Sunday, April 17, 2005
The Shadows - "Apache"
Hearing this song never fails to bring to my mind a monumental life-changing event.
It was 1997 and I was 15 going on 16, wandering aimlessly along the musical path, sorting through a mish-mash of sounds and trying to find something worthwhile to play. I had just started playing guitar earlier in the year, just learning song after song without any real direction. A Sunday afternoon found me wandering around at Yamaha Music Plaza at Plaza Singapura (even before they renovated), just ogling at whatever was on display. Having little knowledge of guitars back then, everything was new and novel, and just about any guitar that had knobs and switches had me fascinated.
A group of metalheads, identifiable by their long, unruly hair, Megadeth/Black Sabbath/Metallica T shirts and trashy jeans, were holding court in a corner, dishing out some solos and licks at breakneck speed, along with break-eardrum volume. Distorted chords were churned out, many notes were played, and for a few moments they held me captive with their display of technical wizardry.
Alongside me stood this old-timer, dressed neatly in an ironed short sleeved shirt and trousers pulled up above his stomach. Silvery hair framing his bald pate was neatly combed back, with a slight, knowing smile on his face. Most incongruently however, he had on a ridiculously pink haversack with some Doraemon or some other cartoon character printed on it.
My first impression was that he was probably a retiree picking up his granddaughter from piano class. Perhaps he was, but there was more to it.
When the metalheads were taking a break from their self-indulgence, the old-timer spoke up, “Do you mind if I try that guitar?”
The look of disbelief on their faces was thinly disguised, but still they respectfully handed over the guitar to him. He took possession of the guitar and proceeded to play a few notes, tuning up here and there, adjusting the knobs on the amplifier and such.
In this time a small crowd had gathered, and the metalheads continued to eyeball the old-timer with a “C’mon, show us what you’ve got” look on their faces. He took his time, propped up his leg on an amplifier and took out a plectrum from his shirt pocket.
The next few minutes left one of the deepest musical impressions on my mind, as he proceeded to blow everyone away with a spot-on and soulful rendition of “Apache” by The Shadows. The musicality, the touch, the whole feel of the song emanated from his wrinkled hands as the smile on his face widened, perhaps from memories of a musical past. The sense of awe around the room was palpable, not least coming from the metalheads, who by now were truly stunned into even greater disbelief.
As the last notes of the song faded off, he looked up at the metalheads, not with a triumphant grin but with a gentle, encouraging smile and nod of the head as he said, “Thank you”, and handed the guitar back to them.
One of the metalheads took it back rather reluctantly, seemingly subdued. They proceeded to pass the guitar around, none of them really wanting to play another note on it. At this point the old-timer turned around and strolled off, still toting the ridiculous pink haversack but leaving awe in his wake.
His work had been done. The power of musical sensibility over guitar machismo had been succinctly and aptly demonstrated. Musical touch had overcome technicality.
He touched at least one life that day.
It was 1997 and I was 15 going on 16, wandering aimlessly along the musical path, sorting through a mish-mash of sounds and trying to find something worthwhile to play. I had just started playing guitar earlier in the year, just learning song after song without any real direction. A Sunday afternoon found me wandering around at Yamaha Music Plaza at Plaza Singapura (even before they renovated), just ogling at whatever was on display. Having little knowledge of guitars back then, everything was new and novel, and just about any guitar that had knobs and switches had me fascinated.
A group of metalheads, identifiable by their long, unruly hair, Megadeth/Black Sabbath/Metallica T shirts and trashy jeans, were holding court in a corner, dishing out some solos and licks at breakneck speed, along with break-eardrum volume. Distorted chords were churned out, many notes were played, and for a few moments they held me captive with their display of technical wizardry.
Alongside me stood this old-timer, dressed neatly in an ironed short sleeved shirt and trousers pulled up above his stomach. Silvery hair framing his bald pate was neatly combed back, with a slight, knowing smile on his face. Most incongruently however, he had on a ridiculously pink haversack with some Doraemon or some other cartoon character printed on it.
My first impression was that he was probably a retiree picking up his granddaughter from piano class. Perhaps he was, but there was more to it.
When the metalheads were taking a break from their self-indulgence, the old-timer spoke up, “Do you mind if I try that guitar?”
The look of disbelief on their faces was thinly disguised, but still they respectfully handed over the guitar to him. He took possession of the guitar and proceeded to play a few notes, tuning up here and there, adjusting the knobs on the amplifier and such.
In this time a small crowd had gathered, and the metalheads continued to eyeball the old-timer with a “C’mon, show us what you’ve got” look on their faces. He took his time, propped up his leg on an amplifier and took out a plectrum from his shirt pocket.
The next few minutes left one of the deepest musical impressions on my mind, as he proceeded to blow everyone away with a spot-on and soulful rendition of “Apache” by The Shadows. The musicality, the touch, the whole feel of the song emanated from his wrinkled hands as the smile on his face widened, perhaps from memories of a musical past. The sense of awe around the room was palpable, not least coming from the metalheads, who by now were truly stunned into even greater disbelief.
As the last notes of the song faded off, he looked up at the metalheads, not with a triumphant grin but with a gentle, encouraging smile and nod of the head as he said, “Thank you”, and handed the guitar back to them.
One of the metalheads took it back rather reluctantly, seemingly subdued. They proceeded to pass the guitar around, none of them really wanting to play another note on it. At this point the old-timer turned around and strolled off, still toting the ridiculous pink haversack but leaving awe in his wake.
His work had been done. The power of musical sensibility over guitar machismo had been succinctly and aptly demonstrated. Musical touch had overcome technicality.
He touched at least one life that day.
# posted by BloozeGit @ 3:09 pm 
