Practical MIDI

Let’s take a little break from all this midi talk for just this one column while I tell you a little story about how music changed my life. Had I not taken up the guitar, who knows what might have happened to me? Maybe you have a similar story you’d like to share with the CyberMidi audience.

The year was 1962 and we'd just moved back to Wisconsin after three years of living in Illinois. As usual, I was the new kid again. This was no novelty to me, since we'd already moved twenty times in the first twelve years of my life. I'd attended more schools than there are years to attend them.

The school I'd transferred from in Illinois was a kinder, gentler place than the school I ended up at in Wisconsin. For whatever reason, I got off on the wrong foot and was the constant target of bullies and other guys out to prove how tough they were by pounding the stuffings out of me every chance they got.

The routine was the same for the next two and a half years. I'd try to slip out of school via the back door and run home before they bullies caught up with me and used me for a punching bag. Seventh and eighth grades were the worst, but the harassment continued into my freshman and sophomore year of high school. One guy, Darrell, dragged me around the gym by my hair in front of the whole class, girls included. Another guy, John, sat next to me in gym class and kept pounding on my arm until he'd raised a welt. In Industrial Arts class, Kerry pounded me so hard in the back that I lost my breath for a good minute.

There was an element, for lack of a better word, that considered themselves above the rest of the students. They were the upper crust, the "in" clique, if you will. And this clique consisted of the very bullies I'd always run from. Kerry and Darrell and John were a part of this crowd, although I could never figure out why. There was nothing special about any of them that I could see. Granted, not everyone from that crowd picked on me but the majority of them could care less if I lived or died. Most would have preferred the latter.

Then something miraculous happened. The chases and the beatings and the harassments stopped one day in my Sophomore Industrial Arts Class. A guy from the "in" crowd spoke to me. His words changed my life from that moment on. He said, "What kind of guitar do you have?"
I was surprised he'd even talk to me, let alone engage in a conversation on a subject that fascinated me to no end. The Beatles were at their peak and I knew most of the Beatle songs on my guitar, having practiced with my best friend, Jeff for most of the past two years.

The kid from Industrial Arts class was named Don and I was quick to answer, "an Eko 12-string electric." It must have impressed him enough to want to pursue the conversation further, because before I knew it, we were talking guitars like two old friends. He even invited me over to his house to "jam" with him that night. Guys "jammed" when they didn't know what else to do. That is, we found a song we both knew and both played it at the same time. That was "jamming." The song we chose was a popular hit at the time by an English duo called Chad and Jeremy. It was called "A Summer Song" and Don strummed out the rhythm while I picked out the melody. It sounded pretty decent, I must admit.

I walked home that night feeling better about myself than I had in years. I'd not only found a friend; I'd found a playing partner and someone with whom I could share my enthusiasm for the guitar. Word spread pretty fast throughout the "in" community and before I could say "long-haired, rock 'n rolling teen" some of the same guys who had picked on me just months earlier now looked up to me and my musical ability. It was as if I'd been promoted from nerd to cool guy overnight and it felt good.

John, the gym class arm-pounder, got a guitar of his own and although we never played together, he suddenly had a respect for me that he hadn't had before. He never pounded me again.

Darrell, the gym glass hair-puller, ended up coming to some of the parties that my band played at. We never became good friends, or any other kind of friends, for that matter, but when he'd see me playing at a party, he'd leave my long hair alone and dance to my music.

I don't remember seeing Kerry much after that and even if I had, I know we'd have never become friends no matter what. Still, it felt good to know that while he remained on the dance floor looking to perfect his girl pickup techniques, all I had to do was look down from the stage and wink and I was all set.

My reprieve from the beating by the "in" crowd began in 1966 and for the rest of my school days, I didn't have to run home from school via the back alleys or fear that someone was waiting in the shadows for me. No one bothered me at school and I became part of my own little "in" crowd. More and more kids took up the guitar and joined bands during the sixties. The popularity shifted from the athletic types--the football captains and homecoming kings--to the guys who could play the fastest or best riffs on their guitar. I couldn't play football worth a damn, nor did I care to, but my guitar riffs kept me out of harm's way for the rest of my life.

It's no wonder I hold the guitar so dear to me these days. It saved my life.

©2002 Bill Bernico for CYBERMIDI.com Downwind Publications