After seeing how much of you like my blogs, I have decided to made a more fun one. So, everybody, I like Waffles.
One time, my dad and I were heading to Guitar Center when we noticed it was closed. We were pissed. Luckily, there was as Waffle House practically in the parking. We sat and enjoyed this mouth orgy, all the while talking about how cool guitars are.
Cool.
This morning, I got back from Tulsa, Oklahoma, slept for an hour, and went to school. I didn't go to school on Monday because my dad and I had to get to OK. We were going to see AC/DC in Tulsa because the tickets in Dallas were way too expensive. So, we spent all day in a truck, riding to see our favorite rock band.
If you have been watching the national weather, Oklahoma is being hit by a freezing rain storm. As soon as we crossed the Red River, we noticed the weather getting worse, watching as the windshield froze before our faces. Eventually, we stopped, scraping off all of the ice in our faces. We ate here and prepared for the hours ahead.
Instead of us getting in Tulsa by 6, we were struggling down the 90 mile turnpike from Oklahoma City. Black ice had long formed on the road, and our ears were held to the radio, Tulsa's local weather station. Our hearts flew when the tires below us gave way, almost sending us down into the highway ditchs like so many others. Whether it was I-44 or the Tulsa Downtown Turnpike, the black ice stopped us from increasing our speed.
When my dad's headlights caught sight of the BOK Center's magnificent blue hue, our hopes raised. It was about 7:20 at this point, and we were lucky enough to find a parking spot on the side of the road. Hurrying up the sidewalk, we made it in and found our seats near the right side of the stage. Soon, the lights went off and The Answer took to the stage. They were good, but when AC/DC showed up, everybody stood up. I watched as my fantasies came true. Brian's nod at everyone's troubles getting there made it all worth while. Black Ice was truly an appropiate name.
Have you ever jammed with one or more musicians, and afterward, as you were packing away your instrument, you thought, "What just happened?" I have, and I'm going to say, times like these don't come easy. It takes love. Love of the instrument; love of your fellows (even if you are superior); and, especially, love of music.
I learned this when my dad and I were jamming this weekend. This wasn't our routine guitar/bass run-throughs, but a serious guitar/drum ballad. I was ultimately bored, so I picked up my Stratocaster and, without thinking, began playing. I thought of my dad leaving for Houston soon, his dad's death in 2005 after Rita, and the ever-increasing, yet non-existing pressure on me by the rest of my family. My mind, at the time, was bothered with my changing opinions on things.
Losing track of what I was doing, my dad walked into the room. He must have heard me as I was playing, myself even forgetting what I was doing. My immidiate thoughts were heated, but not hateful. I felt the rusting strings in my hand again and I remembered that I was preforming. My playing became less soulful and more technical. Then, instead of the hi-hat riddled drumming of my father behind me, came the smooth rimshot mixed with bass drum and light taps on the crash to simulate a ride. It felt amazing. Rounding up my thoughts again, I added technicality to feeling and thrust the tune into a proggresive-blues jam, never getting too fast, though.
I don't know how it ended eventually, but it did. My father passed me and said "That was beautiful, son." From there I knew about music's love. Last night, he called me from Houston. One of the first things he told me was "Ben, you better work with your brother on his drumming so I can take to bass again. And remember what you played the other day, that was damn good," Picking up the guitar now and trying to recreate the magic, I say, "Man, I wish I would have recorded that!"
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Pencil Man's blogs, last updated : July 14, 2009
