Coming to a juke joint near you: The Yupneck Blues

I’m one of those aggravating folks who, when you ask what they want for their Christmas or birthday, respond: “I don’t want anything you can buy.”

It’s true. If you can purchase a good night’s sleep, peace of mind, next week’s MegaMillions winning numbers or world peace, well, by all means, buy it and wrap it up for me. Otherwise, I’m good. Save your money.

So, I was pretty suspicious when my wife ordered me to come with her shopping just before my birthday and Father’s Day. She wanted me to help pick something out. She’s not a huge fan of my taste in furniture, art, clothes, vehicles, food, books, pencils, paper clips, etc., so I knew this was obviously going to be something particular.

And I’m not particular about much, so I knew we were heading to a music store. Granted, I’m also particular about comfortable underwear, but I could have picked those out at the Wally World down the street. No, she obviously was going to force me to buy an electric guitar.

I’ve strummed an acoustic guitar for years, learning most chords while badly performing Jimmy Buffett tunes for the squirrels in my backyard. (By the way, you don’t know rejection until you’ve had squirrels throw acorns at you after they’ve tailgated all day waiting for you to belt out some “Margaritaville.”)

When I first started dating my wife around the holidays in 2010, she found out I had a guitar and asked me to serenade her. I played and sang Adam Sandler’s “The Hanukkah Song” — to which she obviously thought, “He’s a idiot; I like idiots.”

I love music stores, but I find them intimidating. In a reputable music store, there are all kinds of talented musicians testing out instruments, and they all sound like Eric Clapton at sound check or something. Meanwhile, I have the musical ability of a large boulder, so I’m not really keen on plugging in an electric guitar and taking it for a test drive in front of these talented folks. It’s like when I’m playing golf and have to tee off in front of guys who are practically pros.

(“Please, please, Mr. Golf Ball, don’t slice into into one of their windshields in the parking lot.”)

My wife, though, insisted I try out the guitar I’d picked out, which — as will come as no surprise to those who know me — was significantly more affordable than most. But it’s cool looking and has strings and knobs and stuff. If you ask me what kind of guitar I bought, I can tell you “a black one.”

So, my wife cranks up the amp a bit as I plug in the cord and then pluck a B string, and eardrums coincidentally begin bursting and bleeding throughout the store, which I found very distracting to my guitar judging. Probably even explains some plane crashes in the area, too. Yet, it didn’t take me long to decide, “Yep, this one.” Boy, if there’s anything my guitar playing ever needed, it was to be electrified and louder!

Now, I’m stuck between a rock and an untalented place. Until now, my wife has been convinced the main difference between me and her favorite musician, John Mayer — besides the fact that he’s better looking, richer, taller and has dated 40 percent of America’s Jennifers — is that I didn’t own an electric guitar. I actually managed to get her backstage to meet the guy a couple years ago, and I thought that’d satisfy her. But, no, now I’ve got to learn to play like him.

It may be a while, though, as I’ve got to download a lot of tutorials and watch a lot of YouTube. Then, I plan to dive wholeheartedly into learning the blues. I’m already writing songs such as “Troyburger Blues,” “Yupneck (half-yuppie, half-redneck) Blues” and “The Blues Blues.” I’m sure you’ll be hearing them when I start landing gigs at small-town juke joints, pool halls or, more likely, some 9-year-old’s lemonade stand. I’m sure those offers will pour in any day now.

Yep, any day now.

This story was originally published June 25, 2016 at 8:38 PM with the headline "Coming to a juke joint near you: The Yupneck Blues."