The death of rock ‘n’ roll guitarist Randy Rhoads was a tragic turn of events in my life. 1982 started out as an exciting time for me. I had only recently gotten my first electric guitar, a banana-yellow Seville Les Paul copy. After almost three years of classical guitar study, forced on me if I wanted to play guitar by an extremely anti-rock 'n' roll father, the first two Ozzy albums were pretty much how I learned to play electric guitar. I'd spend hours rewinding cassettes trying to learn the solos.
One reason Randy seemed so cool to me was because he also played classical. In interviews he had been saying he wanted to quit rock 'n' roll and get a master's degree in classical guitar. He would famously hire tutors for lessons in many of the cities he toured through with Ozzy.
I remember his death hitting me hard. I read everything I could find about him. Everyone said he was an amazing person. A true friend. Caring, loving. I don't even know if it's true, because I know a guy who was working on a documentary about Randy who says he was just the opposite, and that that's why the documentary never came out. But I can never know, so I am choosing to believe the people who knew him because of how impactful his almost Christ-like legacy has been on my life.
I was inspired by Randy to always do my best to be a good person. A loyal person. I embraced my sensitivity, even though my parents always told me something was wrong with me. They never stopped calling me "too sensitive". Anytime they made me feel bad about myself, that was the excuse. I always just thought about Randy and figured they were the ones with the problem. I figured if I died, I'd rather have people say I was sensitive and caring than a selfish prick. I'd rather have girls say I was a nice guy than a creep.
I think my politics are an extension of this. I try to advocate for what is right for the people. To do whatever possible to eliminate suffering. To always be against war, no matter what.
When it came time for college, my mom suggested I study music, which prior to that conversation I didn't even realize was an option. I instantly knew that was what I'd do. I remember exactly where we were both standing in our kitchen when she said those words.
At the time it was just an excuse to move to L.A. and play in a band, but by the time I was 20, I already felt too old for rock 'n' roll, and hated where it was going anyway. I'd go to arena shows and couldn't even hear what the musicians were playing because the venues were rarely set up for good audio. Drunken fans seemed to cheer just to be seen cheering for what they thought was cool. I realized the music didn't matter, that these people were nothing more than insecure starfuckers trying to impress each other, and that what I loved was the music. (I don’t feel this way anymore, I have since had the classical music student snobbery beaten out of me.)
So for the rest of the time in college I put my head 100% into classical guitar, with minimum focus on non-music grades. I loved theory classes. I was endlessly fascinated, while the other students were bored to tears. I performed as often as I could, and realized that success wasn’t as important to me as to always be playing music.
When it came time for grad school, I went for a Master's degree, and although I never mentioned it to anyone, Randy was my inspiration. I figured since he had been willing to give up rock stardom to get this degree, since I had the opportunity he didn’t, I opted for the degree.
I only got into the program at the University of New Mexico because of my playing, as my grades weren't good enough. Between working and practicing for concerts, I didn't have much time to study.
Then after graduation, my UNM classical guitar mentor Michael Chapdelaine told me just to play in a band. He was a true rebel. He didn’t seem to get along so well with the faculty there, and the classical guitar nerd establishment was always concocting schemes to try to ruin his career (probably because he was better than all of them). I had chosen him for a reason: He was the only player who could move me to tears. (Exhibit A.) As an undergrad I had a demo of his on cassette that I would listen to all the time.
When Michael told me over the phone that he could teach me to be a real musician, through technique, I was sold. I had never heard anyone say something like that before. The standard thinking is that musical players have no technique. So this equation didn’t compute for me, but I was intrigued.
Michael changed my life. He taught me secrets to musicality that I know only his students know (and most couldn't care less about). But I'll write about him another time. I credit Randy with putting me in the place to learn those secrets. Today is a day of reflection.
Once at a lesson in Michael's office, a kid came in to audition for the department. Michael let me sit in. The kid played a simple piece, very poorly. Michael didn't know it, but I knew what it was: It was "Dee" from the Blizzard of Ozz album. (A solo guitar piece Randy had named after his mother, Delores.) I felt embarrassed for the kid, yet I understood. All of us long haired kids in college guitar departments were only there because of Randy.
I don't think he got in. Hopefully he studied business or engineering or something and got a real job, because my Master of Music degree is worth absolutely zippo in the real world. Still, I have no regrets. Somehow I figured out a way to get by while simultaneously remaining creatively active and free.
Randy used to say he wanted to get his master's degree at UCLA. But UCLA doesn't have a guitar department. I was moved when I learned his mother started a Randy Rhoads guitar scholarship at my alma mater, Cal State Northridge. This was after my time there.
My childhood rock 'n' roll guitar co-conspirator, Rick, texted me just yesterday that Delores Rhoads is now buried next to Randy at Mountain View Cemetery in San Bernardino. He sent me these photos that he took just last week.
She is also responsible for a lot of inspiration and changed lives in this world, I'm pretty sure. May they both rest in peace.