You Just Can’t Beat The Classics
My daughter is learning to play the cello, which I’m sure will one day sound beautiful but for the moment sounds like a small animal having its internal organs gnawed out by beavers. We take her to lessons at a local music store, and when it’s my turn to take her, I always channel my inner fifteen-year-old and head straight over to the rows of guitars. I’ll throw on some headphones, crank up the distortion, and wail out a little “Ain’t Talkin’ ‘Bout Love” or “Sweet Child O’ Mine.” (Anything with apostrophes.)
The other day, I was hanging there when six or seven little early-teen goofballs came in, half with dirt-lip moustaches because they weren’t yet sure how to shave. They picked up the twelve-string guitars and immediately launched into “Over The Hills And Far Away”–the exact same song I play when I grab the twelve-string. The road goes ever on and on…and I can tell my kids that I was right, my music IS the best. Hell with Hannah Montana, it’s all about the Zeppelin, baby.