At Least You'll Be Right

Sometimes the words that change your life aren't the ones you want to hear.

I was sixteen years old. My friend Mark was about seventeen or eighteen, and we were in my bedroom trying to figure out the guitar part to a song we liked called “Midnight Rendezvous.”

The room looked exactly like you'd expect a teenage guitar player's room to look. Rock-band posters, girl posters, black lights, a lava lamp, guitars, and two kids determined to figure out a song by ear.

Except I couldn't get it.

The longer I tried, the more frustrated I became. Finally I'd had enough. I shoved the guitar aside on the bed, let a few choice words fly, and announced that I was never going to get it.

Mark didn't give me a pep talk.

He didn't tell me I was talented. He didn't tell me everything would be okay.

He just looked at me and shook his head.

That made me even madder.

I kept asking, “What? What? Just say it.”

And finally he did.

That was about the last thing I wanted to hear.

It was also exactly what I needed to hear.

I couldn't live with the idea that quitting would make my own prediction come true. So I picked the guitar back up and went back at it.

And I got it.

What had felt impossible became mine, and more than four decades later I'm still playing, writing songs, and even building guitars with my own hands.

That's what “At Least You'll Be Right” is really about. It isn't simply a song about learning a guitar part. It's about that moment when frustration starts making decisions for us.

Sometimes proving somebody else wrong isn't nearly as important as proving yourself wrong.

Today, when I see a young player struggling and ready to give up, I understand even more clearly what Mark gave me that afternoon. He didn't make it easier. He made quitting harder.

Mark probably had no idea that a few words and one disgusted shake of his head would still be with me all these years later.

But they are.