I was like any other eight year old. Snot-nosed with bad hair that had looked as if it had been put through a blender. A complete and utter lack of self-awareness. The golden years. Summer was slowly coming to an end, and my parents, being the considerate souls that they are, decided that they were tired of me kicking the soccer ball against the side of the house and playing video games all day. A change of scene was in order.

I remember the day I first walked into the music store. It was a pleasantly warm, slightly overcast August afternoon with no wind. As I made my way past the two sets of doors, what I saw captivated me. Instruments, as far as my stunted height permitted me to see. All lined up neatly and organized by price.

I was guided to the guitar room. A glass-walled, soundproof hall was located directly in the middle of the store. A wide range of acoustic, classical and electric guitars lined the walls, all begging for me to try them. I motioned to a Taylor Guitars acoustic in the far corner. There was something about the way that the blindingly bright Sapele top complemented the darker brown mahogany body. The store clerk that was helping us plucked it off the shelf and handed it to me. I gripped the neck, feeling the cold steel strings dig into the soft flesh of my fingertips as I plucked a D chord. That was the most defining moment of my life.

The clouds seemingly parted the moment I shook the clerk’s hand, rays of sunshine bouncing off my apple-cheeked complexion as I exited the store.

After a week of tone deaf chord thrashing and my parents having constant migraines driving them to the point of complete madness, they had come with the most elaborate and harebrained scheme that they had ever thought up: guitar lessons. They were taxing, but rewarding. A year and a half of them, twice a week, cemented my dexterity, knowledge, and appreciation for this instrument. Unfortunately, a lack of funds from my parents, and a prioritization of school work on my part, left me with little time to practice and go to my lessons. I call this period of my life “the dark times”.

It would be three years before I would ever pick up my prized dust collector once more. I had somehow forgotten the joy that this instrument once brought me. It doesn’t make much sense to me now why I didn’t pick it up sooner. I can remember me fantasizing about playing for huge crowds of people, being able to get my name out there and to become someone held in high regard in the music world. It may have just been early signs of dementia, but I swear I could almost hear the guitar calling out to me. I picked it up and played for nine hours straight.

I eventually regained a correspondence with my old teacher. The idea of taking up lessons with him was mentioned, however was reluctantly declined. My sights had changed from running acoustic classics like Bob Dylan and CCR to focusing on my new found appreciation of Motown and jazz guitar styles and techniques. My old teacher directed me to a retired big band jazz guitarist by the name of Fred Guy who was living not 30 minutes away from my house. My correspondence with Mr. Guy was one of the most revolutionary and pivotal moments in my music career.

His knowledge was crucial and his experience was seemingly never-ending. He was easily one of the best storytellers that I have ever met. The way he would describe his life experiences and make them flow ever so seamlessly into these fantastic tales of being in the Duke Ellington's Washingtonians or walking into his ballroom for the first time never ceased to amaze me. I blame him entirely for my interest in storytelling and literature, due to his infallible suaveness and expressive demeanor with which he recounted his tales.  It is a habit that I’ve never kicked no matter how much I’ve neglected it. The way he was able to weave his immaculate tales into his teachings was a beautiful sight to behold. His grandiose explanations and ability to never miss a single beat nor detail led to one of the most intimate masterclasses that I’ve ever had the pleasure of experiencing.

I can remember it as if it were yesterday. My 17th birthday had passed not one week before I heard the news. His death in 1971 was a devastating tragedy, and one that shook me to my very core. The world truly lost a kindred spirit that day. His funeral was a miraculous event. I’ve never seen a larger ensemble of musicians in my life. I was asked by his wife to present a small eulogy about how I came about meeting him, which I was deeply humbled to write. I didn’t think that I would cry; I thought I was past that. Alas, the waterworks came anyway.

There was a small potluck afterwards, organized by his wife. It was there that I had the overwhelming pleasure of meeting the likes of Ella Fitzgerald, Artie Shaw and most importantly, Quincy Jones, all of which had been very close friends of Mr. Guy. I had figured at the moment that I would never get this opportunity again, so I walked up to the oh so famous “Q” and had asked him to get a coffee sometime. Apparently, Fred had been telling people about a kid that had come around recently to get some guitar lessons. Mr. Jones seemed to be a little overzealous with his response, but as I came to find out, that was just his reaction towards most things.

The anticipation that I had felt that Saturday afternoon was unbearable. The butterflies in my stomach seemed to be having quite the nasty little territorial dispute over whether food should come up and introduce itself or if it should stay down where it belongs. Arriving at the coffee shop, we both shook hands and took our seats. The conversation started with pleasantries and small talk, however devolved very quickly into discussing music and Mr. Guy’s life. An important lesson that I learned that day was that no matter how good someone is at telling stories, and no matter how much of an open book people seem to be, they’ll never tell you everything. Mr. Jones had told me of all of the hardships and oppression that Mr. Guy had experienced when he was starting out as a musician and had advised me that if I ever planned on getting into music, that I had a long, rocky and treacherous road ahead of me. Being the opportunist that I am, I had asked if he would ever have the time to hear me play. He had simply gotten up, told me to meet him at the Chicago Recording Company next Thursday, paid for both of our coffees and left before I could say anything in return, the civil war in my stomach never subsiding. I downed the coffee that was left in my mug, which went down about as smoothly as boiling acid, and took off at a full sprint back to my house to tell my parents the good news.

And so here I am now, standing before you. People all too often ask me how I got my start in music, so I thought that I’d write up a little piece so I wouldn't have to keep explaining time and time again. As much as I love storytelling, it can get quite tiresome at my old age, and I’d much rather be spending my time telling other tales.