![I’m not interested in solo guitar recitals because they never include the use of feedback or the whammy bar. I grew up playing percussion and goofing off at the back of band classrooms, honing my dating skills on stringy and off-pitch orchestral ladies. I know my way around a practice room, and I’m quite familiar with the kinds of things you might run through when you’re in one. Recitals are usually overwhelmingly stale. The upper-level ones feature an abundance of pretension and a dearth of death metal. If I didn’t eventually ditch marching band, I might never have known the smash-nose serenity of Slayer.
I was nowhere close to this recital. A freshman in college, crammed into a tiny sweatbox dorm with two other guys in the East Village, I was doing anything I could to get some time alone. I grew up an only child in an Oklahoma suburb, where you come to take hand-romance for granted. In lower Manhattan, you’ve got to wait until the right moment presents itself, then seize it. Both the roommates were out getting drunk somewhere. I lit some candles, found a crumbless spot on my bed, and tuned my guitar until it wept.
[via Visual Culture]](http://2.media.tumblr.com/azxD5kcjldj4td7fCbOYGT3y_400.jpg)
I’m not interested in solo guitar recitals because they never include the use of feedback or the whammy bar. I grew up playing percussion and goofing off at the back of band classrooms, honing my dating skills on stringy and off-pitch orchestral ladies. I know my way around a practice room, and I’m quite familiar with the kinds of things you might run through when you’re in one. Recitals are usually overwhelmingly stale. The upper-level ones feature an abundance of pretension and a dearth of death metal. If I didn’t eventually ditch marching band, I might never have known the smash-nose serenity of Slayer.
I was nowhere close to this recital. A freshman in college, crammed into a tiny sweatbox dorm with two other guys in the East Village, I was doing anything I could to get some time alone. I grew up an only child in an Oklahoma suburb, where you come to take hand-romance for granted. In lower Manhattan, you’ve got to wait until the right moment presents itself, then seize it. Both the roommates were out getting drunk somewhere. I lit some candles, found a crumbless spot on my bed, and tuned my guitar until it wept.
[via Visual Culture]
