There was an attempt to…be a Rock God

I got my first real six-string…as a surprise Christmas present from my folks when I was little. (OK, so maybe not as dynamic an opening line as Bryan Adams, but it’s the truth). Up until that point my sum of musical endeavours had been relegated to percussion instruments at school, usually the final “ting” of a triangle at the end of the song, so getting my own proper musical instrument was a big deal.  Even as a young boy, when starting a new hobby the delusions of grandeur would fill my head, and as far as I was concerned this junior acoustic guitar was the first step on a stairway to Rock Greatness. Given that I was about 9 or 10 at the time, this vision didn’t incorporate all of the excess and debauchery, and was merely contained to “appearing on the telly on Top of the Pops”. 

Not knowing anything beyond which way up to hold a guitar, I was booked onto a few lessons. Unfortunately, these lessons were not exactly School of Rock territory; it was a lot of dry theory and plucking along to vaguely Spanish classical-sounding tunes, not a power chord or screeching solo in sight. 

Beyond the banality of the lessons, It was pretty clear that Guitar Hero may not be my chosen profession. First of all, I am left-handed, which means that for any video you watch, or book you read on the subject, you have to turn everything upside-down in your head. This is usually the point where a smug musician may say something along the lines of “well, that didn’t stop a certain left-handed player called JIMI HENDRIX, did it?” Fair enough, but then he probably didn’t encounter my second issue; my hands are simply not optimised for guitar playing. Instead of successful guitarist’s fingers that resemble muscular spider’s legs with callouses for shoes, my own fingers can be more accurately described as short, fat sausages with spongy tips.  Most cool guitar playing seemed to involve a painful contortion of fingers into esoteric shapes to make pleasant sounds, and my fingers didn’t either want to bend or stretch that way, despite my pained and persistent attempts. The lessons ended and the guitar predictably gathered dust before being thrown away.

However, the distant dream of rock stardom was too strong (especially after learning about the whole debauchery angle later on) and so other attempts to be a musician would come and go throughout my life.  There was the moment a few teenage friends decided on setting up a band, and I signed up despite having no musical talent whatsoever. This band, unlike Mr Adams (who is proving a useful reference point for this entry), didn’t try real hard. At all. We spent a couple of hours messing about, recorded a total of about 30 seconds of a shambolic cover of “Wild Thing” and then broke up the band at the height of this success to go and get drunk on the beach instead. 

Other attempts have come and gone.  An electric guitar was brought, thrashed about with for a bit to make some pleasingly aggressive feedback noises, and then eventually sold, much to the relief of the neighbours.  Through sheer persistence, I picked up a few chords along the way, although any attempt to string these together into some sort of recognisable song was usually met with bewilderment from friends and family. A pre-midlife crisis purchase of another acoustic guitar was made, with a lesser ambition of not selling out stadiums, but being able to strum a few songs by a campfire, until I realised everyone thinks that guy is a massive twat. I even downsized to a ukulele to try and solve the “tiny sausage hands” problem, and despite picking up some tips and songs from the awesomely named website Uke Hunt (http://ukulelehunt.com), one of the kids “borrowed” it and now I’m never getting it back.

The latest acoustic guitar still sits in the corner of the bedroom today, tempting me into one more strum of glory (maybe I should have phrased that better). Now that fame and fortune is unlikely, and the whole sex and drugs and booze lifestyle just makes me tired thinking about it, my original motivation has gone. Maybe, just being able to play one good, recognisable song would have some kudos? Now, where did I leave my plectrum, leather trousers and headband?