| Short lived life of a musician wanna-B When I was just a little boy I asked my mother; what will I be? Will I be famous, will I be rich? Here’s what she said to me… Quit your whining and go outside and play! I can’t recall what I wanted to become when I was young, I think it was an actor. However, I know that when I was nearing the age when testicles are supposed to drop I had the short-lived dream of becoming a guitar player. I took guitar lessons with my music teacher from school once a week on Monday nights. The first song he taught me was Guantanamera followed by that Beatles classic Hey Jude. A slew of simple songs followed and everyday I practiced on my Spanish guitar. A year later we moved to a new city, in a new country, with me having to learn a new language and making new friends. With this newety came several changes, one being a different instrument; the trumpet. I had to learn to pout my lips the right way, and my right hand become more important then the left one had been… Band was fun, plenty of friends, many excursions. I practiced, but not as frequently as I had with the guitar –noise being the main reason as there are only two ways to play the trumpet and that is loud and louder- and I managed to reach the rank of second trumpeteer. A year later we moved again to a new city, in a new country, with me going back to learning a new language and making new friends. With this newety came several changes… again. But no band, and thus my trusty trumpet remained in its case only to be touched once in a blue moon. My guitar had, for reasons still a mystery to me, disappeared and thus I found myself with no music to play except for the Thriller album on my record player. BMX was what I practiced, smoke filled my lungs, and alcohol flowed through my veins making my liver work overtime. Girls had found a special place in my heart –eye and nut sack would be more à pros pos- and making out was what mattered. Years passed –I am forgoing my short-lived career as a didgeridoo player while selling boomerangs to Japanese tourist in Australia, but who is counting- and I all of a sudden found myself living in Dallas, TX. Me and my college years. One day I got home and found my mom sitting on the sofa –yes, I was living with the parents and not in a dorm so shoot me- fiddling around with a red Stratocaster hailing from Mexico. On the floor stood a little 5-watt amp, and nothing but pling plang plong reached my ears. It seems that my mom had decided she wanted to become the world’s first hard rock granny (her words not mine). She had purchased the axe at the local GuitarCenter tm. Spending a whopping $199 on the guitar, the amp and five 30-minute lessons. After lesson number two she came home and told me that I had better pick the sucker up and continue taking the lessons as her fingers were hurting and her nails were getting in the way. And so I did. I could remember how to play some of the tunes I had learned oh so many years ago and a practicing I went. Pling plong plang shit damnit crap!!! Pleng plung plung piece of shit… the lessons weren’t helping a bit. But I wasn’t going to be a quitter, no sirry bob, I was going to learn to play this thing again and win one for the gipper!!! My teacher, who was a fusion jazz player by nature, taught me the three basic chord progression needed to sound adapt. He showed me how to place my fingers on the fret board, and we concocted a way for me to read music in simple 1 2 3 manner (1 being a, 2 being b, 3 being c…). My first piece to learn was Hendrix’s classic Hey Joe as I seemed to have something with Hey related tunes. It took me a month, but then I had it. On I went practicing, trading in the crappy Mexican made strat for a midnight blue ax made in the U.S. freakin A. Got me a bigger amp so I could make more noise, some paddles… all of a sudden I started looking and sounding like them aerosol-sprayed puftars making all the big bucks at the time. By the time I could solo along to Comfortably Numb, and most importantly Little Wings the SRV version, I started feeling good about my aptitude as more then just an air-guitar player. Enter my buddy Ken. Ken had gotten an interest in making music, bought himself a nylon 6 stringer and mouth harp, and somewhere in his mushroom-clouded mind had forged the plan that we would take the music scene by storm as the Belga Boys. I know, sounds faggy, but not in a Fouff-way. We jammed, we smoked up, we drank, we made music and wrote appropriate lyrics. Fruits of our action were instant classics like; you took the fun out of funny and made it nja-song, I’m full of chicken your full of shit-song, but most importantly the blue balls blues –a free for all that one night after we picked up two nymphets and took them home to have our evil ways with we played for a whopping 55 minutes non-stop— They gave us blowjobs ergo they liked it… or felt sorry for our blue balls… It was time for bigger crowds, possibly an orgy or two with groupies. Word had gotten to us that a friend of a friend of a friend was throwing a shindig and needed some entertainment. Not to be two guys to sit by idly we nabbed the opportunity in the butt and got the gig… payment; all the beer we could chug and the use of the spare bedroom incase we got lucky to boot!!! BONUS. Upon arriving we positioned ourselves in a corner, three amps, one mic with stand, and an ample supply of frosty brew within arms reach. A quick tune of the guitars and the vocal chords ahhhhhhh, mimimimimimimimi, testing testing one two three. 3 shots of whatever we were handed and on we went. -good evening y’all, we are the Belga Boys and we’ve come to entertain… Silence -hope you are feeling good, got the brew fresh in the mug and are ready to rock and roll!!! Silence -here we go; a-one a-two a-one-two-three-four Power chord A, strum strum strum -you took the fun out of funny and made it nja -you took the sun out of sunny and made it nja -nja nja nja nja nja nja is what I’ve got without you -nja nja nja nja nja nja can’t even tie my fucking shoe -nja nja nja nja nja Power chord C … And then there was silence, at least there was no more amplified sound. We looked up, saw a silent crowd, looked left, saw some bored chicks sipping wine coolers, looked right and saw the host with the power chord in his hands. Today I can laugh about it, a day after the party I cracked up when we told our friends about it… at that moment in time I didn’t know how fast to get the hell out of there. We ended up putting our gear in the garage, creating for an ambiance where people could try their luck at playing some music. There were several people who knew how to wail on the axe, my axe. We had fun, and still got to enjoy all the beer we could… but no use was found for the spare bedroom. I am writing this on the eve of picking up my guitar from my brother’s place. I haven’t touched the poor thing in over a year, my fingertips being free from callous now. My dreams of becoming another member of the musical scene are long gone, but once in a blue moon, when I hear Little Wing on the radio my fingers start to itch… When I was just a little boy I asked my mother; what will I be? Will I be famous, will I be rich? Here’s what she said to me… Quit your whining, and go practice that axe!!! |