Oh no—it finally happened! Now the big question: How long before my verve for guitar recovers from Covid?
This past Sunday I awoke to a very un-Sunday sensation. Hovering on the edge of consciousness, as yet still incapable of contemplating what Sunday mornings are for (lounging in bed till coffee’s made and lunch plans are set, of course!), I was suddenly struck by a godawful stench. As one does, I wrinkled up my nose, lifted my head to look around in disgust, and took a couple more sniffs to see if … I don’t know—maybe I’d dreamt it? Or woke up incontinent? Then I tasted the putrescence. Then … nothing.
Fuuuuuuuck.
Given that my wife hadn’t mentioned the unspeakably rank odor, I concluded I’d woken in time to witness the neurological flashpoint at which my olfactory system officially snuffed it. See, it was day four of what had been, until then, a pretty tame Covid infection—my first and only to date, as far as I know (thank you, vax scientists!). I’d been feeling drained, achy all over, and had a slightly sore throat and ears. But until then I’d never experienced the strangeness of eating without tasting. Just to be sure, I scrambled for the nightstand, threw three mini Altoids in my mouth, and groaned. No minty sting. No tingle. Just three flavorless little chalk blocks floating around my infected maw.
Since then, I’ve been contemplating the futility of consumption. Coffee tastes like water tastes like whiskey. Minus the burn of alc-e-hol. (Not that one drinks these things for interchangeable reasons.) Putting food in my face has become about two things: staving off hunger pains and storing up enough nourishment to recover ASAP.
Sometimes when I pick up my guitar, I have the same feeling. This song is in a different key and a different tempo, with a different pickup selected and maybe a different stompbox combo. But no, it still sounds like boring ol’ me.
Then something miraculous happened: In the wee hours that night … or maybe the next, who can keep track? … I found my stomach wrenching for lack of grub and went down for a quick bowl of my favorite cereal—Raisin Nut Bran. As I chomped down on the first mouthful, I was elated to find I could taste again.
Only I couldn’t. My mouth felt the sloshing of refreshingly cold milk, the bran flakes’ crisp, rough texture, the chewiness of the yogurt-covered raisins, and for a split second my brain made the final leap. Of course the sweet, nutty taste was there too!
Alas, no. Out of sheer habit, my mind wantedto join in with flavor party favors. But the bowl’s contents could’ve tasted like sardines and rats for all my mouth truly knew.
Sometimes when I pick up my guitar, I have the same feeling. This song is in a different key and a different tempo, with a different pickup selected and maybe a different stompbox combo. But no, it still sounds like boring ol’ me. Maybe if I grab a different guitar and/or plug into a different amp. Nope, still me. How. Lame.
I’m certain I’m not the only one who feels this with regard to my playing. We all go through it. Covid or not, we just have to keep reminding ourselves that, for whatever reason, I might not be feeling it right now, but I do know how to make a good cup of coffee, I do know the difference between bilge and potable water, and I certainly know Skrewball is a delightfully tasty, if ridiculously sweet whiskey. Likewise, I do know some cool chords, and I do have a feel for rhythms and melodies that are kind of neat. My palate for them may be lacking at the moment, but it will return sooner or later. In the meantime, keep the nutrients coming and the guitars twanging.
You can stare at the Mona Lisa and just feel its power, or you can wonder why she doesn’t have eyebrows and miss the experience.
If you’re constantly getting lost in the details, you might miss out on the enjoyment of things.
Life is like an Impressionist painting: You look too close and it’s just confusing, blurry blobs of paint, all textured and ugly. Stand back and all those unsettling, seemingly random clumps become Monet’s Water Lilies. That’s why I’m a big picture guy … or at least I try to be.
But I’ve noticed something in myself as well as fellow musicians. We tend to look too closely at music and totally miss the big picture. Por ejemplo, I suspect musicians rarely enjoy live music as much as civilians do. Go to a show with non-players. They bob their heads, sway, bounce, dance, then they start shouting and shaking their fists and applauding like their hands are on fire. We stand there mostly stone-faced, watching and making notes in our heads.
We listen critically while the normals are letting music flow over them like a mighty river of groove and emotion. As I write this, I just remembered a college class I took called “Critical Listening,” where the prof put on records and we talked about what we didn’t like about them. (How stupid is college, right?) Maybe I chose the class because it sounded like an easy “A,” but the fact is, musicians do listen critically. I would much rather play music for the normals than for our nerd herd any day.
Ever notice that when another guitar player watches you play, they’ll say, “nice tone” or “cool 335,” but they rarely say anything about the actual notes? I think we musicians tend to be a bit socially awkward by nature, but this is beyond that. I suspect guitar players get caught up focusing on the details and miss the performance.
When I listen, I find myself tracking the groove, wondering if they’re rushing or if my internal clock is dragging. Or I’m counting and subdividing the beat or trying to guess how a guitar part is being played. If it’s a live show, I’m critiquing the mix and studying gear and comparing tones of different instruments. Joe and Jan 12-Pack sitting next to me can’t tell and don’t care if they’re hearing a Les Paul or a Strat—they’re too busy connecting to the Universe through music. Meanwhile, we guitar nerds are wondering what kind of overdrive pedal the guitar player is using.
I know every inch of my main guitars. I love them about as much as one can love an inanimate object without being creepy.
I wasn’t always this way. From 4th grade through 9th, I played in the school orchestra. I loved music but had no real feelings for my personal instrument. Although I played it five days a week, I’m not sure I could’ve picked my violin out of a lineup of 25 violins. It was just a tool for music that I had to be careful with because my parents would be pissed if I broke it.
Now I know every inch of my main guitars. I love them about as much as one can love an inanimate object without being creepy. I’m not as deeply invested emotionally with my amps, pedals, etc., but I waste even more time on them. I’ll have a night open where I’m just going to play guitar but instead spend hours just swapping pedals or tweaking my amp and auditioning different gear rather than actually playing.
These lost evenings are rarely satisfying. Whatever pedal/amp combination I settle on at 1 a.m. never sounds as good to me the next day at the gig. If I’m not actively tweaking my amp and pedals, I’m wondering if I should be. I catch myself on these late-night tone-quest obsessions and I try to talk myself down, thinking “this is ridiculous, just stop, go to bed.” But then I lie down, close my eyes and imagine myself changing pickups in a guitar. My obsessions seem a tad crazy. However, the fact that you’re reading a guitar rag suggests you can relate. Passion makes life worth living, but obsessions aren’t fun. They’re a compulsive preoccupation.
Examine anything critically and you’ll see what’s wrong with it. You can stare at da Vinci’s Mona Lisa and feel its power, or you can wonder why she doesn’t have eyebrows and miss the real experience. Similarly, you can listen to Jimmy Page’s isolated guitar track from “Ramble On” and shake your head at the timing and intonation or you can crank up the full song and be transported to a different world.
I’ve been trying to apply a “Big Picture” mindset to everything. When I look at my life too closely, at times it can easily be mistaken for a train wreck. But when I pull back, I see how all the jagged pieces of this beautiful catastrophe fit together perfectly even as they’re falling apart. It’s miraculous. Focus on the minutia, and you’re missing the best part.