On my 16th birthday, I did two things. I got my car and motorcycle driver’s license and I got a job bagging groceries at Albertson’s supermarket.

This was about the same time I began to realize that classical guitar is not a big thriller at normal parties attended by normal people. People don’t hold aloft their lighters and demand to hear a hit song form 1584. People would pluck out some lame, three-chord song by Foreigner and others would sing, smile, clap and call for more. I would play Greensleeves beautifully and there would be no sounds other than crickets chirping and tumbleweeds blowing by.

As I got to know one of the checkers (cashiers) at Albertson’s, Joe Maki, I learned that Joe was a guitar player. I would go to his renovated garage apartment and listen to him put on an album and play lead guitar along with the song. That was cool. That gets girls. That is what I thought I wanted to do. I wanted an amplifier. I wanted rock music. I wanted to be a crowd pleaser.

I talked to Joe about this. He suggested that I get an electric guitar and start going with it. It turned out that he had one he was willing to sell. We discussed it a bit further and I ended up purchasing a beautiful Ibanez guitar that was a shameless ripoff of a Gibson Les Paul Sunburst. This was my first electric guitar. Here she is:

20 years later (and 30 years after manufacture), she is still in beautiful condition. All original turning heads, knobs, pickups, etc. Everything is just as she was when Joe let the Old Lady go for $220. The only thing that has changed is that she was rewired a few months ago to replace some old wires. I wonder if Joe misses her. I never would have parted with this great guitar. I know Joe regrets selling her, because he told me so a few years later. I just wonder how much he misses her.

I was now armed with an electric guitar. I bought a $30 Gorilla amp to complete my electric set up. There were a few problems. Joe could play by ear. I couldn’t. I could not just listen to something and figure out how to play it. I had been classically trained and sat through years of musical theory. I was locked into the rigidity of classical music. Also, I had no music.

I solved the musical problem by going out and buying some sheet music for songs from Toto, ELO, Chris De Burgh, and others. However, I lacked someone to show me what to do. I lacked guidance. Thus, I became frustrated with the world of electric guitar. I didn’t play nearly as much as I could have or should have.

I was torn between two worlds, classical and rock. My classical guitar was suffering because I was distracted, and my rock guitar wasn’t doing anything at all becuase I had no idea what I was doing.

As I neared my 17th birthday, I was in a good situation. I was working full time as an overnight DJ at KVNU/KVFM radio stations. One of the perks we got from the station was free movies at a local theater chain. My best friend, Bill Hugo, worked as a ticket taker/projectionist at the same movie theater chain and also got free movies. Thus, it was free movies every day. It wasn’t too long before I met the other ticket taker/projectionist, Carl Hart. Little did I know the impact that meeting would have on all aspects of my life.

Carl was sharp, witty, intelligent, sarcastic, and great fun to be around. One day, i got a good look at his hands and was struck by his immaculate fingernails. That was the first hint that he was a guitar player. The second inkling I had that Carl was a guitar player was when a solid brass guitar pick fell out of his pocket at the theater one day.

Soon, I was over at Carl’s house. Looking at his beautiful vintage tweed tube amp and hearing the sweet distorted sounds and the cool, smooth clean sounds produced by that amp. I was intrigued at the loud, sharp sounds produced by the brass pick. After listening to Carl hammer out a few tunes, he suggested that we listened to some other music.

Carl introduced me to the new sounds of an unknown group called the Replacements and some no-name group called REM. Both bands would hit it big several years later and they would both sell their unique alternative styles for mass popularity and big dollars. After listening to this music for a couple of hours he suggested listening to something that he said was “a bit more wild.”

Then it happened. He put in a tape of a very old recording of something. The music had an unusual guitar rhythm, a driving, rousing harmonica, and some guy hollering, wailing, hooting and making other unusual noises between singing and playing the harmonica. I was instantly spellbound. I had never heard anything like that. Something was moving in me. I couldn’t sit still. I want to know what was and what they were doing.

“What the hell is that,” I asked. Carl said, “that is Sonny Terry on “Whoopin’ The Blues.”

The rest is history.

I left his house with tapes of Blind Lemon Jefferson, Robert Johnson, Sonny Terry and Brownie McGhee, and others. I ate it up. This music was talking to me. It was communicating with my soul. I wanted more. I wanted to play that.

Talking more with Carl, I learned that he played blues guitar. He invited me to bring my guitar over to his place for some instruction.

We sat down for a few sessions of learning the basic blues scales and some shuffles Carl had scratched out on a piece of paper.

That was also the year that the movie “Crossroads” came out. I was enthralled with the soundtrack, through which I was introduced to Steve Vai and Ry Cooder.

I was definitely taken with the blues. The blues had got a hold on me. The raw emotional sounds of the blues, the freedom of movement and meter in the music were awesome and new to me.

Because of my strict piano and guitar training, the years and years of listening to metronomes tick off the beats, and the proddings of “COUNT! COUNT!” from my teachers made me totally unready and unable to deal with playing from my heart, playing what I felt, toying with notes and time signatures, and other beautiful aspects of the blues. I couldn’t play the blues, but I knew that I couldn’t play classical guitar anymore. My heart just wasn’t into it any longer.

I quit taking guitar lessons and started looking for more blues. At that time, there was precious little going on in the world of blues. Old recordings weren’t available, and about the only current blues music available in Logan, Utah was Stevie Ray Vaughn and a few Johnny Winter records. I listened to what I could.

On a side note, Carl and I would have wide-ranging discussions on a huge variety of subjects. At one point, Carl went down with appendicitis, I rode my motorcycle to the hospital to visit him. During that lengthy visit, we got talking about something that led him to comment on my motorcycle and then to recommend that I read a book called “Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance” by Robert Pirsig.

Not having anything else to read at that time, i bought the book. I couldn’t put it down. It hooked me. It was truly a life-changing book for me. Not only did it cause me look at life a little differently. but also, because of that book, I decided to major in philosophy at university.

As another year rolled around I took off, to Korea in 1988 at the age of 19 to spend two years as a missionary, Carl got married during that time and moved away, and we never hooked up again.

Carl Hart is singlehandedly responsible for turning me onto the blues, ruining playing classical guitar, introducing me to a fascinating and life-changing field of study. I am grateful to Carl for all of those things, but in particular for the gift of the blues. If you are ever in the Northern Utah area look for Carl and the rest of The Fender Benders band.

After my return from Korea I met another person that would impact my journey to the blues, Harry Harpoon.

I played classical piano from the time I was six years old until I entered junior high (middle school). I was a good pianist. However, I hated playing the piano. I hated it because I was forced to play it. My mother was the enforcer. There was a mandatory 30-minuted piano practice before I could do anything after school. I couldn’t watch TV, play with friends, eat, read books, ride my bike or do anything at all until I finished my 30-minute forced piano practice.

Like any other normal kid, I rebelled. I fought. I would complain, argue, make excuses, play with the timer to shorten the time, and do anything else I could think of to avoid or shorten the tortuous experience. I tried several times to quit, but mother made it absolutely clear that nothing short of my death or hers would release me from my cultural experience.

When the class schedule came out for 8th grade classes, I saw that there was a new guitar class available. That was my ticket out of piano hell. I didn’t have any particular love for the guitar or interest in playing it, but I had an acute loathing of the piano. At first, my parents rejected the idea. Eventually, though, I was somehow able to persuade them to let me play the guitar instead of the piano. It think it had a lot to do with the fact that my piano teacher for all of those years, Mrs. Rassmussen, had terrible arthritis that was getting so bad that she was planning to move from Utah to Arizona for the warmer weather. Thus, the piano was passed down to my younger sister, never to be touched by my hands again. This came to be one of the great regrets of my life. I wish, now, that I had learned guitar, but also continued with the piano.

Prior to the start of my 8th grade year, dad scoured the classified ads in the local newspaper and found a used guitar for $25. I can’t remember the brand name, but I remember it was basically a pile of junk. How big a pile of junk I didn’t fully appreciate at the time. I would later learn that the nasty curve in the neck came from putting steel string on what turned out to be a classical guitar.

The first song we learned to play in Mrs. Steed’s class was 500 Miles. The year was spent learning Peter Paul and Mary, Beatles, John Denver, and other such songs. The highlight of the year my have been learning “Dust in the Wind” or “Time in a Bottle”.

At some point, the guitar began to grow on me. I pressed dad to let me take lessons outside of school. I’m not sure why, but I felt compelled to study classical guitar. After a bit of a search, we located a teacher that seemed to be OK. His name was Todd Milovich. Todd was a thin, wiry guy with a good head of hair and long fingernails.

As I arrived for my first lesson, Todd took one look at my battered guitar with its bent neck, cracked body, and steel strings with a look of horror and distaste on his face. He very calmly said, “No. This won’t work. You cannot use this guitar.” He went on to explain that everything that could be wrong with it was wrong with it. He explained the basics of the guitar itself to me, including why steel strings on a classical guitar is a VERY bad idea. Ms. Steed had failed to mention that guitars built for steel strings have a steel rod running up the neck to prevent it from bending, and that classical guitars, which are built for soft nylon strings, have no steel bar running up the neck.

A little more pushing and prodding induced dad to lay down $80 for a new, low-end classical guitar. This one had nylon strings.

My time learning from Todd was a joy. He was demanding, yet fun. When he knew that I hadn’t practiced, he didn’t condemn me or berate me. He encouraged me to play more. He would show me something cool and tell me that I had to practice to learn that. His encouragement and instruction over the next few years instilled a love for classical guitar music in me.

One thing he could never do though was to get me to stop tearing off my fingernails. I have always had that nervous habit. I have always struggled with it. I would never have the nails that Todd had. To compensate for the lack of natural nails, I came to know more about Joni artificial nails than any teenage male should ever know.

When I was 15, Todd mentioned that there would be a guitar competition, the Utah Freestyle Guitar Competition, during the coming summer. He suggested that I prepare a piece and enter the competition. The piece he selected was “Piva” written by J.A. Dalza in 1508.

We practiced that song so much and for so long that I can still can remember most of it 20 years later. At the competition, three things startled me. First, while waiting for my turn to perform, I walked the halls and saw Todd with an electric guitar playing back up guitar for one of his other students who was playing “99 Red Balloons” by Nena. That was the first indication I had that Todd could play anything other than classical music.

The second thing that startled me was that the girl who won first place in the classical division for our age group played a piece called “Afro-Cuban Lullaby”. It was an absolutely haunting piece of music. Gorgeous in rhythm and texture. I still want to learn to play that piece of music, but I can’t locate the sheetmusic.

The third thing that startled me was that I ended up taking third place in my division. I was quite pleased with myself.

I owe a great deal to Todd Milovich. He could have been a lousy teacher. He could have done so many things wrong that would have or could have led me to give up the guitar. However, he knew how to teach well. He knew how to reach me. He knew how to encourage me to want to learn. He knew how to make me want to practice more.

The love I have for the guitar comes directly from the teaching and encouragement of Todd Milovich. I haven’t spoken to Todd in about 19 years, but he is one influence on my musical life that I will not forget.

Nevertheless, as I grew older, there was change in the air. Some time around my 17th birthday, something happened. I met someone that would ruin my classical guitar playing forever. That person would probably have the most influence on me musically and personally than anyone else before or since. That person was Carl Hart.

The first song I ever heard by Son House was “Death Letter Blues.” It stopped me cold. That was RAW blues. The yells, the gutteral growling, the grunts, and the flailing away at the guitar struck something deep and primal in my soul.

Country-blues guitarist Paul Rishell recalls the time he met Son House and played with him for three days. Of Son House, Rishell said, “he was a like a feral old man. Very powerful. He had this sort of wild look in his eye, like Charlie Manson. He was scary. Here was a man who carried a gun and had once shot another man through the head . . . I felt like he was on a hairtrigger, too. Like he could spring up from his chair and be on me in a second if he wanted to. He was just such a powerful presence.”

That is a very vivid description and, if one listens to Death Letter Blues, one may feel a little bit of what Paul Rishell felt in the presence of the great Son House.

“Death Letter Blues.” It is a painful song about the death of a woman. Son House recorded several versions of this song. This is the last known recording of the song. To hear the song, right click on this Download Death Letter Blues.mp3 (1873.3K) link and select the “save as” option to save the file to your computer. I urge everyone to purchase the Son House CD “Delta Blues and Spirituals”.

DEATH LETTER BLUES
-Son House

I got a letter this morning. How do you reckon it read?
“Oh, hurry, hurry, gal, you love is dead”
I got a letter this morning. I say, how you all reckon it read?
“Oh, hurry, hurry, Because the gal you love is dead”

I grabbed my suitcase, I took off down the road
When I got there, she was laying on the cooling board
I grabbed my suitcase, I say I took off down the road
I got there, she was laying on the cooling board

Well, I walked up close. I looked down in her face
I say the good old gal got to lay here till Judgment Day
I walked up close, and I looked down in her face
The good old girl’s got to lay here till Judgment Day

You know, I fold up my arms and slowly walked away.
I say, “well, mama, I’ll see you some old day.”
Yeah. Hmmmmm.
You know I went baby. See you on Judgment day.

You know, I didn’t feel so bad, until the Good Lord’s sun went down.
I didn’t have a soul to throw my arms around.
You know, I didn’t feel so bad, until the Good Lord’s sun went down.
I didn’t have a soul to throw my arms around.

Lord have mercy on my weakened soul.
I wouldn’t mistreat you for my weight in gold.
Yeah. Hmmmmm
Hmmm Hmmmm.

I left a little girl with fresh cheeks sitting in the back door crying.
If she don’t go crazy, I believe she’ll lose her mind.
I left a little girl with fresh cheeks sitting in the back door crying.
If she don’t go crazy, I believe she’ll lose her mind.

What is “the blues”?

Blues Pianist Memphis Slim had this to say:

It originated from slavery. That’s my opinion. It came from slavery. When a guy who was a slave wanted to say something that they really couldn’t say that would get them in trouble and they wanted to get back at their boss, they would sing.

The blues ain’t nothin’ but a botheration on your mind.

Blues bass/guitar/harmonica/piano player, singer, writer, and first black producer has this to say:

Well, frankly, the blues is nothing but the feeling when you got a good girl on your mind or something like that. But music has a good way of relaxing your mind against that feeling.

The blues is the roots and other music is the fruits

What is "the blues?"

Blues legend Howlin’ Wolf answered the question this way:

Howlin’ Wolf, a legendary bluesman, is seen in this picture pointing at Son House and getting angry at Son House for getting drunk and interruping Wolf’s performance. Talking about Son House, Howlin’ Wolf said:

See. This man got the blues. That’s where the blues comes from. He done drunk up all of his. I’m telling you like it is, now. You see. You had a chance with your life. But you ain’t done nothing with it! See. You got to have the blues.

We ain’t talking about the women. We’re talking about the life of a human being. Talking about how they live. See. You don’t love but only one thing, and that’s some whisky. You see. This is the blues here. When a man gets scared.

********************

About the blues in general, Wolf went on to say:

You see. A lot of people are wondering, "what is the blues?" I hear a lot of people saying, "the blues…the blues." But I’m going to tell you what the blues is.

When you ain’t got no money, you got the blues. When you ain’t got no money to pay the house rent, you still got the blues. A lot of people holler and say, "I don’t like the blues," but when you ain’t got no money and you can’t pay your house rent, and you can’t buy you no food, you damn sure got the blues.

If you ain’t got no money, you got the blues, because your are thinking evil. Any time you are thinking evil, you are thinking about the blues.

If your getting everything your possess and you don’t need nothing, you don’t have the right to worry about nothing. But when you got nothing, you have got to worry about something. And that’s where the blues come in. You say, "You know, I don’t have this, and I don’t have that." And you look at other people and they’ve got this and that. In your heart you feel like you are nobody. You got the blues.

What is "the blues?"

One of the original bluesmen, Son House, answered the question this way:

"This thing that people call “the blues”… The Blues… B.L.U.E.S. Now you take a youngster, when they first wanted to learn to play the blues, they didn’t know yet what the real blues is. Now, it’s according to what you have in your heart. You can have the blues about your fellow man, your fellow lady, or somebody. You can have it from the heart. Now the blues come according to what you mean.

You know, some people can have the blues so hard they go to the river and jump in and drown themselves. Some kill one another, cut each other’s throat and shoot them. You can do anything with the blues. That’s their trouble. They got the blues! They say, “That woman told me she loved me. Now she’s gone. I’m gonna find her and kill her! Something has got to happen.”