W. Bruce Cameron - Guitar Mad

Oct 25, 20120

Editor’s Note: The following column was originally published in 2007.

I’ve always thought that the purpose of musical instruments was to produce music, but my new neighbor — a 20-something young man with an electric guitar — doesn’t seem to agree. When he plays his instrument, it sounds like he is doing something really awful over there, like peeling an electric cat.

Not that I’m against electric guitar music — I’m a baby boomer, so I believe my generation invented that, plus everything else.

He doesn’t seem to be taking lessons — he’s entirely self-deluded. But what he lacks in skill he makes up for in amplification. Every night around dinnertime, the entire neighborhood vibrates as if under attack from a giant dental drill.

Gradually, the wail and hum of his efforts has organized itself into a recognizable pattern, to which my neighbor has added his voice in a song titled, “I Can’t Sing, Either.” This is his opening number every evening, and also his closer. The rest of the time, it sounds like he is systematically destroying his guitar with a hacksaw.

I’ve called the police to ask if they could please come over and dispense Vicodin.

When I described my problem, they sent a patrolman to my house to explain why they couldn’t just have the cops discuss the situation with the young musician using bullets.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Cameron, but I’m not willing to go over there and shoot your neighbor’s kid,” the officer apologized.

“That’s because you haven’t heard him play yet,” I responded.

The officer seemed to consider this, and then he pointed out something that hadn’t occurred to me because, since the arrival of the guitar, I hadn’t been capable of thought.

“When neighbors start calling the law on each other, it always escalates,” he said.

“Do you want that?”

If by “escalates” he meant “the SWAT team opens fire,” then sure, of course I wanted that. But I saw what he was getting at — people shouldn’t turn to the police to solve their problems if there’s a possibility that they can sit down, neighbor-to-neighbor, and agree to throw the guitar out the window. I decided to put on earmuffs and go over there.

When I knocked on the front door of my neighbor’s home, I don’t know who I expected to answer it — Satan, probably. Needles would be hanging from his arms, and his skin would be covered with tattoos of vile creatures attacking schoolchildren. He’d listen contemptuously, spit on me and slam the door.

But the young man who responded looked less like an evil demon and more like the counter clerk in a donut shop, his pale face timid and shy. I introduced myself, and he said his name was Darth.

“If I’d been a girl it was going to be Leia,” he explained.

“Or Yoda.”

I told him I was there because several of the neighbors were hoping that when he practiced the guitar he would shut his windows and stop playing. He was shocked.

“You can hear me?” he moaned, his whole body quivering with shame. “I’m sorry. I’m not used to such a quiet neighborhood.”

I wondered where he lived before that he could make such a racket and no one would hear him — the Chicago airport? He told me he was saving up for lessons, but right now he was just teaching himself.

“No, really?” I responded.

As we chatted, I realized I had misjudged the young man. Darth was just a boy trying desperately to master a skill that looked easy on MTV. You swung a guitar around, colored lights flashed, and girls threw their underwear at you. He hadn’t considered that he was making every dog in the neighborhood want to run away. He was so apologetic he was almost weeping, and it made me feel bad that I had fantasized about setting him on fire.

Darth agreed that he would keep his windows shut and his amplifier turned down, and to hold off giving a Live Earth concert until he was sure it wouldn’t damage the planet. And I learned a valuable lesson: People might be really, really nice on the inside, even if on the outside they’re causing you pain.

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