
In the interest of science, go to a live show and see if you feel connected to your fellow fist-pumpers when the chorus kicks in.
Playing guitar in solitude is bliss, but for some of us, making music in public requires impersonating an extrovert.
Crowds energize extroverts. I find them draining. My favorite social evening plans are canceled social evening plans. When the pandemic hit, my first thought was: “Limited human contact. Sounds great! Wouldn’t it be wonderful if I never had to shake hands again?”
Don’t get me wrong, I love people. It’s not that I don’t want to be around people. It’s just that I’m best in small portions. I can be charming and fun for an hour at best. In short, I’m an introvert. After my expiration date, nobody wants me around.
So, it seems odd that I work primarily in public. Concerts are full of extroverts feeding off the energy of others. It’s like they’re in tune with the magic of quantum physics—all their subatomic particles swirl together uniting them on a spiritual and molecular level. It’s beautiful, and I want that so much … but I just want it from a distance. Like, I’m onstage and the crowd is in front of me, and there’s a barrier, and maybe even bodyguards, separating us. I want to be part of it, but with nothing touching me.
When other kids were doing normal teen stuff like hanging out together, I wanted to run home and hang out with my guitar. The heart wants what it wants.
By virtue of the fact that I’m at a show, the crowd assumes I’m of the same extroverted tribe. I see them after a show, and they want to talk or hug or engage, while I want to run away, all the while fearing I’ll offend or hurt others by not joining them. I see myself in group photos after gigs, everybody with big, warm smiles while my teeth are clenched in a poor imitation of a smile and my eyes look a bit panicky.
I’ve heard there are two types of musicians: introverts and overcompensating introverts who are trying to pass as extroverts. Each of you, dear musician readers, voluntarily spent a disproportionate part of your youth alone in your room with an instrument. Teen brains are addicted to dopamine. Most teens get their biggest hit from social interactions, but for some reason, we chose to get our natural high from music. When other kids were doing normal teen stuff like hanging out together, I wanted to run home and hang out with my guitar. The heart wants what it wants.
I love playing music alone. That’s when I grow. That’s when new musical information becomes part of me, and my playing is the most interesting. It’s a brilliant, somewhat sadistic trick that the coolest stuff you’ll ever play will never be heard by anyone but yourself when you’re playing alone, unrecorded, unobserved. We’ve all been playing alone and thought, “Dang, I wish the world could hear this. I really can make music. Alas, there’s still no evidence.” Then the spell is broken, and we’re back to being just us, observed in our average state.
That said, as gratifying as it is to make music alone, making music with people feels a different kind of amazing, and once you get a hit of that, you’ll want more. The hippie in me thinks that it’s a Nik Tesla thing of resonance where we literally connect through those vibrating strings. (For more hippie pseudo-science, read my column “Vibing the Divine.”)
It’s a brilliant, somewhat sadistic trick that the coolest stuff you’ll ever play will never be heard by anyone but yourself when you’re playing alone, unrecorded, unobserved.
I’ve no doubt that people watching music being made do feel this energy, allowing them to connect to the music makers and beyond. If you doubt this, go to a Fairfield Four concert. In the interest of science and to rule out an act of God’s influence, go to an AC/DC show and you’ll feel connected to every fist-pumper in the place when the chorus of “Hells Bells” kicks in.
That’s the dilemma: Musicians need the public, the public feeds off live music, but often musicians are not comfortable around people. Thank goodness for lead singers. If you’re driven to be in front of an audience with a live mic, on some level, you probably crave attention. Front people are more eager to socialize, giving the rest of the band plenty of room to hide behind our instruments onstage and disappear after the show while the singer hangs out and talks.
I can’t find scientific evidence to back this up, but I see it in myself and in musicians I know, as well as celebrity musicians who come across as standoffish or arrogant. I suspect many of them are introverts on display, and that does not bring out the best in people.
Personality traits are not set in stone. We all have the capacity for adapting. If you’re an introvert musician who must hang in a crowd, just try to psych yourself up, paste on a smile, and impersonate an extrovert. Sometimes it’s not horrible and your brain will rewire itself a bit, making it easier to do next time. Then run home and play your guitar alone in your room.
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There’s so much more that goes into building a pedal—but you do need to get your workstation in order first.
Think that price tag on that pedal is a bit high? There’s a lot more that goes into it than just what’s in the box.
The inspiration for this topic comes from a recent video published by JHS Pedals. The video consists of Josh Scott giving an honest breakdown and rebuttal to a video posted to YouTube by John Nathan Cordy. In Cordy’s clip, he disassembles a JHS pedal while asking if the general consumer is getting “ripped off” because the cost of the parts isn’t very exorbitant. (Cordy later issued an apology.) I’ve often lived by the motto, “You’re not paying for the parts; you’re paying for how they’re put together.” So, what goes into making a pedal, and are they overpriced? There’s a lot to cover, so let’s dig in.
It can be easy for a consumer to get bogged down by the cost of the end product in relation to the value of raw materials. This is made even more evident given that we have access to the value of the raw materials. A quick web search for a Fuzz Face schematic, followed by some research on where to purchase those components, along with their value, might leave you scratching your head as to why a boutique manufacturer might be selling a Fuzz Face-style pedal for $199 and up. I’d immediately point out that your head isn’t the only thing that we’ve scratched in this example—we’ve only scratched the surface of the cost.
Let’s say I’m a contractor, and you want me to put up a fence on your property, and I buy $100 worth of wood and nails and put it up in 10 hours. Is that job worth $100? No. I don’t think anyone reading this would think that. People understand costs when they go past the tangible. We’re talking about labor. The very thing that employees are reimbursed for. That’s still not the aspect that I think the common consumer struggles to grasp. I think that they have a disconnect when it comes to the ancillary. In this example, it would be the cost of the tools, the insurance and fuel for the work truck, and the advertising cost for the page where you found the contractor in the first place. Let’s bring this back to pedals and unpack this a little bit more.
I’m going to attempt to outline bringing a pedal to life, from the inception of the idea to the selling of the final product—all while trying to expose the costs that I think people forget or simply don’t know about. I feel like a magician right now. “I’m going to attempt to make 15 buses appear on this skyscraper. All while hanging upside down and blindfolded.” Anyway, let’s give it a try.
“You’re not paying for the parts; you’re paying for how they’re put together.”
We know that the cost of the parts for a fuzz pedal is on the low side. Residing here in America (and for me in New England), we know that labor costs are on the higher side. But let’s keep digging up and exposing those forgotten or unknown running costs. After the idea of making the product, it starts with having the space to design and work on it. That would be rent, business insurance, liability insurance if there are employees, and common utilities bills. You need a bench to work at with adequate lighting, storage for the parts, and the parts themselves. These parts are only in our possession after hours of research on which parts we want to use. This includes specs like tolerance, material construction, component size, lead pitch, voltage ratings, and so on. But let’s not jump the gun. We need to order a variety of parts so that we can assemble the circuit on a breadboard, test it, make changes and additions, and record the results onto a schematic. That is, of course, after we purchase and learn how to work on a breadboard, and connect it to an instrument and amplifier. Then we need to learn how to read and write in the language that is electronics schematics. This is something that 95 percent of pedalbuilders learn on their own. So there’s no formal education cost here, but it’s hours and hours of learning.
Let’s say we’ve made it this far and we know what we want to use in the fuzz circuit. Next, we order the parts (most likely from several suppliers and pay separate shipping costs for all). Once they arrive, we stock them in their appropriate locations. Now we’ve arrived at a big step: turning what we have on the breadboard and schematic into a circuit board that mates with an enclosure. Oh, dear!
Join me for part two as I break down the next steps in this journey from idea to final product—and final price.
There’s no disputing the influence B.B. King has had on the history of electric guitar music. We’re talking about his sound, his best records, his guitars, his showmanship, and his collabs, from an all-star jam at the 2010 Crossroads festival to, yes, even his 1988 U2 collab, “When Love Comes to Town.”
There’s no disputing the influence B.B. King has had on the history of electric guitar music.
With Lucille in hand—as well as other guitars—he carved out his sound by developing a signature one-of-a-kind vibrato and pick attack. His note choice, phrasing, and feel have basically become the fundamental vocabulary of electric blues. Even more than any other of his blues peers, his playing shaped blues and rock guitar. And that’s not to mention his singing.
So, on this episode of 100 Guitarists, we’re celebrating the King. We’re talking about his sound, his best records, his guitars, his showmanship, and his collabs, from an all-star jam at the 2010 Crossroads festival to, yes, even his 1988 U2 collab, “When Love Comes to Town.”
In our current listening segment, we’re talking about Brian John McBrearty’s recent meditation-jazz release Remembering Repeating and Julian Lage’s latest, Apple Music Nashville Sessions.
This episode is sponsored by Gibson.
Tighten up your rhythm playing by focusing on how to get a great sound, balancing your wrist and elbow, and understanding how to subdivide rhythms.
Nile Rodgers brings the rhythm at Bonnaroo 2018.
How the rhythm-playing hitmaker behind Chic—and our columnist—learned to love pop music, and why maybe you should, too.
When Nile Rodgers speaks, we should listen. His seminal work with his own band, Chic, as well as Sister Sledge, Michael Jackson, Mick Jagger, Eric Clapton, Peter Gabriel, Madonna, David Bowie, and Daft Punk, has made him a legend. He also filmed an entertaining Rig Rundown with PG just last year.
I recently listened to his 2017 South by Southwest address, where he told a story about a formative moment in his life. Nile was complaining to his guitar teacher, Ted Dunbar, about having to sing the Archies’ “Sugar, Sugar”at an upcoming cover band gig. Dunbar replied, “Let me tell you something. Any song that sells and gets to the Top 40 ... is a great composition.” Rodgers was skeptical. Then Dunbar added, “Especially ‘Sugar, Sugar.’ That has been No. 1 for four or five weeks.” Next, Dunbar said something that changed Rodger’s life. “‘Sugar, Sugar’ was successful,” he said, “because it speaks to the souls of a million strangers.” Rodgers noted: “Two weeks later, I wrote a song called ‘Everybody Dance.’” Released in 1977, it was a Top 40 single on Chic's first album.
In a BBC This Cultural Life interview, Rodgers said that Dunbar “described an artist to me. I wasn’t an artist until he defined that. I wanted to speak to the souls of a million strangers, but I thought what I wanted to do was speak to some real cool people hanging out in jazz clubs.”
“Everybody Dance” and “Sugar, Sugar”both have hypnotizingly simple lyrics you inevitably replay in your head. Humans like chants, cheers, slogans, and catchy choruses. Rodgers' success came, at least in part, from opening himself up to simplicity that appeals to the masses instead of the complexity that appeals to jazzers. That’s the irony. Jazz, which ostensibly is all about freedom, is often restrictive. Like the old joke goes, jazzers play millions of chords for four people. Pop, rock, and country artists play four chords for millions of people.
Rodgers said, “That's what my teacher taught me, that anti-snobbery. Be open. Love all the music you are around, or at least try and appreciate what that artist is trying to say. Try and have, what we call in the music business, big ears.”
My friends and I have all, at times, been music snobs. I went through a blues binge in my youth where I was prejudiced against shredders. This was not uncommon at the time. After Nirvana hit with Nevermind in 1991, suddenly musicians were openly mocked for playing complex, difficult parts. It was almost like if you cared enough to really learn to play guitar, you were uncool. That was a big relief for me, as I could play neither complex nor difficult parts at the time.
“Taylor Swift is the Beatles of my daughter’s generation.”
Later, when I moved to Nashville, I was all about clean Telecasters and thought ill of music with lots of dirt or effects. Younger me would have plenty of condescending quips about my current love of overdriven humbuckers and delay. Most of my snobbery was driven by my deep insecurities, but part of it was tribalism. The heart wants what it wants; when you find your musical tribe, most of the young zealots trade all others for their one true religion. It might be the only way to get good at something.
On the other hand, my friends and I listen to a variety of music, but the common factor is it usually involves good guitar playing. We love what we love because it speaks to our souls. But most guitar players are drawn to those who are doing what we wish we could do. My uncle Fred used to say, “There’s nothing wrong with being a snob. It just means that you have good taste.”
Between club dates, sessions, and the occasional TV gig, I play with tons of people. I have no say in the set list, so “Sugar, Sugar” moments are unavoidable. I used to feel deep shame playing those types of songs, like it reflects poorly on my personal taste or abilities. In short, I was prejudiced until I saw all of the true pros who could find something beautiful, challenging in the seemingly mundane. It’s like the old actor’s adage: There are no small parts, just small players.
According to Forbes, Taylor Swift was “The Biggest Artist in the World in 2023.” That being the case, her songs inevitably come up on cover gigs. When this happens, some musicians might groan, like it makes them cool to hate on pop culture. But that’s probably because they don't really know her work. Taylor Swift is my 8-year-old daughter’s Alexa go-to, so I know Taylor’s catalog really well. Turns out, it’s amazing, full of truly catchy, engaging, touching songs. Taylor Swift is the Beatles of my daughter’s generation. Snobs will think that statement is heresy, but snobs often don’t know what they are talking about, and they never have as much fun as the people who are dancing violently to “Shake It Off,” or singing with eyes closed to “All Too Well.”