...If My Brother Goes Before Me

As I write this, my brother is quite well. It is 10:45 in the morning, so he’s almost certainly at his work desk, drafting some building details. Maybe he’d rather be home, working on the flooring in the living room, or cutting back the excess fireplace stone, or setting up the kitchen.
Yes, my brother is well. He has, at the age of 23, secured a steady (and well paying) job, he has (in concert with my father) purchased his first home, and he has established the beginnings of a family.

In a church service I attended last night, the pastor mentioned how in ancient times a man went through five quick transitional steps in order to facilitate the transition from boy to man. It’s funny to think of these five steps as they relate to my brother. In a short span of time, he knocked out four out of five of them—move out, finish vocational education, get a stable job, and start a family. The fifth and only step he has yet to take, according to ancient custom, is to have children.

And as I think about his influence in my own life, it is amazing how these responsibilities of his have changed him in my own eyes. I don’t know how I thought of my brother before all of this happened, but I know how I think of him now—one of the strongest and most dependable role models in my life. His every action is an inspiration. He picked up his goals in life and did work, so to speak.

This isn’t to say that he’s perfect by any means. Of the two of us, he is surely the one lacking in the general effectiveness of communication. Growing up with him, and my parents as well, was at times a nightmare. And I was the mediator of these communicational horrors.

We enjoy each other’s company now, my brother and I, something you’d never have believed in seeing us grow up. I remember screaming at the top of my lungs. Get out of my room! I hate you! Why won’t you just leave me alone? But he was as stubborn as I was (if not more) and the rages that I descended into would only fuel the fires of his rebellion. At last, when primal screams were my only remaining channel for expression, bringing the attention of my parents with ambulance speed; was anyone hurt? What was going on? Then, realizing the nature of the dispute (whatever it was) we would be told to get along, that they could hear me screaming from the street.

---

My brother doesn’t call all that often. Even so, he is without a doubt the second most frequent of those on my call list. What he would never admit to, what neither of us would admit to, was that since I had moved out, up to the big world of Seattle, we had missed each other as kindred souls. His wife of a few months will tease him a bit, trying to expose me as his one soft spot. He has the heart to call me anyway, to let simple questions dissolve into conversations and catching up. Most often, he’s calling to invite me to a movie with his friends (which, let’s be honest, are my friends by now too) though I frequently decline due to prior obligations (work, mostly). If for nothing else than to talk for a bit, though, I’ve always appreciated the gesture.

Never more than a week ago, when he told me that back home, my cat was dying. Or sick, or something. They weren’t sure what was happening. Maybe it was just age, or maybe that growth on his back had been less than benign. In either case, he had stopped eating, and his balance was off. I took the news pretty well, I think, texting my roommate immediately. He had lost a family dog a few years earlier, so he could sympathize. In any case, I needed someone else to know. And when that wasn’t enough, I texted my ex-girlfriend, thinking that maybe she would have something valuable to say. I guess in the face of death, I needed to feel alive, something I do best in communion with others.

I had to stop for a while, to really consider what my pet actually meant to me. He was an integral part of my young life. That’s the way of pets and children, I suppose. But if I let this get to me, if I let the death of a pet bring me to the bigger questions, would I be considered overreacting? If I didn’t, would I be considered cold? In essence, I felt what I did and it doesn’t matter what I would be considered as.

He called again a few days ago, from my parents’ house to let me know that my cat was eating—still a little off balance, but eating. I hope this means that he was merely sick, is now better, and will be around for a few years yet. Granted, his age in concert with the average lifespan of a cat makes this less than likely. And at this point in my life, the death of my cat, though small and insignificant to some, would in fact be the death closest to home. That’s the double-edged sword of living apart from extended family. Little or no experience with death means little if any sorrow at the passing of family.

But if death is inevitable, then this is not a protective shield—it is a delay. And if my brother is my closest family member, how strongly will I feel his loss when it comes? If my brother goes before me, I intend to have a good deal to say about his effects in my life—of what he has taught me, and how he has loved. Two sides of the same coin, cut from the same stone. Because in the end, we’re a little bit of every cliché.

-To the memory of my brother, should I outlive him.

Worthy of Prestige

I’m sitting in church (standing, actually), singing along with the music, searching out the harmonies—the tenor line, the bass. I’m not so involved that my eyes are closed, not so emphatic that my hands are waving in the air like so many others, but I am engaged enough, at least with the music, to face the temptation to burst into full out air-guitar. I think most would agree it’s not something you see a lot of people doing. In church. During worship.

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.

---

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.

---

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.