Jazz guitar

December 9, 2008
It was a Christmas, roughly 6 years ago. My eyes widened upon seeing several more objects of which I would most likely tire off in a year. One of these gifts, however, I have not tired of or have grown too old to play with. This gift was a musical instrument. Something I could use for pleasure and a profession. Something I would use to my dying day. Something that would not only bring me joy, but several other people joy as well. Something that would help me connect with other people. This instrument was a guitar. Not a nice one, but beautiful all the same. Beautiful because it would spark a deep passion to play beautiful music within me.

Within months I had discovered the works of musical geniuses like Carulli, Paginini, Vivaldi, and one of my favorites, Bach. I marveled at the sometimes simple masterpieces of these visionaries. Over the course of three years I learned to play Vivaldi’s largo and the four seasons suite, many of Paginini’s waltzes, Carulli’s minuet, my favorites, bouree in e minor and Jesu, joy of mans desiring.

After three years of playing classical guitar, my dad said, “classical music is great to listen to, but you can do so much more with jazz.” So I switched to the jazz style. After another year in jazz playing I realized I wanted to be in the school jazz band. I had tried out the previous year, but didn’t make it. It was one 6th grader against several 8th graders.

A week later I received the audition music, which was far too easy for me. I also practiced another song, road song, by Wes Montgomery. Weeks eventually dwindled down to a week, then into days. The day of my audition I was only a little nervous. I knew there was probably no one better than me, I was just worried I would mess up my audition.

I walked into the band room with my guitar and amp. Mr. Varga told me to take a seat and we began. I played through my music perfectly and I saw his eyebrows rise. He looked very happy. “You play like a whole new person. I’m thoroughly pleased.” He said. He carried my amp out to where my mom was and said “you’re son plays like a whole new person.” “I’m very happy.”

That night my mom took me out to dinner at the beach café to celebrate. We weren’t certain, but we were pretty sure.

A week later Mrs. Wojnarski handed me a letter in home room and said, “that’s awesome Davis!” it was a jazz band acceptance letter.

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