Not many of us are lucky enough to be who they really ar
e. The luckiest ones at least “know” who they really are even if they actually aren’t that. I’ve always admired people who made a life out of their passions. It takes a lot to achieve it, unless your passion is working for a bank or being a government employee: you study and work in order to get a job and you’re set. But what if you want to be, say, a painter? The entire world will tell you not to do it, you will be starving, you need at least a plan B. But the ones who keep on and succeed in doing this are the ones who did not listen…
Guitar
A guitar player in an old men’s band
We wanted to call ourselves the Colesterock, the Old Timers, the High Pressure, the Arythmics. But we are just the “Music Box”. And me, former geologist of an oil company, family man, now over half a century old, what am I doing here? I didn’t even dream about this anymore. Me in a rock band? That’s for teenagers! My guitar would have always been with me even if I rarely played it, so to remember the passion of my youth. But nothing more. I have other things to do now.
Famous last words…
We are our passions
When I was a child, people knew me as the kid who sang the songs also imitating the sounds of the instruments with his mouth. I remember how amused my uncles and aunts were as I covered some famous Italian melodies of the time. Unfortunately I was not exposed as a kid in the 60s/70s to the great music of those years. Rolling Stones, dei Led Zeppelin, Jimi Hendrix, Doors, Pink Floyd, were there but no one suggested I listened to them.
You never forget your first guitar
Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about my past. Not actually in a nostalgic way, but as something to be given more value, the correct value. Guitar playing has always been my trademark. The guitar has been central to my youth. I started playing at 11 with clumsy attempts that my 9 year old sister had started. It was an old acoustic guitar, so cheap it hurt our fingertips very quickly. It was at our father’s parents home, seldom played by my father’s younger brother. My father had bought it used in the 50s. Soon a new acoustic followed but, again, cheap. It was new at least. We must have destroyed it by playing it in any circumstances. My parents bought me my first electric guitar just before I turned 16. And they made me the happiest teenager on Earth!