Dan

“Though you can love what you do not master, you cannot master what you do not love.”–philosopher and social critic, Mokokoma Mokhonoana

Each of us is unique. We harbor various abilities, aptitudes, and capacities. Some of us march to the beat of a different drummer. We have the option not to do what the crowd is doing. There is a sweet ache inside that begs to show itself and grow. Many of us obey that voice and allow it to sing.

Dan, a late friend who played guitar like it was an instinct, once said that composing and performing is the ability to improvise and to be open to change and nuance. When a tune tickles the brain, laugh with it. Dan was a serious, thoughtful man who lived life in the rough. He was impulsive almost to a fault, but managed to scrape a living together by making the most of his talent. He taught guitar lessons as his main sideline. He also performed on stage irregularly, usually at county fairs and talent shows.

His main focus was composing songs. More than a few times, I watched as Dan strummed something out of the blue on his Stratocaster or another nearby guitar that was not plugged into an amplifier. He repeated the riffs until they were refined. Either right away, or a day later, Dan invented some heartfelt lyrics to go along with the new song.

Perhaps a week or two later, Dan would call me up to ask that I listen to a version of the new song that pleased him. He listened to my praise and suggestions–sometimes integrating one of the suggestions into the song on the fly. If he didn’t reject it out of hand, he filed it away for later use.

While writing the preceding paragraphs, it occured to me that I had mostly heard his songs in their silent, unplugged versions. Because his public performances usually took place in far away towns, I could only attend a precious few of them. Regarding those rare, live performances, I was always amazed at the transformation from the unamplified versions of songs that I had heard in his home into the screaming final versions. He harnessed the output of one of his electric guitars or his special Stratocaster. He exploited them beyond their designed parameters. Dan deftly yelled into the mic in skillful synchrony.

During at least one song, Dan brought out one of his accoustic instruments to accompany himself as he shared a tender tune or two. Those were the only breaks from the loud exhibitions. They allowed his audience’s ears to recuperate.

During his final sets, Dan put his Stratocaster through the gauntlet with the hope that a string wouldn’t break in the process. Dan’s listeners were thrilled with his lengthy improvised finales. He left them begging for more.

I once asked my late friend why he didn’t become a headlining act. His response was that he never wanted to “sell out” to the corporate music industry. To do so would be something he could not spiritually account for. Dan was content giving music lessons and occasionally playing at county fairs. All of that was enough to keep him happy.

Ciao

The Blue Jay of Happiness quotes American actor, comedian, filmmaker, and songwriter, Mel Brooks. “It’s talent. Either you got it or you ain’t.”