The Homebody Chronicles
Ups and downbeats of living with a musician

By Vicki Viotti
Advertiser Staff Writer

Illustration by Martha Hernandez • The Honolulu Advertiser

He is a musician. Cool! thought I.

That was a quarter-century ago, of course. Then, he lived alone and the guitar was one of the more charming elements of the decor, the hallmarks of which were the beanbag chair and the Indian bedspread stapled to the window frame, masquerading as curtains.

Besides, I thought, he has given up the idea of being a full-time professional musician (having tried that life for a year) and has an actual paying day job. How invasive in his life can a musical hobby be, anyway?

How naive I was back then. Yes, I wrested control of the decor from him: The fact that he'd purchased an especially hideous piece of thrift-store furniture without consultation became an issue, two months before the wedding.

But I found out there is no controlling the artistic habits of someone with a passion for music, even one who works for peanuts at best.

Many of those who play music for love, in fact, seem every bit as driven as their professional counterparts. There are so few paying gigs for musicians in Hawai'i, the back bench is filled with part-timers and amateurs who perform like pros.

There was a long period after we got married when music receded somewhat as his home pastime, occupying maybe an hour or so of practice. My husband likes to play blues-rock but is primarily a jazz guitarist, so a daily dose of Ellington can be pretty easy to take.

Then, about five years ago, an old buddy took him out to a blues club, and suddenly a fire was relit. He joined what can be described unkindly but accurately as a garage rock band, and over the years it was often our garage that became rehearsal hall. Actually, it was our living room or lanai, which marginally improved our standing with the neighbors.

And then he hooked up with a jazz combo that played weekly at a coffee shop, a tips jar perched on a stool out front. Some nights were attended by very few spectators unrelated to the band, but that never seems to matter much to the truly die-hard jazz musician.

The effect of all this on the home life was almost instantaneous. Morning exercise routines gave way to endless practice sessions which, fortunately, focused on the jazz, not rock, repertoire. The blues-rock jams were harder to take, but they were only occasional and, except for a single temper tantrum on my part, our marriage remains basically intact.

My husband's other hobby, woodworking, also took on a musical edge. Formerly the source of shelving, gardening benches, keiki furniture and other useful items, the screechy whine of the table saw and router started producing guitars instead.

Now, on top of the handful of instruments he has bought over the years, there are homegrown rock and jazz guitars, as well. He now spends huge chunks of weekend time installing frets or struggling with a recalcitrant guitar neck that just won't fit right.

Naturally, these have inflated our population of stringed instruments to more than a dozen. Like a harem lord, he can't seem to part with any of them.

The situation is hopeless, but I'm not helpless. Every now and then I've used a gift-giving occasion as a chance to present him with guitar hooks, the kind that screw into a wall so that an instrument can be displayed. We have several hanging up around the house.

You see, I retain my firm grip on the household decor. And I have to admit that a guitar is preferable to some other kind of mistress: Even a long-suffering wife can appreciate its beauty.

Advertiser staff writer Vicki Viotti gets to hear her husband play for free every day, but she still drops a buck or two in the tips jar whenever she makes it to a gig. She can be reached by telephone at 525-8053 or by e-mail at vviotti@honoluluadvertiser.com.