Fifteen Minutes: Endpaper: My Electric Vision

I HAD a dream.

I had a dream that one day I will rise up out of bed and live out the true promise of my life; I hold this truth to be self-evident: that I am created with the ability to learn the guitar.

Most people probably dream about monsters or romance or the future, but my rapid eye movement took me to some guy's basement for lessons on a Stratocaster.

This guitar dream was not just any dream that I had--it's one that I actually remember. I am notorious for not remembering my dreams. I can't even remember a dream 10 minutes after I wake up. In fact, the only dream of which I have a vague recollection comes from my childhood and involved me riding on a glass-bottom submarine with Captain Crunch, who was doing lines of cocaine--none for me, thanks--while reading a never-ending comic strip running along the ocean floor. I have no idea what that dream meant, but I think it must stem partially from my mother's never letting me eat sugar cereal.

But more than simply remembering the guitar dream, it was the dream's impeccable timing that sold me on its significance. It came to me as I slept during the morning hours of Jan. 1, 2000. There I was, with a clean slate for the next year, if not the next 100 or 1,000, and I had visions of finger plucking dancing in my head. If that's not a sign, well, hell, I don't know what is.

My musical past is pretty typical: forced piano lessons--again from my mother--for about eight years, and four years of drums. Since guitar wasn't offered, percussion--meaning drums!--was by far the coolest instrument choice a guy could have in grade school. Tuba ran a distant second. Why anyone would pick some instrument like the clarinet was beyond me. The chance to get a grade for beating things with sticks was irresistable.

While some people have their final clubs and such here at Harvard, the equivalent for me was the percussion section of the eighth grade band. Ten of us, all guys except for the bells player, (but bells aren't really percussion, anyway, so we didn't count her either) would take up our station at the back of the gigantic band room where we were stragetically positioned for fraternizing and making mischief. The band teacher, enraged, literally turned scarlet as we tried our best to sabotage the rehearsals. Some days, we would intentionally play off beat; others we would go on strike and refuse to play. I had never seen anyone so irate--without a doubt our disobedience gave him a few heart tremors. I hardly need to say that eighth grade band is still the greatest class I've ever taken.

But after I discovered radio stations beyond my hometown's KISS 108 equivalent, I realized that lead guitar is really where it's at. Although I would still love to have the late Keith Moon's talent on the skins, all of the true greats in rock-and-roll history have been lead guitarists. Just think of: Jimi Hendrix, Eric Clapton, Pete Townshend, Jimmy Page, Keith Richards, Lou Reed, Albert King, Robert Johnson, Muddy Waters, Buddy Guy. They have more talent in their respective pinky toenails than the Backstreet Boys would have if they multiplied their talent by a quadrillion. Yup. Multiplying zero by any positive integer still yields zero.

Soon after I discovered these guitar heroes, I realized that I wanted the powerful ability to play windmill guitar like Townshend on a turnthatracketdown classic like "My Generation," and I wanted the versatility to coax the most melodic notes out of my axe like Clapton on "Layla."

Maybe four years ago, I asked for a harmonica for Christmas in an attempt to learn a not-quite-as-cool instrument that was significantly easier. The idea was eventually to play blues harmonica so that, you know, if I ever wanted to form a blues band, I could play the harp and be the lead singer. That didn't pan out so well. About the only thing I can do is play along with some Bob Dylan songs like "Like a Rolling Stone," and even then I don't really know if I'm any good because I won't let anyone else listen. I would probably have a severe case of stage fright if that blues band ever materialized.

By the way, I'd call the band "The Goat Hearders." Get it? "Heard" instead of "herd." Kinda like "Beatles" instead of "beetles." Heardlemania. It could work. Alright, so "The Goat Hearders" name would probably end up in the trash, but the kids would like it. I'll come up with something better.

Band or no band, I no longer harbor hope of actually appearing onstage. Okay, so maybe I still harbor just a teensy bit of hope. Mostly, though, I would love just to strum a guitar to the opening strains of "Pinball Wizard" or "Crazy on You." I'm too late in the game to be a true star, so the best I can hope for is to play along with the classic rock station.

I'm going to have to hold off on my guitar dreams for a little while--at least until after I have a real job. I need a steady source of income in order to pay for a guitar and some lessons, and I need some free time, which I don't really have right now, for practice. While I've given up on my other musical ventures in the past, I'm going to follow through with this one.

For me, the difference between the guitar and the drums/harmonica/piano is that I had no divine intervention in trying to learn the latter. Now, I'm on a mission. I can't ignore fate when it slaps me upside the head in the middle of the night. It wakes me up and I have the darndest time getting back to sleep.

Feels like I'm knockin' on heaven's door.

William P. Bohlen '01, a government concentrator in Pforzheimer House, is Co-Sports Editor of The Harvard Crimson. In subsequent dreams, he has opened for The Velvet Underground in Andy Warhol's Exploding Plastic Inevitable and sat in with The Who at the Isle of Wight Festival.