Charlie Estrella

III. THE EPIPHONE

III. THE EPIPHONE

The first week or so in the basement was hell. My friends would call or come by, wanting me to hang out, but I’d hear Mom upstairs, “Charlie’s not gonna be playing for a looooong time!” There was such joy in her voice. I’m convinced she got a great deal of pleasure out of my misery.

It wasn’t long before all my friends faded away. It was tough for me. I went from a popular funny guy to just a kid in the background. Because of how depressing it was at home, I lost my sense of humor for a while. Just wasn’t in the mood to make people laugh.

And the basement was cold, too. I mean, it was New York in the winter. I had a thin little sheet to keep me warm. No space heater. Nothing else. There were plenty of nights I’d huddle around the furnace, so I didn’t freeze. I could see my breath. I’d walk home from school, slipping over the ice, watching my classmates pass by on the school bus, and go straight to the dungeon. It was a miserable existence.

“You had to sleep in the basement, too,” LaRissa asked.

Two years. Two solid years down in the dungeon. And it was very dungeon-like – cobwebs, dank, dripping pipes, a loud-ass, rusty furnace. I wasn’t allowed to bring anything from my bedroom except schoolwork and books. I would take out books from the school library – something I never thought would interest me. But I found interesting paperbacks like Hammer of the Gods, a Led Zeppelin biography, How to Kill a Rock Star, which coincidentally is about a music journalist, and Mitch Albom’s The Magic Strings of Frankie Presto. Those books really fueled my desire to learn about music.

I honestly think my punishment had more to do with my folks’ divorce than my behavior in school. I’m the spitting image of my dad. Banishing me to the basement meant Mom wasn’t reminded that her ex’s look-alike lived under her roof. I begged her to let me go live with my dad, but she didn’t want to give up the child support money.

We had a couple rats down there too. Big, scary rats. I named them – Kong and Godzilla. Freaked me out at first, but I got used to them – would give them my dinner scraps. We had an understanding: I feed you and you don’t give me rabies, okay?

“Why didn’t your mother clean the basement or get an exterminator?”

You kidding? She’d say Dad didn’t give her enough money to pay for frivolous stuff like that.

Mom rarely even saw me during those two years. There was an unfinished bathroom in the dungeon. No walls. Just a toilet, shower with no curtain, and a sink. Pipes all around. I’d enter and leave the house through the cellar door in our backyard.

My sister Gail felt sorry for me. She got it bad from Mom, but nowhere near as bad as me. Gail would come down occasionally, tell me about life in the above-ground world. Before I was banished to the basement, we didn’t get along that well. Things changed for us when I was down there. Gail was two years older and was a nerdy girl with hardly any friends. And then at fourteen she blossomed, developed these huge t**s, and became exceedingly popular with the boys. But during those two years when I was in the dungeon, we were closer. She’d worry about my health. My skin was turning gray. My blonde hair got darker and was long and scraggly. No sun will do that to you, ya know?

But really, it turned out the basement was the best thing for me.

“How’s that?”

It was about two months into solitary confinement. There was a nasty smell building in the basement. I went looking for the source. Turned out, Kong had croaked. Maybe Godzilla murdered him for his piece of bread. Whatever it was, it smelled rancid. I looked all over the basement for the source of the smell. Found Kong in a corner, behind a bunch of dusty boxes. Got a rag and picked him up by the tail. Jesus, it was horrid! But guess what I saw under the rat carcass? A freaking guitar case! An Epiphone guitar case, with a little pig nose amp next to it. After vomiting, I was able to clean everything up – give Kong a little burial in the backyard – and after some polish, I had myself a 1956 Epiphone Les Paul Goldtop.

“Did you ever find out who it belonged to?”

Turns out old George Starsiak was a bit of a musician. Dad played—

“Starsiak? Your last name is Starsiak?”

It’s Polish in case you were wondering. You thought my real name was Estrella?

“Well, yes. In all my research I never came across anything about a different last name.”

Starsiak… Star… Estrella is star in Spanish. It’s not much of a stretch, really. I’m zero percent Hispanic. Polish and Welch, with a little Austrian – hence the blonde hair.

“The Les Paul?”

Right, right… Still have it. It’s going to get buried with me… when it’s time, ya know? That guitar means everything to me. Gail told me she heard that Dad was a rather good guitarist. He was in some bands in the 60s – even toured with the Lovin’ Spoonful and some other big acts. I was mad when Gail told me. How did she know and not me? Why was it such a big secret that Dad had this music history? Well, I guess I had to get my musical aptitude from somewhere, right?

LaRissa made a note: “GEORGE STARSIAK!”

I was getting too old for the toy guitar, but seeing that Les Paul, I mean, it inspired me. I was so motivated to play it. But I had no money and Mom wouldn’t help at all. I needed stuff for the Goldtop. So, I begged Mom to let me do chores for money: raking leaves, mowing the lawn, cleaning out the rain gutters. Mom took full advantage. I did every crap job she could find for me. And boy, was she cheap! I’d spend three hours re-screening the back porch, getting eaten alive by bugs, for two dollars. But it all added up, and besides, it gave me brief reprieves from the dungeon. By springtime, I saved a couple hundred dollars. I snuck out one Saturday and rode my bike to a little music shop, Musica Negozio. The name literally means “music store.” Fancy, right? An old Sicilian owned the shop, Carmello Ponte. Spent every penny on songbooks, a four-track tape recorder, strings, picks, a tuner, a strap, a cord. I was set – and I dove into “Terry.”

“Terry?”

The Goldtop. Named it after my mom. Not sure why – maybe because it annoyed her so much to hear me play. The little pig nose amp wasn’t very loud, but she loved pounding her broomstick on the kitchen floor – just over my head in the dungeon – whenever the music seeped through the floorboards. Gail told me it was barely audible, but Mom couldn’t stand it that I found something to not only occupy my time in the dungeon but something that I enjoyed. Honestly, “enjoyed” doesn’t come close to describing it. I started racing home from school to play. My fingers were completely calloused, playing until two or three in the morning, every night.

Started out with a Led Zeppelin songbook. I cried when I first played “Stairway” all the way through, solo and all. It’s not the most challenging song – I’d say Page’s toughest tune is “The Rain Song” – but “Stairway” is just so iconic. Within a few weeks, I had all ninety-two Zep songs down – at least the licks and chords. I hadn’t mastered all the solos yet. Then I got a Hendrix book. His songs are much more difficult than Page’s. Struggled a bit on an obscure Jimi tune, “Machine Gun.” Hendrix played a Strat, and my Les Paul wasn’t exactly suited for several of his songs.

By the end of summer, I had stormed my way through the Van Halen, Queen, and Nirvana catalogs. Next up was Stevie Ray Vaughan. That was some seriously challenging s**t. Felt like I was climbing the “Mt. Everest” of guitar.

“How long did it take you to learn all these great guitar pieces?”

Hmm, four, five months. I know, I amazed myself how fast it all came to me. But then I went through a let-down stage. I knew I could continue to work my way through more and more difficult compositions – Eric Johnson, Yngwie Malmsteen, Michael Angelo Batio, Steve Vai, Joe Satriani – and I became a sponge, listening to and attempting to emulate all their amazing technique and speed. I was far from technically perfect, but I knew I was good for a thirteen-year-old.

I needed more. I needed to write my own music.