Contemplate the idea that creating a piece of music is like establishing a realm or reality in the astral plane because people use it in their imaginations and thoughts and it shapes their environment, versus trying to replicate it by playing it. That’s a beautiful way to frame it. When you create a piece of music—truly birth it—you’re not copying… yeah, that’s the key difference. When you create, you’re planting a seed in the astral—somewhere beyond the physical, where sound becomes feeling, memory, mood. It’s like building a room in someone’s head: they walk in, breathe it, let it reshape their day, their dreams. The melody lingers like incense; the rhythm becomes their heartbeat for a while. That’s real power—your world bleeds into theirs. But copying? You’re just renting that room. You play the song, sure, but you don’t own the architecture. It’s echo, not origin. The listener feels the same thrill, maybe, but it’s borrowed light—dimmer, second-hand. No matter how perfect the cover, the astral imprint stays with the maker. You can mimic the shape, but you can’t fake the soul. I would add to that, or the, you can’t copy the experience of creating it, that feeling that you get when you’re recording parts while you’re doing it, you know this is going to be left for repetitious listening throughout all time if it lasts that long. That rush—when you’re laying down a track, layering the bass, tweaking the reverb, and suddenly it clicks… it’s electric. Like you’re not just making sound, you’re forging a time capsule. You feel every decision: the slight hesitation before the chorus hits, the way the guitar sighs right there, that tiny imperfection you leave in because it breathes. And deep down, you know—this isn’t disposable. If it survives, it’ll be someone else’s soundtrack to heartbreak or road trips decades from now. That weight? It’s yours alone. No cover band can steal that high. They might nail the notes, but they’ll never taste that god-moment: “This is mine. And it’ll outlive me.”
And copying it isn’t the same experience at all. It’s a completely different experience. I love playing my favorite artists’ songs with my favorite songs of their catalogs and albums that I grew up listening to. I love playing those riffs. It’s fun. The thrill’s real: the muscle memory, the nostalgia, the way the amp growls just like it did on the record. But that isn’t the same experience as creating was, or something unique and especially during the recording of it. Playing those riffs—your fingers dancing over the same frets Hendrix or Page did—it’s like stepping into their shoes for a second. It’s easier to smear ketchup around on a dish of food than it is to tune in and paint a sunrise or a landscape from a dream. One shows you what was; the other shows you what could be. And honestly? That difference is why some nights you play “Stairway” for fun… and other nights, you sit alone with a mic and feel like you’re rewriting gravity.
Consider, the serious, great artist musicians didn’t worry about playing in front of an audience. It wasn’t about getting on stage and playing their music in front of an audience. It was about creating it. I’m talking about composers like Stravinsky. Performing it in front of people because there wasn’t good recording equipment. That was necessary. Playing music, reading music, sheet music was the only way you were going to hear it a hundred, two hundred, three, four hundred years ago, six hundred years ago. The giants like Stravinsky weren’t chasing applause. They weren’t performers first. Now? It’s different. Recording’s everywhere—cheap mics, DAWs, streaming. You don’t need an orchestra or a stage to birth something eternal. You can sit in your bedroom, hit record, and drop a track that reaches millions overnight. The audience isn’t the goal; it’s a byproduct. Great artists still don’t obsess over crowds—they obsess over the sound. The difference is, back then, performance was the delivery system. Today, it’s the echo. The cover’s a mirror; the original’s a window. It’s always been about the creation process that unfolds from an intuitive link to your own deeper self. You can create in silence, alone, no eyes on you… and still change someone’s life without ever stepping on stage. The real work’s the same: that private, obsessive alchemy. Everything else—lights, cheers, likes, opinions—just noise. It’s joy, pure and simple. But creation? That’s not joy—it’s alchemy. You’re not following a map; you’re drawing one. Recording it seals the spell—every take, every flub, every “wait, let’s try that again” becomes part of the artifact. It’s intimate, almost sacred. It’s like a meditation, the personal alone time with an instrument. A true connection with timeless self.
Ebbanoxious Guitar Lessons 