I started learning the acoustic guitar when I was fifteen. I was mesmerized with its silver sound that seemed to stroke the chords of my heart, and I wanted to play myself. I took a series of lessons, earned calluses on my fingers and learned main chords and arpeggios. I didn’t become a virtuoso, of course, but my knowledge was enough to accompany my friend’s singing our favorite songs. She didn’t have a particularly strong voice, but it was not bad either and besides, she had a perfect ear, so we never were out of tune. We spent all the time after school picking up our favorite melodies and singing them one after another.
When the school years were over, our ways parted; we rarely saw each other and almost never hanged out together. My guitar playing lost its sense. I still would run my fingers over the strings once in a while, but my music practicing slowly faded. Solitary sessions didn’t work for me.
I still love guitars, their varnished glossy bodies, their tight silver strings. Sometimes I feel the itch in my fingers to play some chords; I have the wish to hug the fret board. But I don’t play anymore, I only listen. I listen to those who need no singer, who have the voice of their own, who make their instrument speak on behalf of their soul. Andrés Segovia, Paco de Lucia, Django Reinhardt, Joe Pass, Wes Montgomery… Oh my, there are so many names that sing to my heart, and I listen.