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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Jams (Not the kind you eat on dinner rolls) blog
