Many of you
have probably seen the still photos of me playing this guitar. You might have
seen a 15 second video on Instagram with a section of a song that I kinda got
good at.
What you
may not know is that this 1979 Gibson Les Paul Custom in Tobacco Sunburst is
not mine. It belonged to my husband Paul who would have been 45 years on today
(September 16).
We were together during a time when you could truly avoid having your picture taken if you wanted
to. Neither of us liked it so much; we both preferred to be behind the lens. So
unfortunately, I don’t have any pictures of him playing the guitar except for
those in my memories.
I remember
he tried to teach me a couple of times, but I always complained about how much
it hurt my fingers. And I could never play a proper E chord. So I gave up. That
was his thing, the guitar thing, the songwriting thing, the thing he did when
he wasn’t chefing. My thing was listening to music, writing, and taking
photographs of things where I couldn’t be seen.
After he
died, that guitar stayed on display. I didn’t touch it. I couldn’t. It was his.
I wouldn’t let anyone else touch it, either. I moved out of that
circle of musicians and chefs and things.
When I
rediscovered my writing craft and decided to make a more serious and concerted
effort into making a go of this, I found myself moving in more creative circles
once again. That included hanging with musicians. I kept looking at the Les
Paul. I realized the shame and dishonour I was doing to that instrument by
letting it sit there, in the corner, letting the wood dry, letting it collect
dust. Paul would have never wanted that to happen, just as he would have never wanted his chefs knives to sit in a drawer and grow dull.
So I made
it my New Year’s Resolution in 2015 to learn to play the damn thing. And over
the course of seven months, I think I’ve done all right. I’m not great. But I’m
better than I was in the Spring, and I keep improving. I still can't play an E chord very well. And at first my fingers did indeed hurt, but I got used to it quickly.
Paul loved
the Blues and had books and tried to learn and play deep down south guitar
blues. Well, I’m not quite ready for that. But he also loved Pink Floyd. And I
did learn one song by them (it’s probably easy by Gilmour standards).
So in that
birthday tradition of gifts that don’t cost anything, I recorded a video of me playing
(and singing) Wish You Were Here. I left in the mistakes. I’m not perfect at
this, I’m no virtuoso. I’ve barely begun. But I wanted it to be authentic, like
it would have been if I had taken lessons from him and learned how to play this
on my own and then gone back and surprised him with it. So there are finger
trips, missed beats, cracking voices. I left out the solos because I just kept
tripping over them badly in every take, so there’s something I have to work on.
Anyway, I
hope you enjoy this little birthday gift I made for my late husband. I’m
leaving it up on the public stream here for the next 48 hours. I’ll make it a
private link or take it down after Thursday.
I just hope wherever he is, he hasn’t been
cringing while I’ve been learning. I hope he doesn’t mind his present. And I hope
he’s laughing where I’m smirking at my rookie mistakes.
Happy 45th
birthday, Bobo. Wish You Were Here.
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