A Beautiful Song: A Musical Soul Story

by Michael Cantwell

  I was so happy. Finally my pursuit of becoming a real guitar player was only a few days away. I got a few chuckles when I announced as I was cleaning my plate from the table, By the end of the first semester of school not only will I be on the honor roll, but I will be ready to hit the recording studio with my first band.” Hey, what did I know? I thought I was being sincere. My dad gave me a smirk like the time I told him the Miami Dolphins would one day be the best football team on earth. It was a wicked smile.

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  Chapter 2

  First day of high school was anti-climactic. It was similar to my last school, only with not as many nuns and with longer walks between classrooms. I got confused with which locker was mine. An upper classman got a good laugh as he watched my frustration trying to open what turned out to be a locker a few down from mine. From then on my locker number was written all over my notebooks. It was 312 not 302.

  One thing was very different with the new school. Why would teachers give assignments in early September, not due till Christmas break? I wrote it all down in the notebook that had my now famous locker number on the front cover. Friday at school was a blur. Except for one thing, for the first time ever, I had to shower with multiple people in a large shower area. I never understood why the gym teacher Mr. Woody made sure we all took a shower after class. It’s not like I actually broke a sweat playing volleyball. But once the Friday school day was over the countdown to my first guitar lesson would begin. Tick tock, it could not come soon enough.

  After a restless night, Saturday morning finally arrived. As usual I had to walk the dog, then listen to my dad tell me the front porch had to be swept before I could depart for my first official lesson. No sweat, I had another hour to accomplish all my tasks. In fact I was standing at the door of the music shop ten minutes before the shop was to open. Much to my surprise, Gordy was not there yet. Did he not realize what a momentous day this was for me? The guy rolls up like he just got out of bed and informs me I should be pleased he was 2 minutes early. Huh? I was however stunned he was not as excited to be there as I was on a beautiful Saturday morning.

  Gordy flipped on a few lights and opened up his cash register. He then motions at me for me to turn around the open sign on the door. It all seemed like slow motion. My first official lesson was now starting three minutes late. My razor thin patience had run out. I made the mistake of blurting out, “My dad is paying good money for this you know.”

  Gordy was unfazed with my comment but gave me the stare he must have learned from my dad. He pulled the old strat off the rack, and to my surprise, he actually put new strings on it. Then he even tuned it for me. Tick, tock, the clock reads 10:17. I’m getting a bit annoyed Gordy is not seeing this my way. I let out a deep sigh when he leans over to me and says, “Stu let me tell you how we are going to begin each lesson”. In my brain I am thinking something like the latest riff from The Rolling Stones or Cream. He slowly puts the guitar in my lap and says “you will never appreciate your talents until you give thanks to the one who gave you those talents”. “John Lennon” I smirked at him.

  That was not smartest thing I ever said in my life. Gordy turned all serious and said, “I have told you before and I will tell you once again, you have been given a gift from your maker and I refuse to teach you anything until you give thanks.”

  “Come on Gordy” I barked,” I get enough of that in school I didn’t come here for this crap.” He takes back the guitar and tells me that today’s lesson is now done. I was stunned. I wanted to run home and tell my dad he got ripped off big time. But I had to work off the last 2 hours left of my four hours for that week. Gordy told me that if I didn’t finish my hours, there would be no lesson on Tuesday. I did my two hours and sulked home not wanting to ever go back. My vision of learning how to play “Born to be Wild” in one day vanished in a heartbeat.

  I didn’t leave my room the rest of the day. At dinner time my mom asked me how the lesson went and why I didn’t bring home the rented guitar. I was still pissed off. I had one thing to say about it all.

  “Mom, dad, you guys got ripped off by Gordy. He refused to give me my lesson. I was there on time and even opened the darn door sign for him. He started my lesson over fifteen minutes late, but after fifteen seconds he tells me to start sweeping the floor. I did what I was told then came home. I ain’t never going back to that place!”

  To this day I don’t know if Gordy had contacted my dad in advance of my blow out at dinner or not. Dad sat back in his chair, put down his fork, cleared his throat and responded, “Before I ask for my money back, I have one question for you son. Did you follow his orders?”

  “What do you mean did I follow orders? I got there early. I sat in the chair for my lesson and next thing I knew I was running a mop across the floor again. What orders? I mean I think I did, yes sir.”

  He looked down to the opposite end of the table where I was sitting, and asked again. “What I mean to ask you son, did you do exactly as Gordy asked of you, following every last detail. You see, I live in a world where small things can save lives. I know your lesson is not life or death, but it was important to you. Did you follow every single command? Yes or no? It’s a simple question.”

  I sheepishly said, “I think I did. Well, maybe not every last detail, now that I think about it, but I sure tried.”

  My dad gave me that I am disappointed in you look and responded, “Let’s not ask for the money back just yet. Go to your lesson on Tuesday and try harder this time.” It was a very quiet dinner after that.

  Monday was my real first full day of high school. It seemed like it was never going to end. I had so much homework to do and I was still a bit steamed at Gordy. I didn’t bother to go near the store after school. Tuesday was the same way, but it was time for my next attempt at a lesson.

  Gordy was all smiles and asked why I didn’t stop by on Monday, but I only mumbled something about “too much homework.” We again sat down on the wooden stools in the back of the shop. Gordy again asks me if I had given thanks to my maker. I was not going to make the same mistake again so I slowly closed my eyes and thanked my God for allowing me the opportunity to do something I loved so much. I was now calm and ready for a real guitar lesson.

  Gordy reaches around to this old rusty metal rack with a bunch of dusty sets of sheet music on it and sets up one sheet on the stand and informs me that this will be my first major scale. He proceeds to show me where the notes are on the neck of the guitar. “Ok Stu, your first lesson is to play those notes on that scale until your fingers are so sore you can’t possibly play another note. And if that happens before your thirty minutes are up; don’t bother with your next lesson. You are to play those notes backwards and forwards and every which way until they are tattooed in your brain and on your finger tips. And if you want a gold star, before now and Saturday, move to another section on the fret board, and find the scale there too.”

  I played the notes a few times up and a few times down and yelled out for Gordy who had moved to the front of the store tending to some customers. “Ok Gordy, I got this down. Let’s play “Honkey Tonk Woman with the remaining 28 minutes of my lesson.”

  ”Not today kid, learn the basics and one day I will teach ya some songs.” I am now really starting to rethink this entire instrument thing. I mean my dad was paying real money for lessons, not for some hippie to hand me a sheet of paper and tell me to play that till my fingers bleed. I mean “Who plays scales on a guitar?” I muttered under my breath so that Gordy would not hear me complain.

  Giggles started to resonate from the store front. Some guy named Skunk, who hung out all the time banging on any new guitar Gordy had in the store, was amused with my lesson. Skunk ticked me off every time he put his grimy fingers on my Martin, now he was laughing at me. How dare that jackass. Plus I never once saw him buy a thing in Gordy’s shop. I am not sure why Gordy let him hang around. It certainly wasn’t because he would push a broom. So I did my remaining twenty eight mi
nutes of penance, and put the guitar down knowing I had mastered my first scale.

  Gordy had the nerve to have me play it one time in front of Skunk who dared to declare, “Keep going kid, you will get it one day”. Huh, I played every note in the scale exactly as printed. My fingers were so sore at this point I didn’t need to show off my talents any longer. Gordy asked Skunk to play the same scale one time for me on my rented strat. I am not sure he really played the same notes. I mean it sounded the same, but it sounded somehow different. Skunk had a sound of passion in the same notes I played only moments earlier. His fingers touched that fret board like they were dancing across a stage like a trained ballet dancer. I was playing my scales. Skunk was playing an instrument with passion and desire.

  The next few weeks were over in a flash. The first semester was almost in the books. I had to work extra hard to get my algebra grade up from a C to a B to keep my eligibility for the honor roll. Final grades were three A’s and four B’s which kept me in lessons for the remainder of the school year.

  A few weeks before Christmas, I wandered into the store and noticed something was very wrong with the world. There was a Gibson guitar in the shop window, not my Martin D45. I asked Gordy what was up and he informed me that someone bought the guitar as a Christmas gift. “Oh, no, that can’t be Gordy why would you sell my guitar” I screamed. “Kid, this is a music shop, I sell instruments here.” Reality had never hit so hard.

  Christmas was on a Monday. I showed up on Saturday for my lesson. I had played scale after scale up and down the neck of the guitar till I had large calluses on my finger tips. I felt Gordy was really taking advantage of my dad’s generosity in paying for lessons. But I had learned a few times to keep my mouth shut when Gordy threatened to call off the whole thing if I didn’t do exactly as he instructed. He would tell me over and over I would understand one day that I really was becoming a musician. He was emphatic that I do as he demanded, and only as he demanded.

  So I show up for my lesson, and Gordy asks me if I know what the next Monday is and I say, “Of course every kid knows what Christmas is Gordy, don’t be silly.” He has a different meaning in his mind and tells me that it’s the Lord’s birthday. Gordy looks at me and states, “I want you to play happy birthday for Jesus on your guitar.” I say “ok, give me the sheet music please, and I will see what I can do for you.”

  “Stu you don’t need sheet music. You know every scale you need to know, in every octave you need to know, to play just about any song you want to play now. Close your eyes and play happy birthday. Visualize the sound in your fingers. Feel the sound, Stu. Hear it; then play it with your fingers.”

  I take a moment, hear the sound in my brain, and find that first note without looking at the neck of my guitar. After a couple brief mistakes, I play the song in its entirety. After the song was over, Gordy says, “Great, once again you can play the notes, now play the song. I have taught you how to bend strings, hammer on strings, play the song like it’s your birthday Stu.” He made me play happy birthday over and over for a full 30 minute lesson. My assignment was to now “Learn Silent Night by our next lesson with no sheet music.” I knew it within thirty minutes of my first attempt. Not only did I know that song by the next lesson, I knew the opening riff to many of my favorite songs.

  Throughout the remainder of the school year, Gordy taught me how chords were made along with the basics of music theory. Before summer recess, I could hear a song on the radio and within a short time work out the chords as well as know much of the lead parts. I had learned to be a player without realizing the method to Gordy’s instructions. I would still get yelled at all the time by Gordy. He would tell me his shop is full of kids who can play scales, but not many can play songs with passion. I think it was starting to make sense to me now. He would also keep telling me how I was given a gift that few were ever given. “Stu, if you ever stop appreciating your talent given from above, I will refuse to give you even one more lesson.”

  Over the summer break my playing abilities improved dramatically. I practiced so much over the summer, by day’s end, even my calluses would ache. But it was time for my second year of high school, and back to splitting time with homework and practice time. I would go home on weekends and not leave my room for hours, feeling like that rented Stratocaster had become an extension of my hand. I would occasionally play a song or two for my mom and dad, just so they could hear their money was not going down the drain. I am sure they could not miss the sounds from my room, but face to face was warranted every now and again. I even learned “Somewhere over the Rainbow” for my mom, since that was one of her favorites. She smiled every time I played it for her. My dad would tell me that once I learned “Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture” he would be impressed.

  By my third year in high school, my lessons were only once a week. Gordy would let me sit in and jam with some of the guys who would come in after the shop had closed. Skunk would even show me a few odd chords that he claims to have invented. He was not around all the time however, because he was recording with some guys out of New York, who actually had released albums. It was not till that point that Gordy told me that he too had played on many singles and albums. He sat in on many songs that were recorded in the late 1950’s. I knew he could play quite well, but he rarely would show off his skills for anyone in the shop. Only after hours did he let loose now and again when Skunk tried to show off too much. But I was now learning how to work with others. I would strum rhythm and was occasionally given the lead. I was really into the Beatles at that point. I loved playing the George Harrison song “Something”. Gordy was really into Elvis Presley, and Skunk really tried to add a jazz element to his playing. So between us three and a couple others who came in and out of the group, we were really varied in our styles.

  Later that school year, a school buddy of mine introduced me to a guy who played keyboards and wanted to write songs. So I ventured over to his house. I took my now Gibson acoustic that my mom and dad had bought me for Christmas. It was used, but Gordy assured me he had kept his eye out for a nice second hand acoustic guitar for me. It had a big sound to it, and was more to my liking. The keyboardist had taken lessons for about as long as I had. I knew however, after a short time, I was much stronger on my instrument. But it was nice to play with someone other than another guitarist. It was also nice to play with someone closer to my age.

  The keyboardist was Kevin Carpenter. His best friend happened to be a beautiful red head I spied in a few of my classes. I was not sure if they were a couple or Debby Fletcher just liked being around Kevin and his music. She was unlike most females I had encountered at that age. She knew all the cool rock and roll stations up and down the dial, and knew sports maybe better than I did. She looked really good in a pair of jeans too.

  We hung out mostly on weekends. My time was growing short for socializing because I now had a part time job washing dishes at the local restaurant. So between doing my chores at home, working to keep my grades up, it was a struggle to do much more. If I didn’t practice my guitar for a minimum of two to three hours a day, somehow I felt lost.

  One day Kevin invited me over to his neighbor’s house who recently started to play the drums. We made a feeble attempt to play a song or two. Randy or as he liked to be called Sticks, could barely hold a beat. He would start us off and Kevin and I would go into some kind of a personal trance. I am sure to the passing ear it sounded horrible. I didn’t really notice much since by then I was doing my best Eric Clapton imitations, and was not paying any attention to the rhythm section. One time I remember my eyes were closed while performing a killer version of “While My Guitar Gently Weeps”. When I opened them, I realized they were playing an old Monkees tune. Kevin was hardly amused, but Debby started to sit closer to me than Kevin with each passing session.

  Eventually we jammed enough to be able to play about five or six songs with minimal ability. Randy just was not accomplished enough to learn more songs, and Kevin’s temper only held us b
ack. Debby was our biggest fan and groupie, but other than Randy’s dog, she really was our only fan. It was such a difference from playing with Gordy and the shop group on Tuesday nights, versus our rag tag group on Saturday nights. On Tuesdays I was the weak link, but on Saturdays, it was very obvious I was by far the best in our group. However, even on Tuesdays, I was becoming closer to the level of the players in that group. Gordy would still put me in my place now and again to keep me level headed, but it was obvious I was catching up to even his abilities. I know he noticed when he gave me an old guitar strap he said was given to him from none other than Elvis Presley himself. I asked him if he knew Elvis and he would only say, “I know how to get to Graceland and yes, I have met Elvis more than once.” No matter how much I pressed him, he would never really tell me stories about his past. He would only share things from his recent years in owning the store.

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  Chapter 3

  Word started to get around school that I could play the guitar. A friend of a friend asked if I could play at his Sweet 16 birthday party, but without my two playing partners. He asked if I would come and play a few songs solo. I told him I could, but I could not sing at all. When word got back to the others they were teed off at me.

  “Yo, Stu, we are band mates now, or did you forget that?” Kevin never could hold his temper.

  I had some serious fence mending to do. I convinced the person who asked me to play that if we could do one set as a band, I would do one solo. He eventually agreed, but that was my first venture into having others offended because of music. I really didn’t like the politics of it all. The only good thing that came of that was that Debby very proudly announced that she had been learning to sing a few Beatles tunes along with a few odd balls songs.