(Since this was originally posted, several of the links enclosed are corrupted or broken. Apologies.)
[This is a long and personal post. And it is an aural post. It is highly recommended that you read this using either headphones or a decent set of desktop speakers. Give yourself time to enjoy. If you are a Contratimes reader and happen to be deaf, I apologize profusely for excluding you from much of what follows.]
Not one of us is self-made. Many people have inspired us, and dozens of teachers have conspired to build in each of us such things as character and gratitude, wisdom and wonder. Each of us has had a muse, and even when we've been confused, some guide gave us clarity when we most needed it. Talents, we know, are shared; they are not created ex nihilo, or in isolation, or by sheer wishfulness. Genius is a collision of many things, not least of which is the influence of predecessors who possessed great skill, passion or mastery. Michelangelo may have been a genius, but he did not create the real David, nor did he ever invent the chisel, hammer or painter's brush.
Tonight I would like to share a little about what has inspired me. But I will only focus on one of my many influences; I could wax long about all of my teachers, but I will resist the temptation to bore you. Tonight I want to reveal a little about myself, of course; yet in the process, I would like to pass along the art and inspiration of a man who was, perhaps, the only true genius I ever met. But I shall not deceive you -- I did not know this man. I met him only long enough to shake his hand and say, "Thank you for so fully sharing yourself with me tonight." But the gratitude was not in the words, it was in the touching. It was the closest thing to pushing myself through a crowd to touch the hem of a garment: although the gesture would neither save nor heal, it would at least express my happy indebtedness.
Some of you may know that I wish, though only in a small way, that I had been a guitarist. I do not play the instrument at all. But I love the guitar for many inexpressible reasons. And I am an awed fan of many great guitarists: Segovia, Clapton, Howe, Carlos, Hendrix, Stevie Ray, Gilmour, King, Klugh, Keaggy; The Edge, Lievano; Eric Johnson, Joe Satriani, Steve Vai. I admit that it is perhaps even a little foolish to suggest that there are favorites among favorites: there are many, many amazing masters of the six strings.
To many guitar aficionados, Steve Vai sits on a high seat in the guitarist pantheon. No doubt he is amazing, a virtuoso of the highest order. But of one guitarist he said this: “There is nobody on God’s green earth that plays the guitar like Michael Hedges.”
Mr. Vai was exactly right.
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I first heard of Michael Hedges in 1984 when a college buddy of mine handed me a cassette tape called "Aerial Boundaries". Within the first minute of listening to the album's title track through a pair of high-powered Snell loudspeakers, I can honestly say that it was the first time I had ever been literally stunned by a guitarist's work. I was awestruck, confused, and full of doubt. The sonic dynamics astounded; I could not believe what I was hearing could be coming from just one acoustic steel-string guitar. I heard picking and strumming and tapping simultaneously, and yet I could hear slides and percussions and a bass note that seemed impossible. What manner of fretwork was this? What manner of artist was this?
In 1997, I sat with the same college friend in the balcony of the intimate Iron Horse, the well-known music venue in Northampton, MA, and watched Michael Hedges simply blow my mind from just a few feet away (the stage was elevated; it lifted Hedges only a few feet from our table). Everything about him suggested transcendence, or, more accurately, that the transcendent was now immanent. He was the guitar incarnate, music personified. He and his muse had merged like nothing I had ever before witnessed. His movements, his passion and power and grace were so enchanting I was nearly frightened, as if I might be in the presence of some strange spiritual power. In every way the man was an artist: he sang beautifully, he played the flute and recited poetry and walked on his hands with his legs flopped over his elbows. He played his guitar while bouncing on a giant rubber ball (and had been as part of his performance long before I had ever seen smaller ones used in fitness clubs); he danced and whirled as sound emanated from the spheres which were him. Michael Hedges' performance that night was the best performance of any thing I had ever seen.
But even if I merely fix on his guitar playing, and not on composition or stage presence, I nonetheless fix on a mystery of mastery. My college friend had described his first experience of Michael Hedges in the early 1980's this way: It was as if he was just beating up the guitar and music came out. My reaction, more than a decade later, was similar. Imagine this: a musical genius who played percussion, piano and harp, a man who had never even touched a guitar; he finds himself trapped on a desert island with nothing but a six-string. He picks it up, and, in moments, everything that comes from his hands just makes sense. One critic described a particular Michael Hedges composition as "music written by aliens for humans." Hedges' music is indeed a bit alien, though not in an other-worldly, astral sort of way. It is alien to our own sense of what an instrument can do; it transcends our pre-conditioned sense of what combination of sounds makes music, and what does not.
Hedges' playing instantly suggested genius to my ears even before I heard the tenth measure. His work surely would inspire others to emulate his work, though perhaps to little avail: Hedges was the first to play the guitar to such limits, limits no one else knew existed. I recently was praised by a prominent ski instructor I have known many years; he said of my skiing that I "take the equipment to its limit." High praise, but it is an overstatement: I am not a World Cup skier, nor do I push myself to the limits many skiers do, where equipment and skier are stretched to the very boundaries, and even beyond. With the guitar, Hedges did reach what appears to be the limit of the acoustic guitar, but he also reached what appeared to be the very fringes of musicianship; the human body could not move much closer to the edge without loss. In fact, in a weird way there was something wildly electric about Hedges' playing, though it wasn't the guitar; he was electric, given to jolts and spasms of lightning that he somehow could manage, like a wizard dueling dark forces on the edge of a chasm.
It's no wonder Hedges referred to his own music as "Heavy Mental," "New Edge," "Thrash Acoustic" and "Deep Tissue Gladiator Guitar."
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Dazzled and humbled by Hedges' performance right before my uncomprehending eyes, I remember offering this one prayer: Lord Christ, whatever I do I want to do as well as this man does this. In that prayer there was no cry for fame or notoriety. There was simply the desire to be the best I could be, even if that excellence was done at home, or in the quiet of a studio, or in the raising of a child. And it didn't need to be everything I did; if I could just do one thing well, even for a moment, I would feel I had honored the life -- and the cosmos around me -- that simply tremble with excellence. Michael Hedges was excellence embodied; and his musical abilities and compositions were as close to genius that I have ever stood.
Sadly, a few months after this transportive moment in Northampton, Massachusetts, Mr. Hedges would die in a car crash on a lonely California highway. He was 43-years-old. I wept at the news.
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It's a bit hard for me to believe that it has been nearly ten years since I prayed that little, earnest prayer. I've yet to find any assurances that the prayer has been answered. But I am perhaps being a bit impatient; besides, this is about discipline and drive, about commitment and persistence and the unflagging pursuit of excellence. God can't simply make me achieve a certain standard of competence. I must be willing and compliant; I must be disciplined and passionate. I must, in a very real sense, be there, as they say.
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Allow me to share with you a few video links of Mr. Hedges in action. Again, I implore you to don some headphones. Don't cheat yourself with poor fidelity.
First, there is this outstanding live cut of Aerial Boundaries performed, I believe, at Red Rocks (not sure though). I start with this link because this is the very first Hedges track I ever heard. It is a stunning composition; the album of the same name is described by Guitar Player magazine as "the greatest solo-acoustic [guitar] record ever made." Unfortunately this is not a perfect video, and the audio is less than ideal. But you will get the idea instantly (don't be fooled by the previous act still walking off the stage as Hedges' set begins.) Moreover, there is a veritable dearth of video recordings of this dear man doing what he did best as a musician. The links I have here are the best I can find. Sorry.
Next, there is the truly glorious Silent Anticipations, written by Hedges in his native Oklahoma; it is drawn from his experience of waiting for an approaching thunderstorm, one carrying within it a tornado. Sheets of rain rush across the stage beneath Hedges' feet, and lightning strikes all around. (For a different version of the piece, go here. I like the intensity of the ending as he tries to tune the guitar at full speed. And by full speed, I mean full: one Hedges emulator warns that these guitar slides will leave players with slivers of steel embedded in their thumbs.)
I think you will also enjoy this amazing clip of Because It's There. Here Hedges plays the harp guitar, which is a very cool instrument. Kick up the bass on your equalizer.
Hedges could also sing, and, though others have suggested he was not a natural singer, I find his voice to be quite lovely (as noted above). Surely he is better than many folk singers; he makes Bob Dylan sound like, well, Bob Dylan, which means the sound of a nylon comb scraping the lip of an old cast-iron tub. Hedges' version of Dylan's prophetic "All Along The Watchtower" was thrilling to see and hear in person; I believe it is quite compelling in these two clips (here is a slower version, with a powerful yet harshly interrupted ending; and here is the other, faster version with some very fun comments and a look at Hedges' personality). Again, I wish the video and audio were better. Alas!
For some other great video, try Hedges' performance of Dirge. The introductory remarks are kind of fun, though the video and audio break up in a few weird spots. In one spot it actually sounds as if Michael has lost his way, but I think the problem is in the film. However, the clips from this concert are interesting, since they are of Hedges' return to his hometown (or nearby), after having long before ventured to California to pursue his art. And I enjoyed this clip (from another performance) of Naked Stalk, Jealous Tunnel, About Face, a medley of sorts (fairly straightforward technique throughout). Again, Hedges' humor comes through very effectively. And, again, the audio really fades out. Sorry.
Lastly, there is this clip, terrible in quality, that at least gives witness to my friend's observation that Hedges beat up the guitar until it said "uncle."
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What does it mean for a person to be a genius, or to show genius? I wish I knew. Right now I am reading for the very first time a title by Kurt Vonnegut; surely Slaughterhouse Five displays real genius. But I cannot prove it, nor can I even begin to describe it. I just know it.
Recently, during a PGA golf tournament aired on TV, a commentator reported that Tiger Woods, golf's true master, said that he NEVER makes a casual swing, even during practice. Every step is deliberate, intentional, and serious.
Never casual? Is the genius that person who never does a thing partially? Is the genius that figure whose concentration and drive and goals meet in perfected accomplishment? I wonder.
Michael Hedges may not have been a genius, but he is surely a muse. He is, without doubt, one of my muses. I am listening to him play as I write this sentence. His work still inspires: I continue to pray that I may honor God the way Mr. Hedges honored sound. That Mr. Hedges' guitar work should reach beyond frets and fingers to keys beneath fretting fingers, to these very words, is testimony to his influence. His work has crossed beyond one area of specialty into many others.
Perhaps a genius then, is that person whose life and work expands not merely his own life, but the lives of others, whose art is others' art. But I grope for strings in the dark. Yet in the dark I hear the sound of something brilliant: The weight of darkness is not so heavy, for there is light in sound.
God rest ye, oh, merry, gentle man. I bid you peace; I give you thanks.
Peace.
©Bill Gnade 2007/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.
For more on Michael Hedges, read the Michael Hedges Wikipedia entry (very helpful to me), or go to his website, Nomad Land.
