"Solo" here was literal. "Playing guitar" was largely synonymous with practicing, at home.
When I played with others, it was everyone sitting around at a party, strumming chords. Playing for others meant singing, on-stage, at a coffee shop. My non-rock records were singer-songwriters, blues guitar players, and other folksingers.
Even then, it was the biggest folk festival west of the Mississippi. I had trouble deciding what to go to. There was really only one hour with nothing to go to, the only even-marginally-related workshop listed being "Backup Guitar."
I thought, "They could have called it 'Things You Can Do with a Guitar besides Playing Music.' "
Not going would have meant an entire hour in which I had to mingle with crowds and socialize, so I went anyway.
(I've heard several musicians confess that if they go to parties without an instrument, they're uncomfortable and don't know what to do. Count me among those.)
Sandy Bradley, who was running the workshop, had invited three friends to join her. The four of them sat in a row at the front of the room, behind a single fiddler, who played Whiskey Before Breakfast, and took turns backing him up. Sandy, whom I now know to be The Goddess of Old-time Guitar, had roped in a bluegrass guitar player, a swing guitar player, and an DADGAD guitar player. Each switch, from one to another, changed the tune completely.
The big lightbulb went on over my head.
After that demo, which delivered the entire takeaway, she gave each of her friends a chance to talk about his style. I don't remember what anyone said, but I'm sure they were all great and it was probably all insightful. The first one ended his with, "But, whatever style you choose, just remember to go home and practice," so each of her other friends did, too.
After the third one, Sandy said, "I can't stand this any more. I never practice."
Her friends all looked at her, aghast.
She said, "I started playing at jams. I only ever play with other people. What you learn from practicing is how to play by yourself. That's not what backup guitar is about."
Playing with others is a skill that you learn by doing it. It's the difference between speeches and conversations.
That workshop changed my life.
At the end of the workshop, she walked over to me and said, "You need to start coming to the G-Note Tavern on Thursday nights." Who knows why. Maybe my mouth was hanging open farther than everyone else's.
Sandy did dances every Thursday, and drank "Red Eyes" of tomato juice and beer which, she told me, helped you chord faster. The house band, The Gypsy Gyppos, got the mikes and stood in front. Anyone else -- anyone, even me -- could stand behind them and play along. I learned by immersion.
A year or two later, I bought a hock-shop mandolin in Colorado for $135, and resolved to learn it on the Sandy Bradley plan. I focused on playing with others. Before I found folks to play with, I bought records -- foot-wide vinyl disks -- and played along with them. Records were physical, not digital. You played them using a needle on a weighted arm, which ran down the grooves of the record and turned microscopic bumps in those grooves into sounds. The scratchy sounds you heard were made by actual scratches.
I wore completely through two copies of the Fuzzy Mountain String band's "Summer Oaks and Front Porch."
Even today, I rarely take my instrument out of its case unless there's someone else around to play with. I can have fun playing with folks at every level, but not by myself.
I'll meet folks at dances who want to start playing and invite them to the jam.
"Oh, I'm not ready to play with other people yet," they'll say. "I need to practice some more."
"Sure," I say. "Know how, before you start coming to dances, you spend hours in your room practicing ladies' chains and allemand lefts?"
They start to nod, then stop and say, "Uh, .... No."
"Same thing," I say. "Just show up. It'll be fine." Some of them believe me and come. Those are the ones who are still playing.
