My first guitar lesson.

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I remember the time I turned up for my first guitar lesson.I was thinking this’ll be easy. I’ve seen The Who live. I’ve watched Summer holiday twice. I’ve got the fingers, I’ve got the angst, I’ve got the £9.00 Woolies acoustic with a strap that smells like a shoe shop in Gateshead. I’m basically halfway to being a tortured genius!

The teacher let’s call him Adrian, because of course he’s called Dave! He had this look that suggested he’d been teaching guitar since the Beatles were just four lads who couldn’t afford haircuts. He had the ponytail, the denim jacket, and the aura of a man who’s definitely said “It’s all about feel, mate” at least four times a day.

So Dave sits me down and goes, “Right, we’ll start with E minor.” And I’m like, “E minor? That’s the sad one, isn't it?” He nods, solemnly, like I’ve just unlocked the secrets of the universe. “Yes. That’s the one you play when your dog leaves you.”

I try to put my fingers on the strings and it’s like trying to do origami with sausages. My index finger’s doing a little dance on fret two, my middle finger’s having an existential crisis, and the rest of my hand’s just gone rogue. I strum and it sounds like someone dropped a toaster down the stairs.

Dave doesn’t flinch. He’s seen things. He’s taught teenagers. He’s taught accountants who think they’re Eric Clapton. He’s taught a man who tried to play “Bridge over troubled water” with a spoon. He just goes, “Good. Now again.”

And I’m sweating. I’m sweating like I’m on Mastermind and the specialist subject is “Chords I’ve Never Heard Of.” I ask him, “When do we get to the solos?” He laughs. Not a joyful laugh. More like the laugh of a man who’s just remembered he left school in 1957

“Solos?” he says. “Mate, you’ve got to earn the solo. You’ve got to bleed for the solo.”

Bleed? I thought I was here to learn music, not join a cult.

Then he gives me homework. Homework! I've got a paper-round. I play football in the park with my mates. I’ve got several scout badges . And now I’ve got more homework on top of school homework! “Practice E minor,” he says. “And don’t just play it. Feel it.”

So I went home, sit on the edge of my bed like a moody teenager I was, and I strum E minor for three hours. My cat leaves the room. My mam asks if I’m okay. I say, “I’m feeling it.” She says, “It sounds like you’re strangling a radiator.”

But the funny thing is I do feel it. Somewhere between the third blister and the moment I accidentally tuned the G string to oblivion, I feel it. I am one with the chord. I am the sadness. I am the minor.

And that, my friends, is how you begin your journey to becoming a rock god. Or at least someone who can play “Wonderwall” without crying.


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