I take evasive maneuvers.
Hands are pocketed. Would-be strumming movements are redirected to a shifting of body weight from the left to the right (which is somehow more acceptable). And in an effort to keep from getting too involved, I make my place in the world by bobbing along like everyone else in a subtle form of dance sanctioned in Chalcedon, 451 AD.
If anything, I’m disappointed in myself for my low ambitions; to be unable to express my love of God (or life, or walking down the street in the rain, or anything worth loving) in a form that I enjoy. What that matters in the end is that I’ve sold out. I’ve gone another week with the bobbing and pretending and there’s no going back, it seems.
But if imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, then air guitar is worship. It’s one of those things that I have a covert passion for—not on the surface, not completely understood, though it’s likely as simple as a reaching out for celebrity.
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I feel compelled to strum along whenever I can. 7 7 5 5 4 4 … 6^ 6 4. This song is in drop D tuning, but that’s the other thing about air guitar. It’s always in tune.
I want to reassure you by saying that yes, I do play the guitar. The real guitar. And to tell you that people who play a real guitar are in a somewhat better position to play a less real one. But that rings defensively, even to me, as if I must defend the practice of air guitar, when really I think the merits speak for themselves.
By merits I mean the actual enhancement of listening. Proper air guitarring is preceded by a close listening, wherein you hear all the parts you didn’t know were there before. It’s that “whoa” moment, when you realize that the rhythm guitar’s been arpegioing in the background the whole time, and even though you’ve heard the song a million times there’s something new about it.
A complicated rhythm is like a puzzle—where to palm mute? Where to strum? With some experience in guitar, I can echo familiar parts even if I have no idea exactly what notes are being played. It’s “oh, I see, this bit here is not so unlike the verse in ‘My Poor Brain,’” followed by an adaptable riff that is, most importantly, consistent. These points of reference provide valuable context to the eventual—and now more or less accurate—air guitar performance.
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It would be fair to say that if air guitarring has a bad name, it only has itself to blame. Much of this can be attributed to the searching out of “good” air guitarists, through contests and championships and the like. As if air guitarring is A) a measureable skill and B) worthy of prestige.
Ochi Dainoji, the world champion from Japan, manages to imbue a lot of energy into his performance, and I might be impressed if it wasn’t just that—a performance. He goes through all of the motions of a successful rock and roll superstar, strapping the guitar over his shoulders, doing sound checks for a soundless instrument, talking to air managers off stage. It’s an impressive mime show. He even holds the guitar at the proper angles. But what he doesn’t have is any semblance of emotion for the music. Instead of the song, his performance is his god.
Because of this you see over exaggerations; windmill strumming made famous by Presley used to play a song by The Offspring at ten times a Blues tempo. Anachronism at its finest. And what better way to end an air guitar performance than to smash your air guitar on stage?
Maybe it’s just the bands I follow, or specifically the music I listen to that dictates “realistic” guitar playing, but I haven’t seen a musician seriously jump into the air, legs flying wide, while strumming rapid fire power chords in, well, ever. Kickdowns aside, my musical heroes keep their feet on the ground. But what do I know—I’m neither a rock star or an air guitar world champion.
Now, I’m not one to advocate too strongly that we lay aside our good humor and our search for fun in new and creative ways, but national air guitar tournaments seem a bit contrived. And maybe I don’t get it because I actually play the guitar. Because a lot of the time when I’m air guitarring it’s to a song that I can actually play, so when I move from fret to fret and strum to specific rhythm, it actually looks like I know what I’m doing instead of putting on a show. Maybe that’s why I can do it in public, shamelessly. Or at least, less shamefully. Regardless, even I have to agree that air guitar is not the best way to participate in church music.
The phenomena may be, as I’ve said, a reach for celebrity. A way to identify with our musical heroes. And when you get down to it, when I’m standing at a bus station with my headphones in, strumming away, I’m not doing it so that you’ll give me any attention. I’m not hoping that you’ll toss me a sideways glance and evaluate my technical prowess (if there’s any to be had). I’m doing it because deep down, I know that somewhere out there people are making music. And I want to be out there with them.
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