This photo was taken a while ago, but I wanted to post it so the world would know that I stood so close to Arlo Guthrie. I was going to describe Arlo as a hero of my younger days, but he never seemed so much like a heroic figure. He always seemed like someone it would be easy to hang around with. In fact he always reminded me of some kind of a composite of a few of my real life friends. I tried to tell him this when we met. I think he appreciated the remark, but our "meeting" actually consisted of a few seconds as he left the stage at a benefit performace at the Palace Theatre in Manchester, NH. I knew one of the organizers and she arranged for me to shake his hand. It turned into that kind of awkward collision that results when a celebrity encounters a fan's projection of familiarity. Actually, Arlo was very kind and patient with us.
Neo-Yankee ruminations from a great-great-great-grandson of the Confederacy.
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3 comments:
I went to school with Arlo's son, Abe. We took an advanced music class together and our teacher was cool enough to just let us jam sometimes. Abe played keyboards, either piano or electric, and I played really obnoxious electric guitar. Abe went on to be a musician touring with his dad and then I don't know what, probably a heck of a good musician in his own right; I became a guy who types for a living (news, computer code, stories). Today we bought my son a drum kit, and at the music store I played a sweet Fender Strat for a looong time. When we got home, we set up the drums and David whaled on them while I played piano. He's good. It brought all that part of me back. That me that jammed with Abe in high school and was sure he (me) would be a rock star and ended up a typist. Oh, and a dad. Which is better than typing or rock starring. You and your dang blog made me maudlin.
I went to school with Arlo's son, Abe. We took an advanced music class together and our teacher was cool enough to just let us jam sometimes. Abe played keyboards, either piano or electric, and I played really obnoxious electric guitar. Abe went on to be a musician touring with his dad and then I don't know what, probably a heck of a good musician in his own right; I became a guy who types for a living (news, computer code, stories). Today we bought my son a drum kit, and at the music store I played a sweet Fender Strat for a looong time. When we got home, we set up the drums and my 2-and-a-half-year-old whaled on them while I played piano. He's good. It brought all that part of me back. That me that jammed with Abe in high school and was sure he (me) would be a rock star and ended up a typist. Oh, and a dad. Which is better than typing or rock starring. You and your dang blog made me maudlin.
Funny how music never leaves your system. You hear an old song and you know that an internal tape, deep in the neural net, is playing along with the radio. Playing an instrument is such a complex bit of muscle memory. I've never been able to play any instrument well enough to perform in front of others, but I've always enjoyed goofing around on a guitar or harmonica. My daughter wanted a guitar for Christmas and she wanted one that looked "really cool" so I hit the pawn shops and found her a lime green Hondo with an interesting shape for cheap. I also got a small beat-up looking amp. Playing around on this guitar has revived a bunch of archived emotions, and I've realized that I'm still as good (i.e. barely) as ever. I'm not impressed with my noodling, but compared to my daughter who's just getting started, I sound pretty impressive. At least she thinks so. It's always nice to have your young'uns look up to you, but mostly this experience has reminded me how much progress one has to make to become half-assed.
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