Skip to main content

Why I Play Guitar

People have asked me over the years, and some of you reading this may have wondered, what got me started playing guitar?

I can answer in 2 words: Joe Negri



Joe Negri is a genius...but he's too polite and too humble to ever admit it. Or even acknowledge it. He just plays. And plays. And plays. And plays rings around almost any guitarist you've ever heard.

I first heard him play when I was a kid. Maybe 5 years old. He used to be on Paul Shannon's Adventure Time TV show. Little did I know at the time, he was also the music director for the station. When I was about 8, my Cub Scout troupe was part of the audience, and I got to hear him play live and got to meet the man. He amazed me. He made it look so simple and so fun. Joe has always been great with kids and has inspired countless "kids" of all ages to start playing guitar.



Somewhere at my dad's house, is a photo of my mom and some of her friends with Joe at a show. I've told Joe about this photo many times and if I can ever find it again, I'll be giving him a copy. The original will be framed and hung in my den/music room!

When I moved back to Pittsburgh in 1990, I was thrilled to find that Joe was still performing regularly. I used to go see him play these happy hour shows at the Westin William Penn Hotel downtown. I would badger him with requests for songs like "Moonlight In Vermont" and the original Johnny Smith version of "Walk Don't Run" (yes kids, it was originally a jazz song!). Joe would laugh and ask how I know all of these old songs! Then he would play them and just leave my jaw swinging!

Back then, I was still playing bass a bit and was mostly playing upright bass. Joe asked me once to join his band. Needless to say, I declined on grounds of incompetence! I was honest with him that I felt that my playing (mostly rockabilly/blues based) was far too rudimentary for backing him. He asked me to reconsider but I held firm. In short, I was chickenshit. When I think back on how much I could have learned from that man! JEEZ!!!!!!!

I've gotten to hear and often times befriend some of the best players in the biz. Joe is no exception but I'll tell ya...he outplays them all. Is he as fast as the late Danny Gatton? Maybe not. Is he as inventive as the late Les Paul? Maybe not...but his playing is best likened thusly: his music is like making love. All others are just masturbating.

Joe is 85 now. He's still playing although sadly not as often. I'm lucky enough to hear from him maybe once a year and let me tell you, to me thats akin to getting a call or email from God himself! I've been trying to talk him into letting me produce a solo guitar CD for him. He's so humble, he feels he needs a band with him. I, for one, would love to hear him do a record of just him and his guitar. Just sit him in the studio and let him just play for 4-5 hours. I bet it would be AMAZING!!!!!!!!

Anyhoo, Joe Negri is, and always will be, THE MAN when it comes to playing guitar. If I could play like him, I'd forget rock, blues, rockabilly, country, etc. But if it hasn't happened in the past 34 years, its not likely to happen any time soon! I guess I'll just keep on rockin' and wishing I could jam like Joe.





If you ever get the chance to go see him perform, GO! Well into his 80s, his playing is still amazing! Google him if you get the chance. He's had an amazing career!



God bless you Joe Negri. You inspired me (and countless others) to pick up the guitar and make countless hours of music. And that, friends, is the greatest gift I've ever had.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Let's Talk Typing

When I was a kid, we had an already ancient Royal typewriter at home. Book reports, certain schoolwork, or in my case, just for making noise. Mom had a nice electric typewriter that she used for work. But that old Royal - that's probably where my love of writing began. - MM I was thinking about my old typewriter last night. Writing was serious back then. Forty pounds of steel, keys, and ribbon. No batteries. No updates. No distractions. Just you and the machine. And that machine fought back. Type too fast and the keys would jam together like two drunks fighting in a bar. Type too slowly or too lightly and it might just decide you didn’t really need that letter or that word. Sometimes it felt like the thing had opinions. Like it was quietly judging you. You learned quickly. You learned rhythm. You learned pressure. You learned patience. It was like a built-in editor made of steel and stubbornness. Made a mistake? Start over. Or, if you didn’t mind your work looking like hell, dab s...
Post a Comment
Read more

Folks Don't Go on Quiet Hill

  "Why is everyone so afraid of going up there?" The city girl had been pestering the locals for a few days now. Said she was a reporter or something. The honest truth was there was never really any news to report from around these parts. Every year, the seasons changed, but not much else. The deer hunters came and went, like they always did. The hikers and campers came and went, like they always did. The holidays came and went. Winter, spring, summer, fall. Rinse and repeat. Just the way things were up here in the hills. Walt Henley was renting out his old hunting cabin to her - dirt cheap, too. He figured she'd be gone after a day or two. The place had well water, which was usually enough to run off most city folks. But this gal was determined to find a story - even if she had to make one up out of whole cloth. Walt's mother, Abigail, was the one who invited the city girl to lunch. "It's the polite thing to do," she admonished him. "It's the C...
Post a Comment
Read more

THE BOOK I'LL NEVER WRITE

He sometimes said his greatest regret was not taking the old Trans-Siberian Railway eastward to Lake Baikal. Not because he cared much for bucket lists. He considered such catalogs as vanity with stationery, for those who had wasted decades suddenly writing down ten expensive ways to continue wasting time. No, what he regretted was more precise than that. He regretted never sitting in a dim canteen somewhere near Irkutsk while some broad-faced stranger lied to him magnificently over soup and vodka. He regretted never hearing the room laugh at a joke he only half understood. He regretted missing stories that would now likely never be told the same way again. His body had long since vetoed such ambitions. These days he was lucky if the month’s arithmetic ended with enough left over for prescriptions. If Melinda French Gates wished to finance a crippled Pennsylvanian’s global adventures, he remained open to discussion, but until then, conversations near Lake Baikal would have to survi...
Post a Comment
Read more