My dad always had stringed instruments around the house. He and my mom used to play guitar. Classical, of course. He got carpal tunnel syndrome (when it was called that) way back in the 80s and wasn't so good with stringed instruments anymore.
We both tried to learn to play the banjo. Of course, I was eight, so I wasn't so good, but at least I learned some fingerpicking technique that has served me well for quite a few years.
I eventually got around to picking up the classical guitar a few times and wrestling out a staccato version of Stairway to Heaven that people still laugh at.
But when did I first get to touch an electric guitar?
That, I'm afraid, is a Kuru anecdote.
It was roughly during the Nazi Occupied / Fetus Eater period that I spent the occasional afternoon in Jay's basement watching what was to become the Pantheon of Nepean Death Metal form embryonic masses.
Jay had Fenders coming out of his ears -- even a bass, and amps galore, which made up most of his furniture in that section of the gigantic finished basement. Of course, I was eager to touch one... to try and play...
Perhaps it's just me, but when you first pick up an electric guitar, and you pick that first cutting note, isn't there that little leap of spirit that makes you more alive as a person?
Yeah, well I felt it.
In fact, I diddled out a half-assed version of the Power Rangers theme on the high E string. Everyone was suitably impressed.
I spent a lot of time loving Jay's guitars.
Then I got my own.
I still love his, but just in a friendly way now.
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