I haven’t picked up a guitar in six or seven weeks. My guitar. Sort of a self-imposed exile, I guess. Probably the longest time I haven’t strummed a chord since I was sixteen.
I’ve likely written close to a hundred songs. I’ve played most of the chords at least once. And most of the main ones, thousands of times.
In any main key, I can tell you the three majors, the three minors, the few sevenths, and even some of the jazz chords. But I am a crappy player to the pros. And I am a decent player to the amateurs. It’s an odd paradox, as every paradox is.
So as my thirty-five year old guitar sits next to the fridge, where it kind of fits in limited space, perhaps it’s time to re-open the case, hear the three chords and the A Minor. Hear my voice again for the first time in months. Feel my fingers hurt again, because of the aspiration. And maybe just think again about a new song.
Whether it be Twist and Shout, or I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry. Same chords. Same fingers. Might be the same key. But the same callouses and the same vocal tones can sing two of the greatest songs in six minutes. When you have been blessed by the gift of music, it’s easy to forget that. Sometimes.