Chris wasn’t going to buy anything that day. He was just killing an afternoon, wandering the store with no real plan.
But the acoustic room pulled him in, the way it always does. You know the one. The everyday guitars down at eye level… and up along the top row, the ones that cost more than his first car, hung up high where you have to really want it to reach.
There was one up there he couldn’t stop looking at. A Gibson. He’d glance up, tell himself no, then catch himself glancing up again. Way out of his range. But the room was empty, and it was just hanging there, and… ah, what’s the harm.
He checked over his shoulder. Nobody. So he reached up, heart going a little quicker than he’d ever admit to, and lifted it down. It was heavier than he expected. The kind of guitar that makes you sit up a little straighter, and play like you actually mean it.
He sat down, settled it against his chest, and played a couple of chords just to hear it… that big, warm bloom a good guitar makes in a quiet room.
And then he forgot where he was.
He just played. That little thing he’d been working up at home, the one with the bass note that walks down underneath and a fill that slips in between the changes. Not performing. Not thinking. Just playing.
He never heard the door open. He didn’t even notice the older fella who’d wandered in and gone quiet behind him… not until the man spoke, and the words landed somewhere right in the middle of his chest:
“Now THAT is how a guitar ought to be played.”
Here’s the part I love.
Chris is one of my students. He bought his first guitar twenty years ago, full of hopes and dreams, like we all were. Then life did what it does, and it ended up in a closet, gathering dust. He only dug it out again last year. He came that close to never bothering.
And that little progression… the one that stopped a stranger in his tracks and pulled those words right out of him? He learned it from this course.
He was just four sections in. Out of fourteen.