Confessions of a Country Music Junkie

                                                                    by  Bill Melody                             Copyright © 2006

    Quite a few people have told me on numerous occasions that one of the first steps that anyone  must take to overcome their addiction, is to stand up among people with the same problem and admit to being an addict. Well, here I go. I am an addict. I fought it for many years, but I just can’t help myself anymore. My addiction actually started when I was seven years old. My father gave me my first guitar. I banged my hands on the wires so many times that I finally broke two of them.

     By the time I was nine I was able to stretch my left hand around the wires and I started playing chords. Just a few of them at first. And when I found out that I was able to pick out the tune “Merrily We Roll Along,” I realized that I was hooked. I didn’t think of myself as an addict. At least not until I sold my old Philadelphia A’s baseball memorabilia that included balls, bats and even an autographed glove of my hero at the time, A’s outfielder, Sam Chapman, to purchase my first electric guitar.

     It was an f-hole, curved  mahogany Epiphone that had a sound sweeter than the voice of an angel. I bought it at a pawn shop that was located at 8th and Race Streets in Philadelphia. The amp came later. And I truly knew that once I was capable of picking out “Wildwood Flower, and “Down In The Valley,” I was a full blown addict.

     I even started hanging out with other addicts. And talking among ourselves about people like Les Paul and Arthur “Guitar Boogie” Smith. By the time I was sixteen years old,  I found I was unable to control my rapidly growing habit. I was picking on that guitar every chance I could get my hands on it. I was hopelessly  hooked.

     Group therapy I thought would help. But every time our group got together all we wanted to do was pick and sing. The old Epiphone  was traded in for an “O” hole, flat-top Harmony guitar which really helped my habit grow.  Uncontrollably,  I started buying recordings of guitar pickers, Hank Snow among them. Hank Snow because he was a singer and a  picker,  too.

     Before too long I had to have a guitar just like Snow-a  Martin D-18 with a Rosewood neck and back. Then one day I found myself in my car heading for Nashville looking for the ultimate high. Believe me, I really tried to kick my habit.  I even found myself inside a recording studio with my guitar in one hand and a pick in the other.

      After hanging out in Nashville for a time, I realized that if I was ever going to break the addiction that had me firmly in its grip, I had to get back close to home. Well, after I was finally home, I was able to quit picking for nearly three months. But, my hands started to shake every time I would pass a music store or see someone playing a guitar. That was it. I climbed right back up on the wagon where I now sit.

      So, as you read the ensuing pages, I hope you can understand that us country music junkies just can’t help ourselves. And we’re truly doomed to pick and sing for the rest of our lives. There really is no cure for us. And as you read this and listen to the music, I will be putting new strings on my old  Martin guitar and trying out a handful of new picks and a couple of old tunes.  To quote a line from one of my favorite tunes,  “Doggone my soul, how I love them old country songs.”