"The Song(s)"

One would assume that a young boy learning to play guitar in 1964-65 would cut his teeth on some of the hottest rock and roll tunes of the day. Hits from Elvis, The Beatles and The Rolling Stones were certainly at the top of most young guitar slingers' "'gotta learn that one," list. Too, there was the Ventures, and even some country pickers like Chet Atkins.

While most young lads learning the guitar were hot after copying something popular or familiar - not this one.

For some reason, other than the foundational chord patterns of G-C-D, there was, "When Johnny Comes Marching Home."

That's correct. You read it right!

I don't know if it was the Southern roots that helped bring a Civil War classic to my fretboard. Or, if it was merely the fact that this tune was pathetically easy to self-teach. Whatever the reasons, it became my very first "have tune will travel." I played it every time I picked up the guitar, and often enough to make my poor mother plead, "Can't you play something besides that?"

After several million passes at, "WJCMH," the list would come to include classics such as, "Red River Valley," "You Are My Sunshine," "On Top Of Old Smokey" (which was also known by its Weird Al-like spoof, "On Top Of Spaghetti"), "Boogie Woogie," and finally, something that required more than one finger from the fretting hand, "The Wildwood Flower."

Somewhere along the way, the aforementioned Ventures caught my attention. As my technique improved, I began to learn their hits: "Walk Don't Run," "Tequila," "Pipeline," and of course, "Wipeout."

Every drummer in the world knew, "Wipeout." It was obligatory. And so, every guitar player in the world - playing in bands with those drummers, also had to learn that song. You just weren't cool if you didn't know how to play it. It was, by far, THE most popular, and most requested of all tunes-played-by-every-garage-band-there-was from the 1960's.

A close second was the Animals' monster hit, "House Of The Rising Sun."

Long before MTV and You Tube, there was the transistor radio, 45's, LP's and eight track tapes. Learning songs and guitar parts in those days meant that you had to either buy the record, or wear out the old rotary dial on the family's Western Electric telephone by repeated calls to the local radio station request line.

The latter of these was a quite the challenge. On top of annoying the disc jockey who answered the request line, you also had to sit for prolonged periods of time with the guitar on your lap - waiting and hoping for "your song" to be played next. When (and if)  it was finally played, you only got one pass to try and cop what you heard. Then, it was back to the phone.

Learning from a record was not much better. Since there was no good way to slow the music down, you had to pick up the record player stylus over and over and try to place it back on the record in the same place every time. This is, perhaps, one of the things that gave my mother high blood pressure, and caused my father to drink (he stopped drinking when I was twelve, thank The Good Lord). Every record in our house had "potholes" at the different places where great guitar parts appeared.

Through the years, having covered hundreds of tunes - while playing for all sorts of audiences, there are "guitar" songs that stick in a player's memory. None more than THE guitar song of all-time: "Free Bird." After forty-seven years of gigs, rarely has there been a time when someone didn't shout that ageless request at some point during the show. I have even heard it at weddings and a piano recital or two. The Good Book says that, "you reap what you sow." This being true, the endless requests for, "Free Bird," were obviously payback for all those annoying telephone calls to the radio station's request line. Perhaps that voice in every crowd was the same DJ - stalking me.

Naaah.

In the twilight of this guitar player's career, after having written and published an extensive song catalogue of original material, and now while composing themes for movies and television shows, my mind often drifts back to the beginning.

I think of radios, record players, and a song.

THE song.

Who would have known that, "When Johnny Comes Marching Home," could hold such a place in an old man's fading memory.

"My First Time"

Prior to getting my first guitar at age nine, there was another seminal happening in my musical life - my first concert.

My father loved "traditional" country music (it was just plain "country" to him). He also loved bluegrass. In the evenings when he came home from work, as Mama was cooking supper, Daddy would sit at the kitchen table, drink his last cup of coffee of the day, and listen to WPLO. The Schering-Plough Corporation owned many AM stations in the Southeast in those days. WPLO was their country affiliate in Atlanta.  It could have easily been the only station on that old radio. Daddy never listened to any other.

One day, Rick Fight, the DJ on WPLO, announced an upcoming concert at the old Atlanta Municipal Auditorium.  This would later be the place that I would graduate from high school, see Alvin Lee in concert, and even attend the "Live Atlanta Wrestling" card with Daddy on a few Friday nights while I was in college.

Rick Fight's announcement was that, very soon, the most popular act in bluegrass music was coming to Atlanta. Lester Flatt & Earl Scruggs were riding high the success of their television show theme, "The Ballad of Jed Clampett." The year was 1962. The Beverly Hillbillies was still in the first weeks of its inaugural season. Daddy had been an avid viewer of their Saturday night television show, "The Martha White Grand Old Opry Show," for some time. The timing could not have been better.

I was barely seven years old when Daddy and I walked into the Atlanta Municipal Auditorium that Saturday afternoon. I had never seen such a monstrous concert hall in all my seven years. The show was sold out, and our tickets were about twenty-five rows back on the floor. When Flatt & Scruggs finally came onstage, I was standing in the seat beside Daddy. The crowd rose to its feet at their opening number, and never sat back down during the show. As a result, Daddy sat me up on his shoulders. I could see better than anyone around us!

What I remember was the suits Lester and Earl wore, the brightness of the gold tone ring on Earl's banjo, his incredible speed as a banjo picker, and the warmth of their BIG sound. Their backing band, the "Foggy Mountain Boys," consisted of Paul Warren on fiddle, John Ray "Curly" Seckler on mandolin, Burkett "Uncle Josh" Graves on dobro (resonator guitar), and English P. "Cousin Jake" Tullock on upright bass.

These six great musicians kept the crowd on its feet for the entire ninety minute show. Rousing applause and cheers went up after each number. And, a deathly quiet hush engulfed that old auditorium during the sacred portion of the show, when the band did several hymns - some of which we done acapella.

Leaving the auditorium that evening, a seven year old boy was deeply moved by the power of music, the incomparable way it made a sold out crowd of fans react, and the indescribable way that it spoke to the heart. If there was anything better than this, I could not imagine in my wildest dreams what it was.

Since that fateful time, I have been blessed to be able to attend lots of concerts. The list includes: Chicago, Pure Prairie League, Dan Fogelberg, James Taylor, The Eagles, Fleetwood Mac, Johnny Winter, Bob Seger, Grand Funk Railroad, .38 Special, Foreigner, Styx, Bad Company, Mother's Finest, Dixie Dregs, The Cars, Aerosmith, Ricky Skaggs & Kentucky Thunder, Kansas, The Rolling Stones, Eric Clapton, Lynyrd Skynryd, The Outlaws, Creedence Clearwater Revival, Ted Nugent, ZZ Top, Boston, Peter Frampton, Tom Petty, Gary Wright, The Georgia Satellites, Steve Winwood, Heart, The Atlanta Rhythm Section, Dave Edmunds, and (last but not least) Ernest Tubb.

I never saw Flatt & Scruggs in concert again. But, I did begin a journey that day - at the tender age of seven. A quest that, now at age fifty-six, is still ongoing.

The quest for THE concert of all concerts.

I'll keep you posted.

"It Spoke My Name"

The year was 1963. I remember not only the year, but THE day.

My mother worked part-time at different jobs during our young years to help Daddy provide us a living. Mama was a creative soul - especially for doing things like sewing, gardening, and flower arranging. One of the florists she worked for, Otwell's, had moved from its original location on Bankhead Highway in Grove Park, to a strip shopping center on the corner of Cooper Lake Road and South Cobb Drive in Smyrna. Georgia.

It was the summer and school was out. I was eight years old - going on nine. Mama did not like to leave my sister and me with baby-sitters, so we would go with her to the workplace. We would sit around, watch TV if there was one to watch, and try to busy ourselves with other things - while Mama pulled her shift.

On this particular day, I had gone out into the parking lot of the strip center several times. Just something about a boy, the hot summer, and the "out-of-doors." On one of these trips outside, I spotted some boys across South Cobb Drive at a house. There was a huge oak tree in front of the house, from whose mighty branches there hung a swing. I could see one of the boys sitting on the swing, and the other ones crowded around him. Even from across the road it was obvious that they were intently focused on him and the "something" he was holding in his lap.

Curiosity overcame me.

Ignoring my mother's stern and unmistakable warnings of, "George David, don't you D-A-R-E go across that road," across the road I went.

As I neared the swing, the most beautiful, mesmerizing, heavenly, and powerful sound I had ever heard came into my ears. It was the sound on an acoustic guitar. As I walked up into the circle of boys, I remember seeing the boy on the swing playing the guitar. I even remember the first chord I saw him make as I walked up - an A-7th. I don't remember the song he was playing, but I shall remember that A-7th until I breathe my last.

I stood there for the longest time. Listening. Watching. Drinking in each tone, each chord change, and each movement of his hands. The guitar could not have been an expensive one. But, it might as well have been Gabriel's harp. I was thoroughly hooked.

This innocently impromptu event became THE most defining moment and experience of my life. The only other things that come close were/are my baptism into Christ in August of 1967, my wedding day in 1979, and the days that my children were born in 1982 and 1984 respectively. It was as if the Good Lord himself led me across that road and introduced me to the reason for the rest of my life.

I walked back across South Cobb Drive in a deep trance. I KNEW that I had to have a guitar. I didn't know how much they cost, or where they were sold, or what someone had to do to get one. I just KNEW that one of these magically powerful instruments had to find its way into my hands.

It was several months before I was able to badger my parents into buying my first guitar. When they finally did, it came in the form of a second-hand guitar and amp owned by our neighbor, Mr. Calvin Hughes. I do not remember the brand of the amplifier, but the guitar was an, "Old Craftsman." It was a single pick-up, single cut-away model, that was made from a blonde variety of wood - with a maple neck. It sounded like a Gibson Les-Paul.

Luckily, the amp was not powerful enough to get my parents thrown into jail for disturbing the peace, but it WAS loud enough for me to have the sensation of what electricity felt like humming through those glorious Black Diamond strings. And, it was also loud enough for me to drown out the sound of my mother's desperate pleas..."George David, turn that racket down!"

My first guitar was my also first love. And, the joy, the thrill, and the utter, karma-like, fulfillment that the guitar has brought me through the years has never waned.

To this very hour, each time I pick up one of my guitars I remember that fateful day in 1963.

The day my life changed forever.