Guy once dropped by my high school — a bastion of upper-class privilege, with the exception of a few working-class kids like me who were there on scholarship — and played a surprise free concert during what was supposed to be a lunch assembly.
Looking back, I think he probably did it just for the ironic kick of bringing authentic blues into a place where it seemed least likely to register.
But that day was the main reason I picked up a guitar when I was fourteen, just to try to make sounds like that with my own confused fingers. Thirty years later, I’ve never come even close. But it’s still a frequent source of joy and some happy frustration, and my futility has given me even more respect for those who can.
You know what music I’ll have on for the rest of the day.