| Guest post by Git from Miss’a’sippi |
So there I was, a hotshot college freshman at Miss’a’sippi State University, feelin’ like I’d just conquered the world by learning how to microwave a burrito without it exploding. Life was good. I had my hoodie, my flip phone, and a vast, complex understanding of 90s rock (read: I could name every Nickelback song by title and maybe three chords total).
Now, where I come from, we had folks who could strum a guitar. You know, pick out the intro to “Smoke on the Water” at a bonfire, maybe pluck through “Wonderwall” if they were real fancy. And in high school, bands were kind of a big deal. Bunch of kids would slap together some instruments, call themselves “Vengeful Biscuit” or something equally majestic, and blast Green Day covers at every house party within a 15-mile radius.
I thought that was the pinnacle of musical mastery.
Enter: The Guitar Recital
Enter college. And with it, one Dr. Farley. He was my history professor, a man who had a wardrobe consisting entirely of elbow-patched jackets and the energy of a dad who owns way too many Civil War books.
Turns out, his wife worked in the music department. She wrangled students who actually wanted to do music for a living. Like real, proper musicians who understood stuff like diminished sevenths and weren’t just trying to impress the girls at open mic night.
Dr. Farley had a genius system: bonus points if we went to student recitals and wrote up a little review. Free points? Yes, sir. I was there with bells on!
The Night Everything Changed
Most recitals were solid. Violins, pianos, maybe some flute action. Everyone was good, sure, but nothing that knocked my socks off. It was like watching Olympic figure skating when you’ve only ever seen someone trip in a roller rink: impressive, but expected.
But then one night, this kid walks out with a classical guitar.
I was already halfway into mentally drafting my “fake thoughtful” write-up—“the performer demonstrated a sensitive handling of tonal dynamics’—when he started playing.
Folks, let me tell you: my jaw hit the floor!
This dude’s fingers were doing things I didn’t even know were legal in most states. He had this whole Spanish-style thing going on—notes flying everywhere, rhythms bouncing all around. It was delicate and fierce all at once. Like watching a hummingbird throw hands.
It wasn’t just music. It was wizardry.
Wait… You’re That Guy?
Fast forward to the next semester. I roll into a history writing seminar, and there he is. The Guitar Guy. Just sittin’ there, like he hadn’t completely restructured my understanding of music a few months back.
I leaned over like the starstruck goober I am and said, “Hey! You’re the guitar dude! I saw your recital. You’re awesome!”
He laughed and thanked me in that chill way people do when they’re actually talented but somehow still humble. I asked if he played around town. That was the dream gig around State—you could make decent money playing for tipsy students yelling out requests for “Free Bird.”
But nah.
He told me it wasn’t his scene. Said classical guitar’s a different beast. You don’t just stroll into a bar, plug in your amp, and melt faces with Bach.
Then he hit me with this: “Nobody really wants to hear classical guitar… unless they already like classical guitar.”
The Moral of the Story (If There Is One)
And you know what? He was probably right. There’s not much call for baroque fugues at a party. But still, I never forgot it—that one night in a near-empty recital hall where some quiet kid with a six-string turned my whole definition of “cool” inside out.
Me? I still can’t tell you what an arpeggio is. But every now and then, I’ll hear a screaming guitar solo on the radio and think:
“Yeah… that’s good. But it ain’t Guitar Guy good.”
Photo by Bekir Litovchenko on Unsplash
Veni, Vidi, Scripsi 