I like guitars. You like guitars. For centuries now, they have provided aural pleasure to millions. Artists like Bob Dylan and Bob Marley have even honed their musical talents to inspire social change. But there’s a dark side to this impassioned pursuit of creation. A guitar in the wrong hands can have disastrous consequences – far beyond what many may understand.
Have you ever been to a party where someone suddenly pulls out a guitar? If you have, chances are you responded one of two ways: Either you excitedly brought up a chair, cleared your throat and thought over the lyrics to as many popular folk songs as you could remember; or you shifted uneasily, not sure whether protesting the act was worth all the attention doing so would bring yourself.
Over Thanksgiving break, I went to my hometown of Ashland, Ore., for a little rest and relaxation. Ashland, just 15 miles north of the Oregon-California border off Interstate 5, stands out as a tourist hotspot, a beautiful, safe and caring place, where people are generally accepted and respected by their neighbors.
It’s also one of the most liberal communities in the country in terms of voter preference. Want to know how liberal? Winona LaDuke, two-time vice presidential candidate on Ralph Nader’s Green Party ticket, is a graduate of Ashland High School. Dennis Kucinich has spoken there – twice. And while political activism is nothing to look down on, with such rampant, unchecked liberalism, hippies and their culture are bound to thrive.
An old buddy of mine called on the Friday I was in town and told me about a place belonging to a friend of his where some people were getting together for a party. I’d planned on taking it easy for the weekend, but the idea quickly grew on me, so I accepted his invitation. When I walked in the door, however, the sight I saw stopped me dead in my tracks. Not one but two acoustic guitar players – longhaired, whiskered and in need of a shower – were halfway through Bob Marley’s “Redemption Song.” Others were singing along.
Hippies.
Fear immediately took hold of me. My face grew flush, and I could feel the small hairs on the back of my neck stand up on end. My first instinct was to turn and walk out through the door I’d just entered. But my friend was already introducing me around. All I could think about was that scene from Animal House, when Blutarsky smashed the guy’s guitar against the wall. I felt conservative.
You may be asking yourself how an unabashed “liberal” goes about feeling conservative. It’s easy. The liberal-conservative dichotomy is not black and white. Unlike sports, people don’t just pick a side and stick to their guns. Rather, the shift between ideologies is as constant as it is subtle. For instance, if you’re hanging out with a bunch of people from the business school dressed in suits, wishing they were more important than they are and talking about nothing, you’re probably bound to feel a little bit liberal. Likewise, if you’re in a grassy field, watching kids in ponchos playing hacky sack and talking about nothing, you’re bound to feel a little conservative. Such feelings are completely normal, and are what make political discourse in this country possible. Nothing would get done if everyone were steadfast in their ideals.
Never had I been so proud to be born a Reagan baby than in the midst of this full-blown guitar circle. Call me closed-minded, but I felt robbed of the opportunity for a fun night. Vindictiveness had set in. So you can play the full discography of Bob Marley’s greatest hits on your acoustic. Congratulations! I’m sure that’s exactly what he had in mind when he wrote those songs: White suburbanites sitting around, smoking pot and drinking lukewarm Fat Tire, each fighting the power in their own special way.
I may be overreacting. After all, great artists begin by imitating other great artists. The problem is not in the guitar playing itself; it’s when people use others’ music for their own selfish gain. One of the guitar players was constantly looking at this girl. And while I can’t claim to know what he was thinking, the man in me knew what he was up to. So why did he need Bob Marley’s help – because he had nothing else to offer?
Once upon a time it meant something to be a hippie. It meant you opposed unjust war and political tyranny, and supported equal rights. Now it means you like reggae music or jam bands and care only about yourself. Wake up, hippies. Your ideals are dated. You’re living in the backburner of a revolution that died more than 30 years ago.
It may not be my place to offer such a scathing critique. But having lived almost the entirety of my life in a place teeming with hippies, I feel obligated to speak out. Anyone who gets even the faintest twinge of pride from the idea of being an American needs to do something. Tell a hippie about community college. Show him or her how this inaction affects others. Teach the virtues of soap. But most of all, never, ever, let them bring a guitar to a party.
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