Hope for all us old beginners

Yeah, caught that in the NYT and enjoyed it. I've got a number of friends doing the same thing -- only their wives are no where near as supportive. Music and performance seem far from the worst manifestations of a midlife crisis -- sportscars and 20-year-old girlfriends cost a hellofalot more ... in many respects.

Man that's me I wanna be just like that guy.

Great, great story...I started a year and ahalf ago, at age thirty five and have been in love ever since...but my first love is Susan, my wonderful wife. She has been my encouragement and support in this crazy endeavor ever since. She was the one who said, and I'll never forget it, after drooling over some guitars in a Sam Ash window back then.

She said: you ought to take lessons

Me: i'll never learn at this age

She said wisely: Well, with that attitude, you're right, you never WILL learn...

love ya sweetie. Thanks. :D

Yeah, caught that in the NYT and enjoyed it. I've got a number of friends doing the same thing -- only their wives are no where near as supportive. Music and performance seem far from the worst manifestations of a midlife crisis -- sportscars and 20-year-old girlfriends cost a hellofalot more ... in many respects.

My wife may not appreciate me shaking the walls, but as long as they're shaking, she knows where I am.

I recently read a Dave Barry column discussing the same thing. He explains the reason that so many middle-aged men want an electric guitar is because it combines two things:

1) a guitar
2) electricity

Pretty much sums it up.

Your wife is a wise, wise woman, geetar66.

That was a great article slydog, thanks for sharing! I just sent this to the wife :) My wife also has siad to me to take lessons. I am wanting to a long with my 9 yr daughter. Right now we need an opening for lessons. I am at a point now where I have progressed further than I have in many a year. I do not have a basement, house is on a slab, but the dinig room is my office and I play there thill my daughter goes to bed. I enjoy the time and I want to learn this time, not just pluck.
:D

Thanks :D
That article really hit home.
I don't dare show it to my wife, she doesn't know what she's in for yet.
I have only been playing for 5 months so the collection has only just begun.
So far 4 guitars, 2 amps, a keyboard, a stack of magazines and fake books about knee high and verious other odds and ends.
I don't have a basement but I am pretty shure as warmer weather approaches I will be persuaded to practice in the garage.

misselman,

Wow 5 months and 4 guitars/2 amps...your well on your way to catching Nick

Wow, sounds like there may be a secret brotherhood out there. Should we come up with a hand shake or something?

dp

No reason why all of us must register.

MODERN LOVE
Sleeping With the Guitar Player
By JEAN HANFF KORELITZ

Published: March 13, 2005

IN the Ages of Man, there are the classics - infancy, childhood, adulthood. We have the Midlife Crisis, of course, so dear to therapists and second wives everywhere. There is adolescence, which in some men seems to last, oh, well, when does it end? But in the last few years I've experienced, via my husband, another masculine stage, one I'd been blissfully unaware of. This is the time of a man's life that I must now and forever think of as the Guitar-in-the-Basement phase.

Six years ago, when my husband, Paul Muldoon, a poet who teaches at Princeton, brought home an electric guitar, carried it down to the basement of our house in New Jersey and plugged it in, I was laughing too hard to absorb the enormity of what was happening. I knew he loved music. Growing up in Ireland during the 1960's, he was present at the birth of British rock, and he knew far more about American blues and its influence on both sides of the Atlantic than I had ever cared to learn. He leaped into action when the U2 tickets went on sale and had dragged me, over the years, to many, many concerts I despised. (I once fell asleep listening to Bob Dylan at the Beacon Theater.)

Still, I failed to realize that the very loud sounds coming from beneath the living room floor portended great changes for our family. I was pregnant with our second child at the time, and to be honest, I wasn't focusing very well. When Paul played his guitar in the basement, the whole building vibrated, and I would sit there, one story up, swaying with nausea. When I couldn't stand it any longer, I went to the top of the basement stairs and flicked the light to get his attention. "Please. Stop." He stopped. But not for long.

This was not, I would soon discover, a mere matter of purchasing a single musical instrument. We were on an acquisition conveyor belt of more guitars and related equipment, the charms of each soon negated by the undulations of the next. After that first guitar, a Cort, and its sidekick amplifier, Paul ordered up a Fender Stratocaster, a Gibson Les Paul, a Marshall amp, a reissue of a 1952 Telecaster ("like the guitar Keith plays"), an Ibanez acoustic/electric and a Fender Acoustasonic amp.

It was a new and unwelcome side of a man I thought I'd known pretty well, a man who never shopped, who wore a watch with a cracked plastic band, and who drove an old unlovely car, knocked askew by a deer a decade ago. Now he was making special trips to Sam Ash in New York City (I imagined the salesmen nudging one another, "Here comes another Guitar-in-the-Basement dude, dude."). It was getting crowded down there under the floorboards.

Gradually, I began to understand that it wasn't just him. There were hoards of men out there, roughly his age, frolicking in guitar wonderlands and shoring up amp arsenals in their own basements. In the weeks after Sept. 11, when I began each sad day with the Portraits of Grief in The New York Times, I read again and again of men commuting home from their working lives, descending their basement stairs, and rocking their Jersey or Westchester or Long Island houses to the rafters.

Once, at a friend's dinner party, Paul was seated next to a terribly dull financial manager I'd been shackled with during cocktails. To my surprise, they quickly began an avid conversation, which lasted all through the meal. I kept my eye on them, at a loss to imagine what they might possibly have found to talk about, let alone with such animation. "He has a Stratocaster in his basement," Paul said happily as we drove home. "He just got a wah-wah pedal."

Inevitably, Paul started to play with some of these men. There was a lawyer who possessed an entire recording studio in his apartment, then a professor of Renaissance poetry with a vast collection of guitars. Initially, heading out after dinner with the guitar packed into the back seat was a grand occasion, a thrilling adventure for him, if not for me, but soon it became a more routine outing. "You don't mind if I rehearse tonight, do you?" he'd ask. Rehearse? I'd think, baffled. He was still learning basic chords on the instrument. Rehearse?

Page 2
It took a long time for me to figure out what I was dealing with. But I'm a woman, which means that, in my heart of hearts, I have long understood that certain things are never going to happen in my life. I won't, by way of example, be modeling swimsuits for Sports Illustrated, representing my country as an Olympic gymnast or dancing Coppélia for the New York City Ballet.

I have dealt with these disappointments and, in the idiom of our age, moved on. But my husband - my wonderful, endearing husband, who is extremely successful at writing and teaching poetry - believed, at the age of 53, that it was utterly possible for him to become a rock guitarist. On a stage. In front of an audience.

Our 12-year-old daughter dubbed the new band Freaks With Guitars, but the actual name encompassed a more subtle humor. They were called Rackett, and by now the three older men had been joined by three cute young guys, just out of college. They started writing songs: the Renaissance poetry professor on music, my husband on lyrics.

A COUPLE of those cute young guys could really sing. The Renaissance poetry professor was a superb guitar player, actually. Within months, the recordings made in the lawyer's studio were sounding not all that different from the music my 12 year old was blasting in her room. The keyboardist, who runs his own breath-mint company, began to talk about producing the eventual CD's.

I no longer bothered to try to talk some sense into my husband. What sense, after all? My notion of reality had departed the day I came home to find Paul playing, over and over, a recorded phone message from one of the few rock stars we both revered, Warren Zevon. Mr. Zevon had read some of his poetry. When Paul hit "play" on the answering machine, I heard the author of "Werewolves of London" and "Excitable Boy" pronounce my husband "The best damn poet on the planet."

In due course they would meet, become friends, and write two songs together, including "My Ride's Here," the title track of Mr. Zevon's penultimate album. Books about the music business began to accumulate in our bathroom. Paul formed a publishing company to register his lyrics, and became a member of Ascap. Copies of Spin and Guitar World began to arrive monthly, along with an inexhaustible supply of Sam Ash catalogs. Rackett was offered its first gig, in a Greenwich Village club. The band's catalog of original songs stretched to 30, then 50. Bruce Springsteen produced a live recording of "My Ride's Here" for Warren Zevon's posthumous tribute album.

I refuse to conclude from all this that I have been unknowingly married to a rock star for nigh on 18 years. I simply could not have been that unobservant, failing to notice the spandex in the closet, the tour bus in the garage, the groupies at the mailbox. Nor is this a story about years of hard work, prodigious innate musical talent and patient honing of "craft" reaching their inevitable, just conclusion.

It occurs to me that much of his success in this odd endeavor derives from the fact that he just didn't know the whole thing was impossible, that his dearth of musicality, advanced age and lack of Rock Star lips meant that it was flatly impossible for him to become the thing he had decided he wanted to become. Then again, some of that obtuseness might have derived from being male in the first place.

Unlike women, for whom menopause serves as an unignorable transition, a line dividing one part of life from another, men have no midlife marker to brake before, or even to steer around, in the hinterland from their youth to their age; there is only a great, elastic middle. Is it any wonder they lose track of where they are, and think they can do anything? And evidence being what it is, I'm forced to concur. Should Paul waltz in tomorrow and announce that he has decided to become an engineer, a painter or a matinee idol, I'm afraid I will be forced to give him the benefit of the doubt.

ON stage, he looks like a middle-aged Irish poet, bespectacled, dressed in the same rumpled suit he teaches in. He is not a great musician and still can play only seven chords (which is four more than you need, he points out). But to succeed at anything is just so unlikely in the first place. Why should the fact that he's 53 and a musical neophyte make watching his band rock out on stage any more bizarre for me? Why should I be so surprised by the possibility of being surprised?

Then again, one of the great pleasures of being shocked by some amazing thing a loved one does is being aftershocked by something in ourselves. I'll admit that I have now done things I never thought I'd do, like bounce up and down in the dark basement of a rock club with a host of 20-somethings, an activity that might have recalled my lost youth had I ever done it when I myself was a 20-something. I have seen things I never thought I'd see, like a group of college students raising a sign with Paul's name on it in the audience at a Rackett performance.

And I have said something I never thought I'd say, at the stage door of a New York club, as I attempted to carry his guitar - one of his guitars! - downstairs to the dressing room. The bouncer, after giving me a very dubious look, wondering, perhaps, if I hadn't just wandered in off a New Jersey soccer field (which was precisely where I'd been a few hours earlier), asked if he could help me.

"That's all right," I told him, hoisting the guitar. "I'm with the band."

Jean Hanff Korelitz lives near Princeton, N.J., with her husband and two children. She is the author of three novels, including "The White Rose" (Miramax Books).

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My reputation is going to hell in a hand basket. :D

I think I'm down to under a dozen, okay well an even dozen. Okay, okay, a baker's dozen.

Great article. I started at 42 and three years later still going at it hard. I dream of playing in a band - any band, anywhere, anytime. It is the ultimate guitar dream - good to know it's not a total pipe dream.

Steve

Well that story is very encouraging - what a success..

So having listened to the advice that is so helpfully given in this forum I too have decided to go on stage. Our company is having a 25 year anniversary party for over 4,000 staff and I will be playing on stage. Having only taken up the guitar seriously just over a year ago (I am now 58), this will be the first time I have performed in fron of an audience if you exclude a recent visit to my sister and daughter.

But one of my colleagues has played since he was a boy and we have a company choir which I am trying to persuade to provide some backing vocals and the ending to Wonderful Tonight given by someone called Sue I think on the Eric Clapton DVD Clapton Chronicles (I plan to play Layla, Wonderful Tonight and maybe a Beatles number.

Great support from this forum.

Again what a great story..(and wife!!)