By Jesse Weiss
12345A spellbinding sequence of scales float through the air. The subtle but steady rhythm flows effortlessly, reverberating through the walls into my room. “QUIET, he’s sleeping” yells mom, breaking the trance. I slide out of bed, and assure dad that his strumming is what soothes. He offers a white noise machine as reimbursement for the disturbance, but I decline, as the late night guitar playing has remained a constant.
12345From a young age, I was imbued with the knowledge of his childhood. The Rolling Stones, the Who, and the Beatles all colored my earliest years, as did the accompanying trivia. Always I was given three guesses as to the singer, bass player, or chord progression. The cheery reply remained,“Wow, you got it!” despite the fact that any answer was welcomed with some reaffirmation of my brilliance. The excess knowledge spilled would remain useless, but there all the same. My mother often speculated on the exact number who recognized purpose to his wisdom; I saw persistence and pride in his attachment to the mostly defunct bands of his youth. His identity as a self-taught guitarist has remained since age nine, and his love of performance is apparent in his exaggerated facial expressions, both on and off the stage. The years spent on the club circuit may have been in vain and he may never live out his wildest fantasies of musical accomplishment, but the energy and love he brings to life has left me with one thing: gratitude.