My friend, Kendell, is one of them. So is her husband and so, evidently, are their children -- although it might be a bit early to assign a calling in life, whether it's art or anything else you can think of, to ones so young. Every Wednesday, a friend of the family, a professional musician, came to the house to give music lessons to a small group of kids that included Kendell's daughter and son, Sydney and Jasper.
During breaks -- kids need breaks, even from fun stuff -- the grownups would play. The first time I went, we played "Me and Bobby McGee" and "Folsom Prison Blues," the teacher leading us with as much kindness and patience as he showed the small ones.
With stiff fingers and scarcely any feel for how to form chords or change from one chord to another, I felt like a rank beginner. It almost seemed like a mistake coming to this session.
Later in the day, after the kids' "formal" lesson was over, we grownups stretched out a little, playing songs from Beatles' fake books and such, and then somebody suggested I play that song Kendell sang in college (is it possible??!!) 25 years ago. It just has three chords, so I was able to play it OK, and as Kendell sang it, I was able to recall my lyrics. It was so much fun, I insisted we play it again and then we were singing harmony and before long we'd pretty much played it to death.
Oh, for the record, the song is called "(Won't Get Over) Getting Over You." Some people think of it as country. I prefer rockabilly but I'm not much for name-calling. If you ever hear it you can call it whatever you like.
I only went to one more Wednesday jam in Venice -- it's quite a schlep from where I live. It's an even bigger schlep to Baltimore, my hometown, but I made that trip soon after the good times in Venice. Baltimore is where a guy gave me a guitar -- just gave it to me like it was an apple or a half a sandwich.
Unlike any half a sandwich I ever saw, the guitar opened up a whole new front in my life.
I'd gone to a party where my nephew Bucky and his cousin, my niece, Beth, were the entertainment. She's a very good singer, he's a very good guitarist and he had brought several guitars with him. At one point, he said, "Uncle Pat, you want to play something?"
You don't have to ask me twice.
I picked up a Hohner HW-300G six-string acoustic and it felt really good. It had very easy action, which means it was relatively easy to press the strings down to form chords. When I told Bucky what a pleasure it was to play he said: "Good. You can have it."
OK, I'm all for generosity but that was ridiculous. I protested. He insisted. I was a two-guitar man.
Back in LA, with my new, easy-to-play guitar, I was playing every day, doing, I suppose, what one does with any new toy.
Before long, I had dredged up most of the songs I'd written (is it possible??!!) a quarter of a century ago. Each time I salvaged one, I played it for anyone who would listen. It gave me a thrill when my son, Riley, would say, "Good one, Dad."
There was one song, "Falling (In Love With You)," that was giving me fits trying to remember. I had the melody but just couldn't recall more than a line or two of the lyric and I had to turn to my wife, Celeste (we were separated at the time but not yet divorced), for help in reconstructing it.
She knew my songs better than I did. She often ridiculed me for forgetting my own lyrics. I'd point out that there is footage of Ringo Starr forgetting "It Don't Come Easy" and George Harrison is on film forgetting "Something," but that never got me anywhere.
"They made money off their songs," she'd say, and who was I to argue?
She came over and helped me remember the song. In the movies that might lead to reconciliation but in real life it was high fives all around and that was it.
That all happened in 2008. Early in 2009 I was telling a friend how good it felt to be playing again but conceding it was unlikely I'd be writing new songs. You see, all the songs I'd come up with so many years ago were written under conditions that simply no longer apply. I was younger, I was more foolish and most of all, practically all the songs came out of one failed romance or another. Those days were over, as long as I played my cards right.
As those words (to paraphrase a Beatles' lyric) were leaving my lips, they took on a strong, shall we say, inauthentic aroma.
And my friend said: "You don't know that. Have you tried?"
Next: You have got to record that!
