sludgos Mile Markers: Mile 227

I was thirteen. Over at my friend Rick’s house. Hanging with him and his ultra-cool older brother Nick in their basement on a lazy autumn sludgoville Saturday afternoon. We were playing foosball—two against one—when their mom decided it was snack time. Brought down three frosty bottles of Nesbitt’s orange soda and a serving-tray heaped with a pile of gooey Velveeta nachos nestled next to a blue Tupperware bowl filled with fresh homemade garden salsa. Spread everything out on the coffee table in front of the couch and we eagerly took our seats, attacking the munchables like ravenous badgers. Somewhere in the mix Nick had eaten his fill and casually got up from the couch and moseyed over to the closet. Opened it and pulled out a long, slender black case and a short, square black amplifier. Lickety-split he’d plugged the amp into the wall outlet and opened the case and there it was, an electric guitar—a purple metallic Flying V knockoff with a matching purple metallic headstock. He lifted it reverently from the case and put it on, adjusting its worn leather strap snugly around his back and left shoulder. Then he reached into the case again and pulled out a long curly cord. Popped one end of it into the amp and the other into the guitar then flipped a switch on top of the amp and it crackled to life. My world was about to change forever.

Now, I’d seen and heard electric guitars before of course, but never one up close and personal. It was always on TV, like when the Rolling Stones were on the Ed Sullivan show or when Roy Clark cut loose on Hee-Haw or when Mike Nesmith pretended to pick that big Gretsch twelve-string on The Monkees. Like most kids back then I thought guitars were cool but I’d never taken any serious interest in playing one. We didn’t have one around the house so if I’d’ve wanted one I’d’ve had to buy it myself and even the cheapest ones were out of reach for a kid earning minimum wage working part-time as a carryout at the Red Owl. So I hadn’t really given much thought to the idea. But then fate came along and took the wheel.

I watched closely as Nick twiddled with the knobs on the amp and then the knobs on the guitar and then the knobs on the amp again and when he was at last satisfied with all that twiddling he took a dramatic step into the center of the room. Cranked the volume knob on the guitar to eleven and proceeded to blast out a familiar progression of thundering, window-rattling power chords, letting the last one decay until it rapidly returned in a glorious coda of screeching feedback.

“Hey sludge!” he yelled over the din, “Can you name that tune?”

I sure could. Anyone alive in 1974 would’ve been able to. But I didn’t answer him right away because I couldn’t answer him right away. Was completely dumbfounded by the incredible sound I’d just heard—a true siren’s song. I was awestruck by its intensity. Its vigor. Its power. It had hit me like an exquisitely delivered punch to the gut. My ears were ringing and my heart was pounding and I had goosebumps on my goosebumps and I’d suddenly forgotten all about nachos and Nesbitt’s.

I tried to gather myself quickly. “Smoke on the Water by Deep Purple!!” I barked as soon as I was able and Nick gave me a big grin in return. Tossed me a thumbs-up and a congratulatory cheer and by then the hook had been set. I raised a curious eyebrow.

“Say Nick, if I somehow got a guitar could you teach me that?”

He laughed. Deftly hammered out five or six more nasty chords that sounded like Zeppelin then leaned forward and reached down and switched off the amp. Unstrapped himself from the guitar and carefully rested it against the foosball table then walked back to the closet and pulled out a much bigger, beaten and battered and torn tweed-covered case. Brought it over and sat it next to me on the couch. Snicked open the latches and lifted the lid to reveal an ancient, scratched and scuffed and bruised acoustic guitar. Told me I could have it if I wanted because he hardly ever played it anymore. Said it wasn’t anything special, just a no-name flat-top he’d bought for fifteen bucks at Swenson’s Pawn, but the neck was straight and it played pretty well and would work great for me as a student’s guitar.

My eyes snapped open wide. Couldn’t believe my good fortune. Started to thank him but he cut me off with another surprise. Told me he’d be willing to give me some lessons to teach me a few basic licks and tricks of the trade. Said we could meet once a week for half-hour at two dollars per lesson, cash-on-the-barrelhead. Then he stiffened. Told me he didn’t want to be wasting his time. That as soon as he thought I wasn’t taking the lessons seriously that would be the end of them and he’d want the guitar back.

“Fair enough,” I said with a grateful nod. My lifelong love affair with the guitar had begun.

Last night after dinner I was continuing said affair, sitting in my studio practicing some tricky jazz lines on my bestest hollow-body electric when I heard the front doorbell ring. Went into the foyer and saw through the screen-door that it was my newish three-houses-down neighbor, Ed, and his tweenaged son, Lance. I’d met them both a few months back when they were moving into the neighborhood and I’d seen Ed trailering-in a sweet cherry red TR250. I’d hustled down the block to introduce myself and take a closer look at his Triumph and since then we’d become kindasorta friends but I was still surprised to see him and Lance at the door.

I greeted them with a wave and swung open the screen then joined them out on the stoop. Asked what was up and Ed said Lance had something he wanted to ask me. He gave Lance a nudge and Lance cleared his throat. Looked at me and told me in a quiet but steady voice that he always passed by the house on his way home from school and a few times he’d heard me playing guitar and thought I sounded pretty good. Said he’d been wanting to learn how to play one for a while and his dad had recently agreed to rent him a beginner’s guitar from GuitarVille so he was wondering if I’d be willing to give him some lessons to get him started.

I chuckled at the ask. Remembered Nick immediately. Gave Lance a big smile and told him I’d be happy to. Said it’d be fun for us both. That we could meet once a week for half-hour at two dollars per lesson, cash-on-the-barrelhead. He grinned at me ear-to-ear and we set a regular time to meet then he thanked me and shook my hand. Turned to leave but I stopped him and asked if he had any particular song he’d like to work on first.

“Well,” he said shyly, “do you know Smoke on the Water?”