At the end of the 70s I finally returned to college after a two-year hiatus, entering my sophmore year via audition for jazz guitarist Jack Petersen. I didn't expect to be admitted to the performance guitar program at UNT (called NTSU back then) but had to give it my best. So after practicing hard on three original guitar compositions up to a day before, I arrived on time for the audition and played two of them for Mr. Petersen. I made no mistakes and managed to instill some decent dynamics which I thought accentuated the musicality of the pieces. He said nothing afterward for a long time then asked if I could read music. "For cello," I replied, not knowing Mr. Petersen played cello too. He smiled, saying only two words in complement of my compositions and performance of them: "Very nice.", thus ending the audition with a kind smile.
A few days later I received the letter of admittance into the music school and eagerly set about preparing to move to Denton. To get my guitar music reading skills up to snuff I began attending the 101 classical guitar course along with music theory, voice, men's choir, music history, sight reading and ear training along with a few other gov and lit core courses I still needed to complete. As the classical guitar coursework progressed I found I was pretty good at it and was soon performing recitals and playing in some ansembles with focus on baroque (mainly Bach) and a pair of Frederico Mompou works. In classical guitar tone is paramount, so I began carefully manicuring my nails with saphire file and ultra-fine sandpaper. That felt weird at first but as my tone steadily improved it became a natural daily habit.
Working as a weldor during my second year in music school, I began carrying a piece of soapstone in my pocket which I used to mark up steel for cutting. Between classes, I absentmindedly began working my righthand nails into the soapstone which further enhanced the smoothness of their plucking edges, and actually made a noticeable difference in tone when playing. My advanced guitar instructor even commented on the improvement, so I kept on doing it.
At the end of my junior year my instructor invited me to travel to Spain to study that summer under Segovia, but I was broke and had to return to working full time.
I didn't tell my guitar instructor, Michael Craddock, that I had already decided to stop pursuing a degree in music after talking with a few classmates who had graduated the previous year and gone to Los Angeles and New York City to work as professional guitarists. They were all much better musicians than I was or likely ever would be, and yet they had all returned in emaciated and penniless state. Sight of them and our dicussions about the brutal realities of being in the music buisness helped me decide to switch majors to engineering so I could at least earn enough to feed and house myself to a level of comfort I had started college to achieve in the long run. Fame and fortune no longer seemed feasible or practical.
The piece of soapstone with nail tracks was stored and forgotten that summer at the start of the 80s until I found it a few weeks ago while sifting through things not destroyed by the wildfire. It stirs pleasant memories, making me glad it wasn't lost. I think I'll make a necklace with it as pendant and see if I can wear it until I die.
Time to play a little guitar.
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