120 Super Songs by the Super Stars

When I was a boy, my dad made me take guitar lessons from an old man in a small music shop on Park Ave. in Lake Park. I remember the shop smelling of old books. We would practice for an hour or so in a small room in the back of the shop. I didn't take the lesson seriously. But the old music teacher didn't seem to mind that we goofed off for 55 minutes only to spend 5 minutes or so in actual lesson. He reminded me of my jidou, a patient man who used to cut the crusts from the breads of our sandwiches. Though my specific recall of both men is fuzzy, I seem to remember them both having the same olive complexion, the same yellowing hair and same thick plastic glasses resting atop broad, cartilaginous, Mediterranean noses.

As I grew older (much older...like 25) I grew to regret not having taken those lessons more seriously, so I reapplied myself and signed up for lessons at Jupiter Music. I started to learn to read music (a skill I have since forgotten) and to play stuttering versions of the Eagles, Nirvana and Pink Floyd's "Wish You Were Here" from a slightly overweight, pimply kid who know doubt had aspirations of becoming the next Stevie Ray Vaughn or Clapton. Photos of rock icons cut from magazines filled the small practice room, and the discordant thrum of a bass guitar and the arrhythmic staccato of a snare drum penetrated the particle board walls. Every pre-teen in north county with rock star ambitions came in and out of that shop. I felt as though I was the oldest student by, at least, fifteen years.

In Boulder, I again signed up for lessons. The instructor at Woodsong's on Pearl--a miserly man in his mid-40's who know doubt had a Phd in music theory--asked me what my goal was in taking lessons. I told him, "I want to play the whole neck of the guitar. I want to jam." (I might have used the word 'improvise' instead of 'jam', but you get the picture...) So, he taught me the blues, and I strived to become the least melancholy blues guitarist in town.

Since Sam was born, I will, on occasion, pull the dusty Aria acoustic guitar my dad gave me and play a song or two for Sam. I haven't played enough to keep the callouses on the tips of my fingers intact. I mostly play sputtering versions of Dave Matthews tunes, i.e. the opening lick of "Satellite" over and over and over again. Sam doesn't seem to mind. In fact, he often, when I attempt to sing (which I do not do well, I am reminded), joins in.

Recently, in an effort to expand my repertoire, Sam and I took a trip down to the garage and rescued a few more music books from the moldy cardboard box to which they had been relegated. (This particularly distressed Elise, as it know doubt meant introducing ants and silverfish into our home) What did we return with? "120 Super Songs by the Super Stars".

Everything about this book is OLD. The pages are yellowed and tattered. The spine has completely dissolved to little more than threads of glue. But, best of all, it is filled with my dad's unintelligible scrawl. This is the book he took to Park Ave. for his own music lessons. The staffs are scribbled over in red ink. I don't know what the slashes and scribbles mean, but he dates the lessons. They go back to 1983.

So, now I sing "Homeward Bound" and "Daydream Believer". And fight not to choke up when I sing, "I wish I was, Homeward bound, Home...where my guitar is playing, Home...where my Hewie's cooking, Home...where my Sam lies waiting...Silently for me."

BUT the best (or the worst, depending on how one looks at it) is Cat Steven's "Father & Son". I won't even attempt to sing this song. I couldn't do it without balling before Sam was born, so there's absolutely no way I could pull it off now. I can't even type the words without tearing up, so you'll have to google the song for yourself, but grab a kleenex first.