Testosterone. The room in the Art Building reeked of it. For a moment, I felt like doing a quick armpit check to see if any was coming from me. There we were, 15 guys in various poses, loosely holding our guitars with what we hoped was professional nonchalance, ready for our first lesson of Intermediate Blues.
One guy leaned back so he could put his feet on the table, even though it's hard to play in that position--especially when you're trying to learn new chords. Another blistered through a lead run high on the fret board. It was impressive the first day. Each week, it became less so. He was one of several who knew a few chords really well and who played them even when the instructor was trying to teach something new.
It was my first Experimental College course. For years, I've read the EC offerings and fantasized about mastering yoga or rock climbing or fire walking. I always circle a few of the listings. But then the quarter gets rolling, and I never seem to register in time. Finally, however, I decided to walk over to the Silo, write a check and improve my life.
I've had a guitar for a decade, and although I noodle with it, I've never been any good. Friends, seeing it in my apartment, urge me to play, and I have to decline, hoping they'll mistake incompetence for modesty. I was counting on the EC to end those embarrassing moments.
This was my second attempt at "formal" music training. In third grade, I took piano lessons. Well, technically, they were "keyboard" lessons. We didn't have a piano; we had an organ. In fact, we had two.
When my mother went to buy a piano, she was ambushed by the Wur-litzer salesman and seduced by the set of One Touch Rumba/Salsa/Rock/Jazz/Bossa Nova buttons that put full percussion at the player's fingertips. Several weeks later, our family won a contest sponsored by a cat food company; the prize was another organ.
I was the family member chosen to learn to master these behemoths, so every Wednesday I trudged down to the music store where a gray-haired woman listened to me stumble through simple tunes. I had mastered "B-flat Boogie" when I begged my parents to let me quit. There was something sordid about handing this old lady $3 in an unmarked white envelope after an hour filled with anxiety and guilt.
Now, 20 years later, I was back in music class. This time, however, I kept up with the lessons. After a day in Shields library, I found it relaxing to run through scales. Apparently, most of my classmates didn't feel the same. Only eight of us came the third week.
By the last class, there were only four of us.
If forced, I can now play some simplified blues. I'm even planning on taking another class. That way if this whole Ph.D. thing doesn't work out, I can head to Europe, open my guitar case and rely on the kindness of strangers. I'm not good enough for people to actually stop and listen, so I don't need much of a repertoire. The songs I learned in class should be enough, supplemented, of course, with old classics like "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" and "B-flat Boogie."
-- Joseph Mills, Ph.D. '98
