It all began a few weeks after Christmas, about 15 years ago. My dear dad had politely abandoned the electric guitar he had been bought by Santa/Mum as a “relax and unwind” gift.
I, on the other hand, saw it as my opportunity to swoop in and become the family rock star…well, something like that. At the very least, I figured life looked better and attracted more boys to the yard if I walked around with a black Fender guitar in my arms. So, I quickly embarked on learning all the big hits, Oh Danny Boy and Stairway to Heaven being on high “MUST LEARN!” rotation. My dad’s “How To Play The Guitar” book from the 70’s that I had dug out from the variety of dusty music paraphernalia crammed into the piano chair seat at our family home was what you would call limited in the world of popular music circa 1999. However, I seemed to make it work. My angst filled teenage diary was now coming alive to the simple G, C & D chords I had now mastered, and my regular bathroom series concerts (audience in attendance maxing out at 2) were in full swing. For me to show any kind of interest in something for longer than at least 6 months had my parents kissing the ground and sky, agreeing that I may truly be invested in music and this might not just be another “phase” I was going through.