The Art of the Bent Note

Passion and grace in the hands of a fifteen year old kid

A swoop. The parabolic thrill of sonic pulchritude. A note that rises above all others, stinging the atmosphere with its sweetness. And on top of that note just a smidgen of vibrato, a gentle coaxing that teases the elusive harmonics out like a magician pulling scarves from his closed fist.

Todd was a fifteen-year-old pimply faced kid living in Queens, New York. His dad bought him his first electric guitar when Todd was eight and regretted it ever since. This was because, even from the very beginning, Todd was obsessed with playing just one wailing note at top volume and torturing it like a screaming banshee. As Todd grew up, he became more fanatical about this one note. To his neighbors' chagrin, Todd would play his guitar at full volume, claiming that the only way to get that elusive bend was to fully saturate the glowing amp tubes with rocket juice and launch that note into space. And it had to be bent. The only way to get a note up there was to push it up with your finger, drilling it into the fretboard until the finger bled and the nail splintered. So Todd practiced this, over and over and over. He grew frustrated and upset. He practiced more. Still the note eluded him. And so it was, at the eleventh hour of a marathon session, that Carlos Santana came to him in a lucid dream. Santana was dressed in airy white cotton, a wardrobe that could barely contain the luminosity of his spirit.

“Todd,” spoke Carlos, “I see your frustration. It is with loving kindness that I tell you this once and once only.” He paused, then looked directly into Todd’s eyes and said, “The way out is in.”

With that Carlos gently put his hands together in a prayer and drifted away on the wings of a perfect note. Todd shook his head to clear it and contemplated the meaning of Santana’s words. 

With an eager passion he changed his lifestyle. He started meditating. He read the writings of Santana’s guru, Sri Chinmoy. He wore the same clothes Santana did, emulating him in every way in search of that magic note. He purchased the same model of guitar Santana used and practiced diligently, trying to focus Santana’s spirit into his playing. He bought an amp that went to twelve. 

And thus it came to pass that one day came that Todd felt was especially auspicious. He put his jam track on and closed his eyes. The thumping backbeat of the audio accompaniment sounded like a wave rolling smoothly towards the beach. Todd’s guitar was the surfboard and he took off on that wave, smoothly sweeping the notes into the higher registers of the octave, harmonics sparkling in its wake. The wave was perfect and Todd was deep inside of it when he let out the ultimate note, the note whose sound was a song in and of itself, feeding back in perfect sync with the wave. The note was smoking hot and then he bent it, oh my God, he bent it into the goosebumps and as the note hit the apex of its flight, Todd wiggled his finger ever so slightly and applied just the right amount of vibrato on top. The note sizzled with voltage, electrifying the wispy thin hairs of Todd’s pubescent mustache. And still the note wailed. Todd closed his eyes as the note surrounded him with the peace of perfection. All movement ceased in this glorious moment, and in his mind’s eye, Todd saw Santana right in front of him, his guitar gently weeping.

 With this acknowledgement, Todd opened his eyes and came back to earth. He smiled. He had bent the perfect note. Todd rested in deep satisfaction. With his life’s mission complete, he could now focus on getting laid.

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Sound waves photo by Pawel Czerwinski on Unsplash