I went to my local Guitar Center to buy some guitar strings. There was a guitar playing competition taking place when I walked in. It made me sad to see it. I was instantly depressed. The competitors were playing to pre-recorded music and soloing over it. It was terrible. The music was reminiscent of devil fusion of the Kenny G variety. A twenty-one year old kid played. He was losing his hair, then another kid got up and played with his back turned to the audience. There was a bunch of old people watching. It reminded of a RV convention. There was a MC announcing the contestants. I felt like I was at strip club for guitar players.
I made my way to the Martin guitars. I picked up the most expensive one to have a moment alone with. I had just sat down and started to play when a man that looked like Mickey Rooney walked in. He was older, shorter man, gray at the temples.
“I’ll be quiet,” he said.
“Why are you going to be quiet?” I asked.
He didn’t answer. He had picked up a guitar and started to play. I noticed right off that he couldn’t play a lick. He didn’t have any rhythm, or talent. I tried to play something musical to his herky-jerky strumming, but no matter what I tried it didn’t work.
“That’s Layla,” he said to me.
“Oh.”
“Yeah, it’s D minor, B flat, to C.”
It didn’t sound like Layla to me, it sounded like part of Layla, but the man insisted on teaching it to me anyways. I tried to learn it to somehow pacify him. It seemed ironic that I was taking a lesson from the worst guitar player in the world. That’s the beauty of music, you don’t need much to teach.
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