorites with me at bedtime. Eventually, as life does, life got busy and I didn’t play much for a while. Then, I didn’t play at all for a long time, a really long time. Twenty-five years of long time.
Now, I’m retired in Florida. I spend my days on a riding lawnmower, drinking beer, or writing. Sometimes I do all three at the same time. I’ve started to play guitar again.
One of the great marvels of our time is that you can learn damn near anything on the internet. I once watched a video on how to neuter your dog. I don’t recommend watching that particular video.
I’ve been using the internet to learn songs. I can still play the old songs as well as I ever could, but now I’m learning new ones. I’ve been learning some Pink Floyd, some Beatles, some Stones, and of course, some Creedence. It was in the course of this endeavor, I made a horrific personal discovery.
You would think that listening to a song while your computer screen displays what chords so you can play along would be great. I suppose for some folks, it is great. For me, it is not. In fact, it’s heart breaking, but there is just no denying it.
I have no sense of rhythm. None. I play the guitar like Elaine on Seinfeld dances. I now understood so many things.
My daughters tried to tell me once that I didn’t play “Bad, Bad Lee Roy Brown” like the radio did. I wasn’t sure what they meant. Now, I understand.
It has occurred to me that in all the years I played guitar at parties, my friends must have been exceedingly drunk or tolerant of bad musicianship. Major, Dave, Mary Lou, Alice….I’m talking about you. Alyssa did tell me I sucked. I just didn’t believe her.
I can’t even play country music and have it come out sounding anything like what the recordings sound like. If you love Waylon, you should never be subjected to my version of “Amanda.”
This revelation came as complete surprise, but it is undeniable. Trying to play along with Creedence to “Have You Ever Seen the Rain” is an exercise in futility. “Let it Be” is unrecognizable. I had never even suspected that I couldn’t keep time. I thought I was doing OK for someone without any formal guitar training. Now I understand. So, not only am I color blind, but I have no sense of rhythm. I am told that we shouldn’t let our limitations define us. I like that. I can embrace that. So what if color is really just a concept, and I can’t keep time. It’s not the end of the world.
At least I can sing.
I can visualize everything, Bill! The Spanish Mall, Jimmy’s ruffled prom shirt, you writing, drinking beer, and mowing grass simultaneously. Precious memories indeed!