Hendrix in the Corner

By Charles Davis

Hendrix in the Corner is a coming-of-age tale about a young reclusive musician learning to make sense of the world. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Charles Davis
• Release date: Jul 29, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201576448

Charles Davis

Charles Davis is a teacher, musician, and oddball from Eastern Kentucky. Outside of the classroom and recording studio, chances are you'll find him with his stunningly beautiful wife and five wonderful kids.

Book preview

Hendrix in the Corner

MY OLDER BROTHER, NEVER one for pleasantries or support, used to tell me I’d never be any good at the guitar. While crisscross-applesauce in the corner of the dining room floor, untuned guitar in lap, fourth generation iPhone leaning against the baseboard at a precise angle, with eyes shifting between the strings and the amateur musician on YouTube with that digital aura of professionalism we are all sometimes deceived by, Chris would typically saunter past me with words of encouragement and wisdom like Hendrix in the corner again or you suck or my ears are bleeding.

Bleeding ears, I would think to myself somewhat out loud. How original.

This pretty much sums up my perspective of being a sophomore. Sure, there was also school and chores and acquaintances I called friends and late night braincell murdering animated YouTube delicacies, but when push comes to shove, I can recall the imperfections of that old baseboard and the texture of those likely older guitar strings more than anything else.

Girls only like guys that can actually play, Chris would chime in. The dog just vomited vomit that could outplay you.

I guess I remember my brother too.

Things improved the summer before my junior year primarily because I mowed a few lawns and made a few dollars. Leaving the stench of grass and gas behind, I took those dollars to the only music store in town, a hole-in-the-wall looking place fittingly called Eric’s Hole In The Wall Music, and bought what I thought would prove Chris wrong once and for all—new strings, a used amp I rarely ended up using, and one of those tuners that clips onto the head of your guitar.

This motivated me to upgrade from the dining room to my bedroom, but in the smallest room of the smallest house on the block, I had to get creative. It’s actually shocking how many toys remain hidden in a teenager’s bedroom—ghosts of childhood-past that somehow survive puberty by playing the ultimate game of hide-and-seek underneath dirty clothes stacked on dirtier clothes. Several garbage bags later, I realized I still wouldn’t have room to practice comfortably unless I could somehow fit my dresser in the closet. Long story short, it barely fit after tossing several more bags of once-treasured trash.

And there she was. A 3x4 ft. rectangle of empty room space. My soon-to-be shrine, my sanctuary. Where the magic would happen.

Throughout junior year, I was afforded the luxury of closed-door, uninterrupted practice. From the hallway, Chris would occasionally offer a you suck or a sounds like foot fungus smells, but by January he had pretty much given up due to a lack of reaction.

Helping matters further, I came up with a self-imposed rule—no amp when Chris is home. I’m guessing most kids at that age would blast the speaker full-throttle all day and night to drive the evil sibling crazy, but I just wanted to be left alone. Didn’t want to fuel the fire, you know? The only downside was that Chris stayed home all the time playing video games over the internet with friends he would never actually meet in real life. I really didn’t mind though. I’d crisscross-applesauce in the floor, practice my electric like an acoustic and use the amp as a table for my phone.

Speaking of the shrine’s setup, that was pretty much it with two additions. First, I kept paper and pencil handy to jot down any notes I deemed necessary to jot. Second, I taped a poster of Beethoven above the amp, I guess for inspiration.

Of course, I had no interest in classical music. To this day, I couldn’t tell you anything about Beethoven other than he went deaf. Or was that Mozart? Anyway, the music teacher at school was getting rid of old classroom decorations and I offered to take it and that was that. When you’re too broke to get a Cobain poster, you learn to live well enough with a Beethoven.

It’s funny. Despite what ended up happening my senior year, Chris was mostly right. I knew open chords and some barre chords. I could play just about any punk song, but never learned a scale or a solo. To be honest, I don’t know what a scale is even used for. Rhythm came naturally to me, but I never ventured beyond the basics. I didn’t suck per se, but I definitely wasn’t great.

I had been playing for a little over two years when I decided to write the song that night in late October 2016, my last year of high school I wouldn’t actually finish. It wasn’t Halloween, but super close—October 27th.

At that point, I had never written a song, sang a song, recorded a song, nothing. I was just a kid experimenting with something non-pharmaceutical and non-alcoholic—a healthy little hobby to pat myself on the back for a second. I remember humming along to the chord progression and the next thing I knew, I had a page full of lyrics. Strum, scribble, hum, scribble, scribble, strum, and done. The entire process took maybe 15 minutes and I had never been so proud.

I did it just like Cobain and Beethoven. Like Iggy. Like Florence. Like all those other people on posters I couldn’t afford. I’m the poster now, were the words triumphantly whispered to no one.

The next logical step was to transfer the creation from brain to social media, but that’s easier said than done. Old iPhone? Check. Older guitar? Check. Lighting, background, distance, outfit, angles, delivery, props—there’s so much more to consider. Wisely, I decided on the less-is-more approach.

I moved my amp away from the wall, propped the phone atop, and fiddled with it until you could only see my face with Beethoven’s in the background. I then unfixed the light fixture and covered the bulb with blue tissue paper which in hindsight was definitely a fire hazard, but it perfectly set the weird, nocturnal mood I was going for. Finally, I took my clothes off, messed up my hair, and recorded the tune in one go. Why did I get naked? I don’t remember. You can’t see anything below the top of my shoulders in the actual video.

Video? Check. Upload? Check. Song title?

Hendrix in the Corner was my masterpiece. A two minute and twenty-four second grungy-folk-ballad mumbled in the key of B-flat minor or so I’ve been told.  Apparently that’s the key when you start your song with an A minor chord but you have a capo on the first fret.

Where were my parents during all this? Well, mom died when I was two, so that’s the easy answer. Dad requires more of an explanation.

He gave us food, shelter, iPhones, and a list of chores—nothing more, nothing less. Always did and I assume always will considering Chris is now 26 and still living there according to an acquaintance that eventually became a friend I unexpectedly ran into a year or so back. Dad speaks when spoken to, but only when spoken to. He’s not pleasant, but he’s not not pleasant if you get what I’m trying to say. Perhaps neutral is the appropriate term. Or on autopilot. As long as chores were done and done correctly, it was smooth-sailing.

I haven’t seen him in forever, but I’m sure nothing has changed. Five evenings a week, Dad would arrive home from the factory within a three minute window carrying a six-pack of PBR. Never before 5:28 or after 5:35, he’d cover his ears with those cherished headphones Chris and I were forbidden to even touch and get to work on the computer. Doing what? I haven’t a clue, but during which, he would drink exactly five beers.

His math was pretty simple, although flawed if nitpicked. One extra can from each six-pack saved over a five-day work week meant Saturday’s five beers were free. With the money saved, he’d buy a pint of Turkey 101 and hit the five-can-one-bottle combo hard, all while intently focused on the mystery computer work.

On Sundays, Dad would rest.

I guess the routine-junkie gene was in us all. Dad’s computer, my clockwork guitar endeavors, Chris and those dumb games—I know it may sound bad, but it wasn’t. I didn’t miss my mom. How do you mourn someone you don’t remember? And like I said, Dad wasn’t not pleasant. He just liked to keep to himself, just like I do. Chris was the typical heartless older brother. Family. It was what it was and probably still is.

And that’s all it was and is as far as mine goes. The entire tree in one small house. Dad and mom were both only children. All my grands had died except one that refused to see us because we reminded him too much of mom. That’s mom’s dad for those of you that aren’t hip to context clues. I think he lives in Arizona. Or Arkansas. Might as well be Afghanistan. He might even be dead by now. If I have distant cousins, I don’t know about them.

There was no one to tell me Dad was different before mom’s passing. That he just couldn’t recover after that kind of heartbreak. That he was a hero in Desert Storm. That he showed such promise on the guitar he handed down to me. That he was some kind of physics virtuoso on the verge of unifying Einstein’s relativity with quantum mechanics before giving up and burning his work in an office-style trash can to live quaintly in that little house because he couldn’t handle the pressure without mom’s support. Maybe that’s what he was always doing on the computer. Or maybe it was an eBay obsession. Or a diary. It’s hard telling. I just don’t know and I’m fine with that.

So anyway, yeah, late October 2016, senior year, like three in the morning—I finally crashed, probably dreamt a little, woke, and then dragged my sleepy-eyed tail to school.

Seven minutes late for Math. On time for English and then Social Studies. As far as school went, I was like Dad—always on autopilot, but that was more than enough. I’m talking A’s, B’s, and the occasional C. At one point I even had plans to go to college.

I remember sitting down with Max, Nessa, and Fran for lunch. My primary co-autopilots through the winds of Public School, USA. All three seemed surprised by the news. They didn’t know I played guitar, much less wrote songs. If I’m being honest, I guess I didn’t write songs. I wrote song, singular. An A-side without a B-side. A one tune wonder. Couldn’t call it a hit. Yet.

I could tell they were into what I was telling them, probably in the same way people like to rubberneck crashed vehicles, but a strict no-phone policy at school wasn’t worth the risk of watching. There was a collective I’ll check it out this evening and that was that.

Music Appreciation I didn’t appreciate. Chemistry I kind of appreciated. Home Economics, I appreciated the easy A. Bell rings. Bus ride. A typical school day down the clean path of a well-maintained drain. No blockage. I crashed, probably dreamt a little, woke up around seven and checked my phone. Hendrix in the Corner. Uploaded 17 hours ago. 2,896 views.

Holy shit.

I consider myself a pretty even-keeled, rational guy but at that moment, a thousand thoughts instantaneously stabbed my mind like a thunderstorm of murder weapons. Are people really watching? Are they making fun of me? Is this a joke? Did Max create a bot to improve my data? Is this my brother’s doing? It couldn’t be. He doesn’t know about it. Maybe he does now. Does Fran have it on repeat? She’s had a crush on me since seventh grade. Everyone knows. Why won’t I just kiss her? There’s around 800 students at the school. What’s 2,896 divided by 800? Everyone’s watched 3.62 times? Did Max tell Billy and Billy told Vern and Vern told Britt? Wonder if Britt has seen it. Maybe Eric at Eric’s Hole In The Wall Music has seen it. My brother is gonna ruin this for me. Am I good? Viral? What do I do now? It’s just a simple song. Why is my heart racing? Shouldn’t I be enjoying this? Am I going to get in trouble at school? Why would I get in trouble at school?

2,941 views. Did I eat dinner? If Britt sees it, will he want to start a band or something? How do you start a band?

2,956 views. Do I make money from this? It must be my voice. It’s so bad I’m like that William Hung guy. The song title makes no sense. Wonder if Nessa watched. I’ll text her in a few. Oh wait, I have 45 unread messages. I just can’t right now. I don’t want to go to school tomorrow. Should I tell Dad? If Billy told Vern, what were his exact words? This must be a joke. A stupid tech joke from some stupid tech nerd that could never write a stupid song so he has to get his stupid kicks messing with me. I need to watch it again. I need to scrutinize every frame and pixel and sound wave and facial expression. I’m the poster now. I need to practice my poster face. Like Gaga but poster, not poker. Will Eric play the song in his store? I should text Fran right now to come over.

3,087 views. I should kiss her without saying a word. I’m starving. This sucks. I need to sleep. Again.

Around nine the next morning—it may have been closer to ten—I formed two quick thoughts as I rolled out of a dreamless sleep. First, I’m skipping school. Second, I have to figure out what’s going on. The first part was an easy win because it was a Saturday. The second part made me lose my marbles.

15,000 views. For some reason I wasn’t too surprised. The moment of truth. Comments. Click.

Who is this kid?!?!? I’ve never been so MOVED. Literally in tears over here, y’all!! - Kristine T

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I GO TO SCHOOL WITH THIS DUDE!!!!!!!!!!!! - Brad G

Nose scratch. Scroll.

sounds like cobain singing southern gospel while on shrooms and the guitar is gnna haunt my nightmares 10/10 - Lil Smit

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