I preferred practicing with my amplifier on and quite frequently had the record player going at the same time. I would find a part of a song I wanted to learn and repeat that part of the song until every living creature in the house—dog and cat included (even the fish would get weird)—would claw and scrape at the door to get out.

The process would go something like this…

I would hear a part in a song that I wanted to learn. First, I would have to tune my guitar to the song which wasn’t very difficult. Just play the record and find the closest root note and tune up or down slightly to match the record. Then I would play rhythm guitar along with the song until I got comfortable with the structure, all the while listening to the melody. This could take several playings at this early stage of my musical education, already enough to tax the most patient (mostly my Mom) of those still in the house. When I was finally satisfied with my knowledge of the general structure of the song, I would settle down to learn the complex lead guitar work.

Most solo work starts out relatively simple and gets slightly more complex as it goes on. I could generally catch the first couple of bars in just a couple of playings.

Let me tell you first about my record player. I didn’t have the luxury of a tape player that could pause and resume exactly where it left off. At this time 8-tracks were a luxury item for most and few people had them. The radio was the main thing to listen to in the car. I had a small, flip-out record player with two speakers at this time. There was no damping cue control to lift or lower the tone arm up gently, preserving the record’s surface. I had to reach over and lift, as gently as I could, the tone arm with my finger and place it back in the cradle to pause any playing. When I wanted to resume playing the record, I had to lift the tone arm and lower it back onto the record as closely as I could to the point where I lifted it. I got very good at this.

But I ruined a lot of records in the process.

As the parts I wanted to learn became more complex, this lifting, lowering, and repeating process became more frequent and shorter in duration. As they became more frequent and shorter, so did the lack of patience in my family. They would begin finding excuses to leave the house.

My father became very good at golf, often leaving for the course long before what seemed like an acceptable hour to begin learning rock and roll. He could make 18 holes last through my entire learning sessions and seemed quite happy to do so. My mother joined him sometimes which was a great way for them to spend time together.

My sister Susie had a life of her own. She had lots of friends and spent a lot of time out of the house doing who-knows-what. My other sister Debbie seemed to be interested in whatever I was doing, but I think she just wanted some type of companionship. She didn’t have as many friends as Susie, nor did she seem as adept at making them. But her incessant chattering kept me from being able to concentrate on my learning, so I ejected her a few times and she seemed to get the hint. She took up reading and is, to this day, a prolific reader. My brother Billy became very adept at sports and even though we shared a room, was nearly always gone to a baseball, basketball or football game—even out of season. I don’t know if this was due to my practicing or to a natural love of sports—or music.

One day while sitting in the living room after breakfast, I announced that I had a song to learn for the band so I was going to my room.

"I’m going over to Cindy’s," said Susie as she broke for the back door.

"I’ve got to go to the grocery store," said Mom as she snagged her purse and headed out the front door.

"Can you drop me off at the gym? I’m going to see if there’s a pickup game," announced Billy.

"Got a pile of books from the library," said Debbie. "think I’ll try to make a dent in them." She headed for her room, closed the door and blocked off the bottom with a pillow.

"I’m heading to the club (golf course)," pronounced Dad.

"But, Dad," I said, "It’s raining."

He looked out the front window. "So it is. Well, it’ll let up."

"Dad, it’s so dark outside that the street lights are on."

"I could take an umbrella…and a flashlight."

"It looks like the rain is going sideways, Dad," I said. "I don’t think that will help. And you can’t use an umbrella while you swing."

"Yeah. You’re right. Maybe I should just stay and watch some TV," he said with a noticeable degree of dejection.

And so he did. I wish it hadn’t been raining.

I tried to keep it down while I was practicing. It was going okay for about 30 seconds when Dad yelled from his recliner, "Davy! Turn it down!" I did, and cut down the record player to accommodate the lowered volume on my amp.

Another minute went by. "It’s still too loud!" yells Dad. Again I turn down.

Another minute. "Too loud!" Adjust again.

Forty-five seconds. "Cut it down!" Adjust again. I’m getting angry.

We go through this dance for about five minutes and I’m not learning anything. Finally, after I can hear the sound of my pick hitting the strings louder than my amplifier, I shut off the amp and just decide to practice other stuff, maybe until the rain breaks and I can get down to some serious learning. So, I’m now sitting in front of my amp on the floor just strumming a song.

Suddenly, Dad walks past my door and says he can still hear me. I reach over and push my door closed and strum some more.

"Can you hear it now?" I ask with a great deal of agitation in my voice.

"Yes. Can you turn the damn thing down anymore?" he asks.

"No, Dad. It’s not even turned on!"

"Well, I don’t want to hear it anymore," he says.

I stop strumming. I’m really angry. I stand up holding my guitar by the neck with a death grip on it that is turning my knuckles white. I’m seething. I Can’t even strum an unplugged electric guitar without getting complaints from my Dad! How can I ever learn anything this way?! I’m pacing around my room. This is crap! I grit my teeth. I want to yell.

I take my guitar by the neck with both hands and send it crashing down on the arm of the chair in my room. It strips the threads out of the four screws that hold the neck to the body and now I’m standing there holding the neck and the body is dangling by the strings below me.

Dad didn’t hear a thing.

My energy is spent. I am now left with a guitar that is in serious need of repair and tears streaming down my face.

I have mortally wounded my best friend. I have lashed out at one of the things I love the most. There is probably some deep-rooted psychological reason for what I did, but I certainly can’t explain it. Teenaged anger is common. And I had my share of it. Unfortunately, this is a pattern I repeated more than once.

Over the years in fits of anger, I have broken the necks off of my Kingston guitar and a Guya guitar, I have cut the strings off at least a dozen guitars, thrown my Gretsch guitar out into the back yard in a driving rain, and put a fist through the face of a beloved Fender F-12 guitar. I threw down a Peavey Mace combo amp so hard once that the transformer pulled free of its mount and dropped completely out. I guess there’s some truth to the old addage, "You always hurt the one you love."

I would have been better off picking up any one of them and playing it instead.