My son inspired me to dust off my guitar today. In doing so, I learned how to play “Zombie” by the Cranberries. From there, I fall down a rabbit hole leading to Elvis and O. Henry.
I haven’t picked up my guitar and played it for more than 15 minutes in I can’t tell you how long. Today, I did. My son inspired me by first playing his own guitar. Then, about an hour later, he moved his drum set from our room back into his (“Hallelujah!” the preacher man said to the congregation) and banged away on his kit for another two hours.
I thought, “You know what? I’m going to play my guitar too.” So I did. I moseyed on over to Ultimate-Guitar, clicked on Tabs, scrolled down a ways, saw “Zombie” by the Cranberries, and fired up Spotify. It’s been a minute since I visited Ultimate-Guitar. I’d forgotten how vast its chord library was.
Ultimate-Guitar.com has been online since 1998 when I was in a rock band in high school. I used to print the ever-loving s-h-i-t out of some bass tabs from that site.
Me: “I need more printer ink, mom.”
My mom: “What for?”
Me: “Ultimate-Guitar has new Rancid bass tabs.”
Four chords: Em, C, G, and D/F#
I got the song down pat before it even ended. “Zombie” is only four chords and you can’t get much easier than Em, C, G, and D/F#, even if you suck at guitar. Raises hand. You repeat the chords throughout the verse and chorus. There’s a slight change for the instrumental after the second chorus and again in the outro, but no additional chords. Instead of the order above, it’s Em, C, Em, C.
Which begs the question: should I make learning 3-4 songs a week my new hobby?
Lately, I’ve felt like I need more hobbies in my life. Something hands on. I run and play basketball. I do yard work. I write. All that jazz. But I used to play guitar a lot more. I started whittling, then stopped. I’ve been thinking of starting back up.
I’ve contemplated painting for years. Buy a canvas. Place it in my backyard. Lay down a drop cloth. Start flinging paint like a madman while the squirrels and birds whisper amongst themselves: “He’s lost it, I tell you. He’s lost it!” Yet, it’s stayed a contemplation only.
It’d be easy to learn a few new songs each week on guitar. Hell, I could knock out five Social Distortion songs in a day I think. I don’t say that with ill intent. Social D is one of my favorite bands and they are one of the more accessible bands from the rhythm guitar side of the house to learn.
I may even bust out my old bass guitar. I’m not a natural guitar player. My hands are too big. Great for basketball, not so much when trying to scrunch your fingers down small enough to form a tight chord.
I’m a bass guy.
Big fret spacing.
Big strings.
Let my fingers do the walking. But my bass is in dire need of new strings. Probably need to check on when I received my last tetanus shot before I roll my fingers over the fretboard. There is indeed some rust formation.
Next song I plan to learn on guitar: Can’t Help Falling In Love With You, by Elvis Presley
I almost chose to rock out to “Can’t Help Falling In Love With You” over “Zombie.” Both have backstories in my life.
Zombie
“Zombie” dates back to an eighth grade party in Red House when my buddy Dustin Mitchell took over DJ responsibilities. Goodbye pop music. Hello “Zombie” by the Cranberries.
Can’t Help Falling In Love With You
“Can’t Help Falling In Love With You” has its origin story with my wife and I when we were dating. I’d driven to her apartment in Richmond while she had the flu. Took care of her. Made her soup. Went grocery shopping for Gatorade, saltine crackers, and white bread. Taxied her to the doctor’s office. She was in rough shape.
On the way back from the doctor, an SUV trailing behind us about fifty yards started swerving left and right. Then it flipped like something you see in NASCAR, barrel rolling down I-95, before it came to a stop against the left guardrail.
I saw it all take place in my rearview.
I pulled off to the side of 95 and dialed 911 as I ran back to the scene.
Young mom and infant. The mom had already gotten out. She was frantic, screaming about her baby which was still inside the car, latched into a carseat, upside down. As I approached, another car stopped and a man jumped out. A marine I’d learn. He yanked open the second row SUV door and pulled the crying baby out.
In the distance, you could hear sirens approaching.
Later that evening, once back at Allison’s apartment, we stepped out to her balcony so she could get fresh air. I sat down beside her and read her my favorite short story: “The Last Leaf,” by O. Henry from beginning to end.
(And now you know why our son’s name is Henry.)
After the story, we went back inside her apartment where I pulled out my laptop and fired up “Can’t Help Falling In Love With You,” by Elvis Presley. I pulled her close to me to dance and told her to listen closely to the lyrics.
Can’t believe I did all that back then: the short story or the slow dance. I need to retrieve some of my old romantic ways. Parenting has made me rusty.
Even thinking about it reminds me of a story my mom told me about my dad once: how, one Valentine’s Day, he sprinkled rose petals all throughout our house.
I was like, “Dad, did what?”
So, that song’s up next. Maybe I’ll learn it, then play and sing it for her. I don’t know if I have the courage. We’ll see.