This April will be the ten-year anniversary of my love affair with music. When I was 14 my parents finally succumbed to years of begging and bought me an off-brand acoustic guitar. I, being 14, played the hell out of that guitar—hours upon hours a day of painful fretting.
At sixteen my parents (seriously, they're really cool) bought me a brand new Gibson SG Standard. Again, hours and hours of play. Mostly classic rock—Bowie, Zeppelin, Pink Floyd, the Allman Brothers, Bad Company, The Beatles, Neil Young, Rush—with some ska and punk thrown in. I formed a band with some guys. We sucked, but we had a lot of fun.
Then I went to college, made friends who were (coincidentally) all musicians. We'd sit around at night and pass a guitar and sing and act like idiots. Some of us formed another band. We sucked a little less. Then I formed another band, this time a folk act with a girl who had amazing talent. We were halfway decent.
Then I moved to San Francisco. Now I live in a tiny apartment and—I'm sure—annoy my neighbors.
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