DianeB

If you search Amazon for books of "guitar scales", dozens come up. But scales are merely a means to an end. What, exactly, is your musical goal in the near term? The answer will narrow your focus.

@duck There are some with TrueFire. But I strongly encourage your daughter to meet with an instructor in person. Shyness and awkwardness come with being 14 years old. Avoiding personal interaction is a sure route to poor technique and bad habits, especially in the young. She will miss out on encouragement and direction. Look for a community music school near you, if possible, where you are likely to find an instructor with experience with young people. She can always work with recorded lessons as well.

Nashville's loss is Anaheim's gain.

Folded into the memories of those who knew World War II, or at least anyone who recalls the final sequence of "Dr. Strangelove", is the 40s standby “We’ll Meet Again”. Written in 1939 by English songwriters Ross Parker and Hughie Charles and best known as performed by Vera Lynn, its signature harmonic climb reveals a rare but unmistakable sequence of extended dominant function. Illustrated here in D, following the sheet music I have (a couple of passing chords omitted): We’ll meet again, don’t know where, don’t know when, D6 F#7 B6 C7 B7 D : I V/V/V/V V/V/V bc V/V/V but I know we’ll meet again some sunny day. Keep… E7 Em7 A7b9 D6 V/V V I That’s a dominant (A7), preceded by a secondary dominant (E7), preceded by a tertiary dominant (B6 and B7), preceded by a quaternary dominant (F#7). The C is a borrowed chord. As I was culling some charts of songs I don’t play anymore, I was about to toss this one in the recycling, when I paused to study the progression. It came from my former neighbor Don. He played banjo, and invited me to his house a few times to play some of the classic tunes. Don was a Korean War veteran. We enjoyed some pleasant afternoons together until his health began to fail. He’s been gone a few years now, but he’d be pleased to know he still had something to show me.

Blues purists, this one's for you: Smithsonian Magazine visits Bentonia, Mississippi and the Blue Front Cafe to listen in on Jimmy "Duck" Holmes, one of the last of his kind, in one of the last places of its kind.

Epilog I’m back home after my usual extra week of stops in Tennessee, North Carolina, and Virginia. Lately it’s the only significant traveling I do. I see friends and family, decompress, and ease myself back into the real world. Ironically, the two weeks carve a hole in my practice and playing, but it’s a healthy break. I don’t feel guilty, only blessed that I have the chance. A theme of several of my conversations with my guitar pals was: enjoy this to the fullest — in time this, too, will pass. I’ve come to know many of our gang like family. I am grateful for your kind words and constant encouragement. I’m just trying to pay it forward where I can. This gathering felt especially intimate after skipping a year. It was my sixth, and counting two retreats, my eighth event with Steve. There’s nowhere else I could stumble through a song in front of sixty people with every face looking my way. That’s a memory to cling to — when it all goes crazy and the thrill is gone.

On to the finish line. It’s Showcase Day, which means I wear my heart necklace with the music note on it. Steve’s workout was a short pentatonic lick in various keys. To my dismay, I noticed that even after some warming up, my fingers were not cooperating. Wake up, little Susies, I muttered, we gotta get to work in a few minutes. We scattered the chairs and music stands and clambered around the stage for Chuck Thompson to take the group photo. A dozen exposures and twice that number of wisecracks later, it was snack time. Now, for any teacher’s favorite moment: seeing his students go for it. The Student Showcase hour featured a dozen first timers and old hands alike. One could sense everyone in the room silently rooting for their friends on stage. I like to watch Steve watching us. He simply glows with pride. When I leaned into the microphone for my first line, it sounded like someone else singing, someone better than me. My fingers were still sleep deprived, but as I looked out on the faces before me, including Steve’s, that didn’t matter. Applause and cheers for all. The heartfelt hugs. Once more, the clang of chairs stacking, the snaps of cases closing, the calls for just one more picture. The cars and trucks coming to life, ferrying away the guitars and the memories. Later, Greg, Pat, and I rendezvoused back in the parking lot — my usual tactic — for a night at the Opry. We scored center seats near the front for Ricky Skaggs, Sara Evans, Vince Gill and others on Bill Anderson’s 60th anniversary with the Opry. The house was packed and appreciative for the occasion. Finally, even we three die hards had to part. One last check to ensure the lights were off, and no stray picks were left on the sidewalk. Then our triad arpeggiated into the Nashville night.

Down the backstretch hard, and turning for home. Does Pat Lindgren ever sleep? She had a jam going at 8:30 am when I walked in the door. Eventually they had to stop to give Steve a chance to run his show. We started with a lesson from Steve and Dino on solo improvising. Joe Robinson returned for a masterclass on fingerpicking, for which I afterwards heard only praise for his skill as a teacher. Check out JoeRobinson.com to see for yourself. My noon expedition with Greg in search of the Hattie B’s on 8th street, only 12 minutes away, devolved into a 45 minute loop of central city, two crossings of the Cumberland, an encounter with a funeral procession, and a near collision with an idiot who cut in front of us. He promised to have the GPS app humanely euthanized. Back to theory land with Steve for me. He responds to the phrase “tritone substitution” the way most most people respond to “free dessert”. Enough said. Another new guest artist this year was Scott Bernard, side man to Kenny Loggins. Scott walked us through his pedalboard as he explained how he gets the tone he wants. The gearhounds among us couldn’t get enough. We wrapped with singers Debi Shelby and Peter Penrose demonstrating how guitarists can be proper accompanists. They closed with soaring harmony on a hymn that brought a tear to my eye and the whole gang to their feet. After a short break at my hotel to panic about tomorrow’s song and where to find dinner tonight, I scooped up Liz at Trevecca and executed Operation Tell Greg Where to Go. He was already waiting at the LongHorn when Liz and I pulled up. We toasted our teacher and cheerfully took the rap for each other for Liz’s benefit. Then off to Franklin. On Main Street I had to wait for some tourists to cross in front of me. They looked a lot like David, Keith, and Mark. We parked and strolled towards towards the Franklin Theatre as Greg rolled by, shouting out his window: “Diane! Where did you park?” Operation TGWTG still nominal. The Franklin Theatre is a little gem within a diamond of a town. Poor Liz, sitting to my right: I had not been sitting next to the gentleman on my left for more than five minutes before we were into George Gruhn’s albino snake, Carter guitars, and David Grier. Tonight a full house welcomed the return of Larry Carlton to the stage after a year’s absence for the shutdown. Drums, sax, trombone, keys, bass, and everything of Steely Dan except Donald and Walter. They bid us goodnight; we clapped for an encore. I turned to Liz and shouted, “Well, he has to come back for ‘Peg’”. He did. Liz and I looked at each other and grinned.

Around the first turn we go. Steve’s workout exercised the mechanics of picking and strumming. If the morning coffee had yet to kick in, the pot of Bart Walker’s steaming hot blues got us in gear. SRV at ten a.m.? Only at this affair. I strolled with Greg, first timer Liz, and our fellow migrating bluesbirds to the Subway at the front entrance. It felt good to walk around in the warmth — briefly. Liz and I camped at a table in the music building’s loft and enjoyed some leisurely quiet time getting acquainted over our sandwiches. Back in songwriting class, Kim critiqued some raw and finished compositions that had been sent to her overnight. She pitched us an pop exercise straight out of a prose writer’s workshop — two minutes to write seven song titles — 3, 2, 1, go! I managed three duds, a maybe, and a keeper that got her attention. Meanwhile, Steve and Paulette continued teaching theory and Collin had the fingerpickers a-boom-chucking away. Andy Reiss set the jazzers’ axes to “Phrase”, and Jim Hurst mowed down the bluegrass tricks. Kim kept my class running overtime, and I was on a roll, so I lingered until she had to leave. It meant skipping Steve’s worship music class, but my compensation was a blissful, quiet respite in the lounge before returning to Dino’s blues jam. We all piled back into the main room to wrap up with Parker Hasting’s thumb picking masterclass. He’s not quite twenty one years old and already teaches with more clarity and poise than a lot of tenured professors I’ve known. Jim Hurst and his trio entertained us at our evening concert with a sweet mix of toe tappers, ballads, and endearing stories. And his handshake? Warm as the Tennessee sunshine.

We’re all here, and we’re out of the starting gate. Trevecca’s main hall filled once again this morning with three score eager guitarists. With so many new faces around me, introductions spun out one after another. Paulette said there was no one this year from outside the U.S. Steve welcomed everyone, settled us down and called for questions. From the other side of the room I heard: “Steve, is your online moderator Diane here?” With that, any chance of staying under the radar was shot. Our first task was to get warmed up with stretches, then came Steve’s workout with basic chords. Flatpicker David Grier’s masterclass was indeed a class, as he not only entertained us but also patiently explained his techniques and how he learns them. I must paraphrase, but David urged us to play with people who are better musicians, and ask them how they do what they do. Persevere. It can be something simple, but play in time. How reassuring to hear a virtuoso admit, “the simplest things will befuddle me”. With no lunch service on campus, we had to scatter and scrounge. Greg Otto and I followed the GPS-recommended, presumably scenic, route to M. L. Roses — mobbed as usual — but found a table and managed to return without crossing county lines. I hurried back inside, scooped up my gear, and scurried past a crowded room where Collin Hill started up his finger style workshop. Seeking something new this year, I parked in the back of Kim McClean’s session on songwriting. Elsewhere, Greg Voros taught setup and maintenance, and Paulette covered introductory music theory. Steve had about half of us for his blues basics workshop while the jazzers found their sevenths on the second floor with Andy Reiss. We broke into six groups of about ten each for beginner, bluegrass, jazz, and blues jams. My blues group was led by our friend Dino Pastin and his son Vince. We were all skill levels, and I could see we were all having a ball. Bluegrass pro Jim Hurst closed out the day with sincere advice to make your music your own and play from your heart. As I finished a solo dinner, I realized I was about to fall asleep right in my food. Outside I saw road work, and I remembered Kim’s challenge to write a song for tomorrow. Write a song? I could barely chew. But I had an idea. Two words, a title perhaps. I drove back to Trevecca, parked in the shade, sat in the AC and wrote a verse on my iPad. Hardly thinking, I took out my phone and sang it to a melody that came from — wherever they come from. Then a chorus. Recorded that, too. Tweaked the title. Geez, I thought, this is already half a song. Suddenly I was awake. We closed out the night with an acoustic concert featuring master fingerstylists Collin, Parker Hastings, and Joe Robinson. What a first day. Maybe by lunch tomorrow I’ll have a song for Kim.

I stepped out of my car into a warm, sunny, muggy afternoon in Nashville. On the seat, I saw a glint of blue and green — two picks I thought were already lost. A good omen. With me behind the music building at Trevecca sat only a single blue SUV, but I recognized it as the one that matters. We were back. Paulette greeted me with a big smile and a warm hug. She had already set up the store, organized the goodie bags, and arranged the chairs. The stage was assembled, and Timothy arrived with the ice. Nothing left for me to do. I treaded softly up the steps toward a familiar figure who was tweaking a video message board. “Just make sure I look good,” I said with a smile. Another big hug, from Steve. I left him to his preparations and returned to the rehearsal hall. Others were arriving. Paulette said we were up to 61 this time, along with some spouses. Soon we had about half that number for the meet and greet. We had serious catching up to do over our ice cream. The room filled with animated, excited chatter as the first timers met the old hands — and I suppose that now I fall into the latter group. It’s particularly nice to meet in person for the first time someone you’ve only known through the discussion board. And there are many first timers. Attendance this year is a bit off. There were 90 plus here in 2019. I suspect that the pandemic took its toll on budgets, priorities, and even health. But here, for a few days, anticipation, fellowship, and music will be in the air. We’re already thinking of our guitar friends who just can’t be with us. Wherever you are, tune up and play along with us in spirit. We are back.

@Dave White has updated this list as of July 10, 2021. It's attached as a PDF below because we had difficulty maintaining the links. As Dave advises: Note the hours of operation – some shops continue to only be open by appointment. My advice is to call and check with each shop in advance of your visit. There's info on: • Artisan Guitars • Carter Vintage Guitars • Gruhn Guitars • The North American Guitar (formerly Cotten Music) Nashville Guitar Stores.pdf

@QuietlyBold Welcome back! You're probably still finding your way around the new neighborhood. Here is Steve's piece on setting up a practice space. Attached below is a 2015 booklet from DiskMakers on setting up a home studio. I hope these can get you thinking. home-studio-handbook.pdf

As of June 30, we have 52: Eric A. Tim B. Clarke B. Diane B. Dennis B. Gene C. Mark C. Ken C. Deano C. Andrew C. Douglas C. Michael D. Steve D. Jim F. Paulette F. Lucio F. John G. Thomas H. Paul H. Steven H. Lyle J. Itachak K. Patricia L. Jack L. Susan M. Charles M. David Mc. Jerry M. David Me. John M. William N. Thomas N. Greg O. Kraig P. Eric P. Lynn R. Steve R. Rick R. Wiliam R. John Sib. John Sik. Ernest S. Brian S. Elizabeth S. Chris S. Robert S. Gerald T. Reginald W. David W. Daryl W. Kenneth W. Roxanne Z. # # #

American Masters presents the broadcast premiere of Buddy Guy: The Blues Chase the Blues Away, a new documentary on living legend George “Buddy” Guy, a blues master who transcended his early years as a sharecropper in Lettsworth, Louisiana to become one of the most influential guitarists of all time. A Rock and Roll Hall of Fame inductee and eight-time GRAMMY winner, Guy is a pioneer of Chicago’s fabled West Side sound and a living link to the city’s halcyon days of electric blues. American Masters — Buddy Guy: The Blues Chase the Blues Away premieres Tuesday, July 27 at 9 p.m. on PBS (check local listings).