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Abstract

with No Name, by America. I played for hours a day in the common area right outside of my room.Within two months, I had become a better guitarist than Buddy. He didn’t mind, thankfully — after all, he only played guitar to accompany his voice. I soon started to dabble in more difficult songs that required the use of different techniques, chord voicings, and varied melodic lines: Drive, by Incubus, Ain’t No Rest for the Wicked, by Cage the Elephant, The Hardest Button to Button, by The White Stripes.When winter break came, I stumbled upon Under the Bridge, by Red Hot Chili Peppers, while scrolling through the Recommended Videos tab on YouTube.I had only ever heard one of the group’s songs — Suck my Kiss — in the popular video game Guitar Hero 3, when I was twelve. I had dismissed them as a joke band that wrote and performed songs for the overtly aggressive and sexually frustrated. It was shocking to see, then, that they had composed something as heartfelt as Under the Bridge, a haunting reflection on loneliness and drug-addled pasts.After a few hours trying to learn the reverberating introduction riff, I became disillusioned by its difficulty and the boundaries of my ability and pushed off learning for days. But something eventually drew me back. It could have been the desire to rise up to a challenge. Probably, though, it was the emotion in the guitar part.So I played and played. Eventually, I could play the introduction riff easily. I was about to pat myself on the back when I realized I had a few verses, a chorus, a bridge, and an outro to go.It took a week to learn the Hendrixy chords in the verses, the but well-placed hammer-ons and pull-offs that riddle every line, the rapid chord changes and lax strumming pattern that flow alongside the floating bassline and drums. It took another two weeks to learn the hard-strummed chorus, the swelling bridge, the whispery outro.By the time winter break ended, I could play the song from start to finish, and over the course of the next month, I listened to the song on a constant repeat cycle, soaking up the finer nuances of the guitar part. I searched videos of live performances on the internet to hear how the guitarist differentiated each performance. I even looked the guy up, something I had never bothered to do for any guitarist before. His name: John Frusciante. I learned that he’s a quirky, mad-scientist sort of musician. As a boy, he played guitar for twelve to fifteen hours a day. He could play all of Jimi Hendrix’s songs by the time he was twelve, and as a result, his playing style incorporated ele

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ments of technical funk and hard-driven rhythm. When Blood Sugar Sex Magik, one of the Chili Peppers’ most popular records, was released in 1992, he had just turned 22. He became addicted to heroin and left the Chili Peppers shortly after but rejoined in 1997 to record Californication, their most commercially successful album. From then on, Frusciante’s musical style took on a more simplistic hue, more concerned with tangible emotion than technical chops.I decided to listen to a few more Chili Peppers songs and realized that almost all of them masterfully incorporate Frusciante’s beautifully satisfying guitar melodies. Under the Bridge was only one example of what the guitarist had to offer, of what the whole band had to offer.Needless to say, I free-fell into the funky world of the Red Hot Chili Peppers and hit the ground dancing.I spent the subsequent months learning almost their whole catalog, starting with the hits: Dani California, Soul to Squeeze, Can’t Stop, Californication, Scar Tissue, Otherside. Lesser-known ones, too: I Could Die for You, The Zephyr Song, Dosed, Wet Sand. I listened in appreciative awe to Flea’s incomparable prowess on the bass, to Chad Smith’s dance-inducing, adrenaline-drenched drumlines, to Anthony Kiedis’s scratchy, energetic voice and percussive lyrical style. And, of course, to John Frusciante’s Hendrix-inspired, emotional, funkadelic guitar playing.The Chili Peppers are a range of definitions. Uncaged, wild, aggressive, joyous, reserved, reflective, dynamic. Their earlier works are drug-induced, hyper-sexualized meditations on the carnal human condition; Blood Sugar Sex Magik, for example, is staccato, heart-pounding, and structurally erratic. Their later works, on the other hand, are softer, organized, and melody-oriented: Californication, By The Way, Stadium Arcadium. Their voice is constantly evolving, and the feelings the feelings they evoke are varied: ecstasy, nostalgia, depression, bittersweetness.When I tell people that I’m a Red Hot Chili Peppers super-fan, that I’ve memorized the lyrics, basslines, drums, and guitar parts to the majority of their songs, that most of my original guitar compositions have an unmistakable red-hot flair, they often ask why I waste my time with such an impassionate, distasteful band.“Aren’t all their songs about fucking? You know, Suck My Kiss? Give it Away?”I shake my head, but I don’t bother arguing. After all, there are millions just like me, people who know that there’s more to them than just a quick dance and a quicker orgasm.</article></body>

Red-Hot

A love letter to my favorite band

When I was younger, I was something of a musical flip-flopper: my “favorite band” would often change based on conversational context. If I were speaking to a hip-hop fan, I’d rap, “The Black-Eyed Peas, of course!” If I were talking to a soft alternative-rock-head, I’d chime, “Coldplay! Chris Martin’s voice is so angelic.” If I were in the middle of a conversation with a head-banger, I’d grunt, “Rammstein — I don’t understand a goddamn word they’re saying, but they’ve got some eviscerating rhythms.”

My taste was a smattering of incompatible styles that was grounded in a preference for simple tunes unclouded by the intricacies of musical composition. The singer’s voice was the only thing I’d really ever noticed or cared about — which was ironic, considering I’d played guitar throughout junior high. Even then, though, I had never really committed to improving; I’d just wanted to shred like Joe Satriani or Jimmy Page. Needless to say, I only learned a few boring chord progressions and scales that made my eyelids flutter.

It wasn’t until I met my roommate freshman year of college, a guy named Buddy, that I started to accrue any sort of musicality. Buddy was, first and foremost, a singer. While his vocal range couldn’t match that of the impossible Mariah Carey, he held his tone, and his sustained vibrato, with resolution and confidence. He’d often sing quietly in our room as we studied and, once in a while, whip out his gleaming acoustic guitar and fingerpick folk songs from the sixties — Peter Paul and Mary, Simon and Garfunkel, The Beatles.

One day, I asked if I could try strumming a few notes on his guitar just for old time’s sake.

“Of course,” he said, handing me the thing.

Its frets were smooth, its lacquered body unblemished, recently polished. As I applied the finite musical knowledge I’d acquired six years prior, I strummed a few chords and, unlike ever before, felt something ethereal well up inside me —true, unadulterated enjoyment.

The week after, I ventured to a local music store and bought a cheap sunburst acoustic guitar. I began to learn songs that tested my limited dexterity: The House of the Rising Sun, by the Animals, Hurt, by Johnny Cash, A Horse with No Name, by America. I played for hours a day in the common area right outside of my room.

Within two months, I had become a better guitarist than Buddy. He didn’t mind, thankfully — after all, he only played guitar to accompany his voice. I soon started to dabble in more difficult songs that required the use of different techniques, chord voicings, and varied melodic lines: Drive, by Incubus, Ain’t No Rest for the Wicked, by Cage the Elephant, The Hardest Button to Button, by The White Stripes.

When winter break came, I stumbled upon Under the Bridge, by Red Hot Chili Peppers, while scrolling through the Recommended Videos tab on YouTube.

I had only ever heard one of the group’s songs — Suck my Kiss — in the popular video game Guitar Hero 3, when I was twelve. I had dismissed them as a joke band that wrote and performed songs for the overtly aggressive and sexually frustrated. It was shocking to see, then, that they had composed something as heartfelt as Under the Bridge, a haunting reflection on loneliness and drug-addled pasts.

After a few hours trying to learn the reverberating introduction riff, I became disillusioned by its difficulty and the boundaries of my ability and pushed off learning for days. But something eventually drew me back. It could have been the desire to rise up to a challenge. Probably, though, it was the emotion in the guitar part.

So I played and played. Eventually, I could play the introduction riff easily. I was about to pat myself on the back when I realized I had a few verses, a chorus, a bridge, and an outro to go.

It took a week to learn the Hendrixy chords in the verses, the but well-placed hammer-ons and pull-offs that riddle every line, the rapid chord changes and lax strumming pattern that flow alongside the floating bassline and drums. It took another two weeks to learn the hard-strummed chorus, the swelling bridge, the whispery outro.

By the time winter break ended, I could play the song from start to finish, and over the course of the next month, I listened to the song on a constant repeat cycle, soaking up the finer nuances of the guitar part. I searched videos of live performances on the internet to hear how the guitarist differentiated each performance. I even looked the guy up, something I had never bothered to do for any guitarist before. His name: John Frusciante. I learned that he’s a quirky, mad-scientist sort of musician. As a boy, he played guitar for twelve to fifteen hours a day. He could play all of Jimi Hendrix’s songs by the time he was twelve, and as a result, his playing style incorporated elements of technical funk and hard-driven rhythm. When Blood Sugar Sex Magik, one of the Chili Peppers’ most popular records, was released in 1992, he had just turned 22. He became addicted to heroin and left the Chili Peppers shortly after but rejoined in 1997 to record Californication, their most commercially successful album. From then on, Frusciante’s musical style took on a more simplistic hue, more concerned with tangible emotion than technical chops.

I decided to listen to a few more Chili Peppers songs and realized that almost all of them masterfully incorporate Frusciante’s beautifully satisfying guitar melodies. Under the Bridge was only one example of what the guitarist had to offer, of what the whole band had to offer.

Needless to say, I free-fell into the funky world of the Red Hot Chili Peppers and hit the ground dancing.

I spent the subsequent months learning almost their whole catalog, starting with the hits: Dani California, Soul to Squeeze, Can’t Stop, Californication, Scar Tissue, Otherside. Lesser-known ones, too: I Could Die for You, The Zephyr Song, Dosed, Wet Sand. I listened in appreciative awe to Flea’s incomparable prowess on the bass, to Chad Smith’s dance-inducing, adrenaline-drenched drumlines, to Anthony Kiedis’s scratchy, energetic voice and percussive lyrical style. And, of course, to John Frusciante’s Hendrix-inspired, emotional, funkadelic guitar playing.

The Chili Peppers are a range of definitions. Uncaged, wild, aggressive, joyous, reserved, reflective, dynamic. Their earlier works are drug-induced, hyper-sexualized meditations on the carnal human condition; Blood Sugar Sex Magik, for example, is staccato, heart-pounding, and structurally erratic. Their later works, on the other hand, are softer, organized, and melody-oriented: Californication, By The Way, Stadium Arcadium. Their voice is constantly evolving, and the feelings the feelings they evoke are varied: ecstasy, nostalgia, depression, bittersweetness.

When I tell people that I’m a Red Hot Chili Peppers super-fan, that I’ve memorized the lyrics, basslines, drums, and guitar parts to the majority of their songs, that most of my original guitar compositions have an unmistakable red-hot flair, they often ask why I waste my time with such an impassionate, distasteful band.

“Aren’t all their songs about fucking? You know, Suck My Kiss? Give it Away?”

I shake my head, but I don’t bother arguing. After all, there are millions just like me, people who know that there’s more to them than just a quick dance and a quicker orgasm.