Evolution Of An Air Guitarist

During a drive home from Borders last week, I took advantage of the time alone to play my tunes louder than I would with my wife or little girl in the truck. While sitting at a stoplight, I noticed that my hands, the heels resting on the wheel, were playing a little air guitar to the cranked-up sounds coming from the guitarist on the recording. The player was the extraordinary slide guitarist Sonny Landreth, backing up Marshall Crenshaw on John Hiatt’s “Someplace Where Love Can’t Find Me.” It’s a great song, and Landreth totally owns it. No surprise, since he often has backed Hiatt as a member of the Goners.

Nothing about that moment at the light struck me as odd at the time. The next day, though, I replayed the scene in my mind while riding the Metro train to work. I didn’t so much revisit the act of playing a little air guitar at a traffic light, although that certainly happens far less than it used to, but more the song that inspired the action. Like a lot of guys, I’ve played my share of air guitar. (I’m not intending to sound sexist; I’m convinced that most women are above such foolish behavior). The majority of my air guitar has played out somewhere other than in the cab of my Dodge. Usually it has been on display in less-public forums: In my room as a teenager or, on occasion, in the privacy of my own home while Sharon and the Chicken Nugget were out. Easily my most public display of air-guitar prowess came in junior high, when I competed in a contest during a school dance. Thinking back, it’s hard to imagine that I even threw my hat in the ring. I guess I hadn’t become fully self-conscious yet. Today, you could forget about it. I won’t even dance in front of my wife. So there’s little chance I’m going to be showing her, or anybody else, my best duck walks, windmill chords, Pete Townshend jumps, Eddie Van Halen jumps, behind-the-neck and behind-the-back moves. Not to mention “guitar face.” My closeted air guitar affords me the luxury of snickering at those guys who compete in the annual Air Guitar World Championships.

Reflecting on my air-guitar repertoire, it seems that a lot of the players I attempted to mimic were widely recognized guitar gods. Van Halen’s “Eruption” was a popular piece in my early teens, as was the work of Randy Rhoads during his years with Ozzy Osbourne. In my later teens, Eric Clapton (Cream’s live version of “Crossroads” from “Wheels of Fire”) and Stevie Ray Vaughan often inspired my air jams.

Those scenarios make perfect sense. Teenagers have pantomimed to those tunes for years, ripping off solos and soaking up adulation from unseen multitudes. It certainly didn’t start during my adolescence. Chuck Berry, I suppose, has been inspiring air-guitar licks for more than 50 years. B.B. King, Freddie King and Django Reinhardt, among many others, were undoubtedly inspiring such behavior before Berry. As for the adulation, I remember getting really overheated to the point of nearly passing out while finishing second in that air-guitar contest at Lewiston Junior High School. Fortunately for me, some of the young ladies in my class came to my aid with cups of cold water and neck rubs, wanting to know if I was all right. Was I ever. Apparently, real chicks dig fake guitarists, too.

I’m getting a little sidetracked. The memory of my female classmates stuck with me much longer than what songs were chosen for the air-guitar contest. I’m pretty sure Led Zeppelin was in the mix. One thing is certain: The disc jockey did not have us strutting, preening and pretending to pick to a Marshall Crenshaw song. Air guitar, at least as I always understood it, is not inspired by power pop, no matter how tuneful it is. For me, it appears, that has changed. I can come to only one conclusion: My taste is becoming more refined. Or at least I’m finding greater inspiration as a music fan from players who are guitar heroes in more diverse ways. In part that reflects my changing taste. I haven’t listened to an entire Van Halen album in years. Ozzy just isn’t part of my life anymore. SRV will always be the king to me, though I don’t listen to his music with the near-constant frequency that I once did.

There’s no doubt that I enjoy twangy music more these days. And I find myself moved by the less-heralded guys like Landreth, Mike Campbell, David Rawlings, Robben Ford and Dan Auerbach of the Black Keys. When I was younger, my air-guitar antics were inspired by guys who played fast, real gunslingers. Nowadays, I’m also interested in taste, tone and nuance. Dire Straits’ “Brothers in Arms,” which is slow of tempo but tasteful beyond adequate description, is a song that might inspire me to pick out an imaginary guitar solo.

One thing seems constant, and I wonder if it is for others: I mimic what I can’t play. When I was 11 or 12, the picking in The Animals’ version of “House of the Rising Sun” was appealing. Now, even with my rudimentary guitar skills, I can play that song on a real-life, wood-and-wire guitar.

If that theory holds true, then great guitar players must not get the desire to play air guitar. What would Tony Rice pantomime to? Not “Blackberry Blossom,” “Jerusalem Ridge” or any other fiddle tune, that’s for sure. During his storied career, Rice has even covered jazz players like Wes Montgomery. Is there anything that would inspire him to pretend playing guitar? Probably not. He’d just pick up his trusty dreadnought and, with practice, figure out how to play the piece that was intriguing him.

That’s a luxury I’m not likely to ever have, though I’ll happily keep working toward acquiring Rice-like skills. I’ve made a few small steps. The Marshall Crenshaw episode suggests that I’m evolving as an air guitarist, too.