The Pick

It seems small and insignificant sitting on my desk. Most people wouldn’t even notice it unless they looked closely. There are all kinds of little trinkets and items on my desk; this is no different from the others, and yet it is. They say it’s the little things that count, the simple things that make us appreciate life. In order for that to be true, you have to notice the little things before they can mean anything. To any other person, this tiny, guitar pick means absolutely nothing. It could be one of hundreds that I keep, being a guitar player. But they don’t see the true significance of this particular pick. This pick is the catalyst for my love of guitar.

It’s a fairly thick pick, made for playing bass guitar, but still thin compared to a “typical” bass pick. It creates as pure and warm of a sound as possible without using the fingering method, the way bass guitars were meant to be played. That thin line it walks between purely human playing and manufactured plastic sound is a constant reminder of that line I must walk between the different facets of my life: friend, family, professional, student. I’m always treading this line, blurring the different identities, trying to show people the “me” I want them to see, but never fully able to keep them from seeing pieces of my other identities as well.

The pick’s overall color is a pure white, flawless. On one side, it’s marked with the word “HURT,” an obscure band with a rabid fan base. That purity a reminder of what I am striving for, pure, flawless playing. Always working toward mastery, that untouchable intangible, the chance to someday be able to play any song I wish, and to play it for a rabid fan base. That “HURT,” that obscure band with the most loyal of all fans, prompting me to remain true to the purity of playing for the love of guitar, not for money or fame. If I ever get the chance to play for a crowd, I’ll play with that pick on a chain around my neck, that constant physical reminder to go out, have fun, and then thank that audience with a personal meet-and-greet, a personal handshake or hug and a heartfelt “Thanks” for the support of this pure musical and soulful experience. And I wait for that day when a teenager, around 16 or 17 years old, comes up to me, awestruck, showing me the pick I tossed into the crowd, I make sure to show him that tiny, insignificant, near-invisible white pick that sits on my desk, now hanging around my neck, and I tell him my story and encourage him to go out, grab a guitar, and play for the love of playing.

3-1-2011
© 2007-2011 Jacob Tauer
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