By Emma Silvers
By Gary Moskowitz
By Alee Karim
By Ian S. Port
By Ian S. Port
By Derek Opperman
By Emma Silvers
By Alee Karim
"All the guys here are gear junkies," he admits with a smile. "It's just kind of something that hooks you in here in the first place."
I'm certainly hooked. Heinbach walks me through the store, a cluttered labyrinth of rooms dedicated to keyboards, drums, and recording equipment, each one a veritable Egyptian tomb of wankeriffic toys. We end in the main showroom, a space as big as a basketball court with guitars from floor to ceiling and murals of demigods like Santana and Satriani, as well as Hendrix and some guy from Deadstar Assembly, whose name no one can remember.
"This is where it all happens," Heinbach says, and he trots off to assist a customer. Almost on cue, another nearby shopper picks up a jagged-edged Epiphone Explorer (List $749.99. NOW $449.99!) and goes to work on some Jimi. Cruising the main floor, we hear a lot of Hendrix, a lot of Zeppelin, and a lotof Metallica. According to one clerk, Moe, today isn't even that bad.
"Sometimes, man," Moe explains, "you'll get a guy over here who wants to play a little louder. Then, some guy in the other little area will want to turn up too a little bit, because, 'If that guy's turning up, why can't I?' and then the next thing you know everything kind of cancels each other out, all these riffs in all these different keys. It's just noise."
This is the kind of thing that Moe, a former vacuum engineer from Boston who decided to move west to work in environmental issues and somehow got trapped here, goes through for $7 an hour, plus commission. In the middle of our conversation, a guy in a hoodie and sandals approaches him with an instrument in hand. "I'm getting more and more pumped about this bass, dude," Sandal Man says.
It's time for me to take a well-earned trainee break.
I steal to the back of the store, away from Hendrix, Metallica, and Moe, and hide for a few moments in the bathroom. But even the portraits of the musicians that decorate the toilet bear signs of Guitar Center's brazen rock edge. Someone has drawn a mustache on Sinatra, a swastika on Miles, and a cock on Stevie Ray Vaughan.
When you enter the drum room of the El Cerrito Guitar Center, don't be surprised if a man with half his head shaved and the other half sprouting long, lavender cornrows thrusts a pair of drumsticks into your hand and smugly suggests, "Maybe you'll be more comfortable with these." His nametag reads Elvis. It is toward the end of my training day, and at this point I'd be more comfortable at home.
In the back corner of this room, Victor McElhaney sits behind an enormous vintage Rodgers drum kit. He's black, and keeps his closely shaved head down so that he can barely see over the thundering 24-inch bass drum. The enthusiastic performance has drawn a small crowd, and most of us stand agape as he bashes out a long cadence of freaked-out free jazz. He holds the sticks in the same open-handed, traditional grip as the heroes pictured behind him on the wall: Chick Webb, Buddy Rich, Gene Krupa. It's clear that McElhaney is probably the most inspiring show of talent I'm going to get at Guitar Center today. He is 7 years old.
"I told him if he was good in church today we could go up to Guitar Center," says his father, Clarence, who makes the trip up from Oakland as a reward for his son. "So of course he sat there perfect the whole time."
The senior McElhaney stands by wearing a mix of pride and migraine that might someday be classified as "Parent-of-Drummer Face" while Victor dismounts and finds another set of traps to assault. The second-grader starts hammering out a bizarrely sensible (given the fact that he can hardly reach the pedals) Afro-Cuban pattern as his father and I walk over, but as soon as we do, Victor takes off, bouncing around the room from one drum set to another like a little rubber ball. Victor is inspiring.
"He's been going at it for a while now," Clarence says, with more than a touch of fatigue. Victor has a child-size drum set at home that he is quickly outgrowing and a handful of African hand drums. His eye is on a Cajon, a Peruvian box drum, for his next acquisition, and he will be good in church until he gets it. "Slowly my house is filling up with these drums," his father says.
When Victor's performance comes to a brief intermission, I ask him a few questions, but, like most drummers, he doesn't offer the most illuminating interview.
How long have you been playing? "I dunno."
What kind of music do you like to play? "All kinds. I just like playing music."
Why do you like coming here to play? "'Cause this place is cool."
And for Victor and his dad, and Elvis with the lavender cornrows, and -- quite all of a sudden -- me, this place is cool. After Victor's show though, I can't take any more riffing, or drumming, or selling. The store will be closing pretty soon, but I need to leave, right now, and so I do, without saying goodbye or thank you or good night to my hosts. The Moms' minivans have mostly left the parking lot, and I walk to my car and start it, just after reaching down to turn off the radio, just before driving home silently.