Still in Shock

Today was a day I’d been dreading for weeks. There’s nothing I hate more than moving…especially when it’s my business office. Something always gets left behind. Usually it’s something that makes me money.

Surprisingly, the movers arrived on time, and they even looked capable for once. One guy, an African American, I think maybe about 24 years old was really focused on the job. I like that. No time wasted and no idle breaks and chitchat. He appeared strong, and task oriented…how often do you see that anymore? I would later realize that he was just painfully shy, hiding behind hair that reminded me of the guys in Milli Vanilli. Anyways it was pretty hot in my new office off Vine Avenue, after a dreary weak of rain and low temperatures. I took note of his good work ethic in less than ideal conditions. I tip well for good service, and he was certain to earn my gratitude.

One thing that didn’t get left behind was my Epiphone, Les Paul Standard electric guitar. As a music producer, and specifically Rock ‘N Roll, I wish I could say that I’m a master of the instrument. But I’m not. I know a few chords and a few riffs, but I’m certainly not good enough to make a living doing it. Those who can…do, and those who cannot - produce.

On one of the breaks, I noticed that the young African American guy had taken notice of the guitar and my Peavey amp. I asked him if he played and he replied, “A little.” So I hooked it up with a couple of effects pedals and told him he was welcome to strap it on.

Twenty minutes later, and as I write this, I was in shock. It was as if the future and the past of rock guitar had collided. I don’t even want to play my guitar anymore…I feel like I’m desecrating music. This kid was phenomenal. I was thinking of who I could compare him to, but he crossed over into so many styles that I gave up trying to put a label on him.

You would be able to see for yourself what I’m talking about, as he did allow me to record him on videotape. Unfortunately, he wouldn’t sign a release for me to use it. After the other movers and I sang his praises, he crawled back into his shy demeanor and continued with the job at hand. I couldn’t believe that his hands were moving my stuff. It should be the other way around.

I never got his name. He wouldn’t give it to me. He took my business card and I offered him whatever help he might need in fulfilling his music endeavors. Most musicians kill to hear that sort of offer from a real producer. He didn’t. It was as if my offer was the exact opposite of what he wanted. As they were leaving, one of the other movers came over and added to the aura. “Rumor is he’s either the illegitimate grandson or grand-nephew of ______ _________.” I’m not going to write the name of the legend he whispered in my ear. You know him. You know his music. If what he said is true…

I’m looking down at my hands and they’re shaking so much that I can’t type anymore. I’m still in shock.