Girl guitar solo obsession

Obsession didn’t quite cover it. More like a fever.

More than anything else in the world, I wanted to play guitar

One problem. I’m female, was age 17, and lived in Ohio. It was the 1970s and girls from the midwest just didn’t play guitar. Not seriously, anyway.

On the coasts, there were outliers. Patti Smith. Joan Jett. I never knew about Chrissie Hynde, who lived one city to the east of me, yet had to move to London to get famous.

But girls like me, where I lived, and coming from a working class family? It’s okay to be smart enough to go to college so you can catch a husband from a well-to-do family. It wasn’t okay to be smart enough to know you didn’t want to be like those girls, needing a man to define you in society.

Girl guitarist

It was a prison born of a generation of women not quite liberated, and a fading tradition of male superiority stuck in an blue collar past.

I did not know how the chains of my upbringing would grow heavier the more I struggled against them in the years ahead.

All I knew, at age 17, was a desperate need to learn rock guitar.


I hunched over the state-of-the-Kmart record player I got from my parents for Christmas. It was not an easy trick to retrieve the stylus and drop it on top of the same patch of spinning black vinyl, while clutching a bulky hollow body electric guitar against my awkward teenage body. Difficult and stressful, yes, but done for a noble purpose.

To learn a guitar lick.

I dropped the needle to the platter again, on that same patch of plastic worn white with misuse. A single guitar phrase, thick with unholy blues-inspired nastiness, rolled from the speakers placed strategically near the ceiling on each of the four walls of my room. I memorized the dozen notes of the phrase, then lifted the needle off the vinyl. Jabbing the guitar strings with my pick, I made a sloppy mess of duplicating Mick Taylor’s brilliant phrasing, on that stolen Harmony guitar my guy friend Steve had “left in my care” in our family’s basement.

I would never be able to play that solo like Mick Taylor, but damn it, I wanted to so badly it hurt. I put the needle to the vinyl again. And again. And again.

For hours…

…until I could play that “Can’t You Hear Me Knocking” solo along with the recording – without finesse or technique, perhaps – but straight through.

Maybe I wasn’t a virtuoso, like Mick Taylor of the Rolling Stones. But every bit of heart that could be mustered by a 17-year-old girl in the ’70s poured into that loosely copied guitar solo – and that’s quite a lot.

I called it “the heat” – that yearning of wanting to play like the guitarists who took my soul to the borders of heaven. Only to the borders, though. Because everybody knew, rock stars were never going to get past St. Peter.

Those rock stars would burn in hell forever. Just ask my religiously-fanatical mother.

Never mind. If I could convert that desire trapped inside of me, into a guitar solo that blazed its way into eternity like those guitar gods could, I’d gladly burn in hell with them.

Legend had it that bluesman Robert Johnson stood at the crossroads with the devil, and traded his soul for his guitar skill. I totally got that.

Don’t let a guy talk you out of playing guitar


Don’t ever let a guy talk you out of playing guitar. You might be still early in the learning stages and not that good yet. Or you might play them a song and he’ll tell you not to give up your day job. Or when you play him the rough recording, he’ll say it sounds like warbling. That’s what happened to me. The words will smite you to the core. It will make you want to give up playing and writing songs. Don’t listen to him.

As I found out later, he’s jealous. Either he isn’t interested in music, or thinks rock is for the immature, or girls shouldn’t play instruments, but should just sing. And if he’s a rocker himself, he’s probably a drummer who always wanted to play guitar.

Don’t do what I did. Don’t stop because it makes him feel that his opinion is more important than yours. Don’t stop because it pleases him. As Journey sings, don’t stop believing. Do what pleases you. Because someday that self-centered asshole will be gone or dead, and you will be left without music and without in yourself. If you’re like me, you might have even forgotten about how great playing guitar made you feel and it might not even occur to you to pick up your guitar again until years later.

There’s one man who would never ask you to quit playing: Keith Richards. He is the ultimate guitar hero. He is and always has been my personal guitar hero. And Keith says if he was locked in jail for life, he would be just fine if he had his guitar.

Sometimes being in a oppressive relationship with a man is just like being locked up in jail. It happened to me. And if I had still been playing guitar, I wouldn’t have been in so much pain. In fact, I might have had enough belief in myself, and enough power, to break out of the prison.

But for me, that didn’t happen until much later. Don’t let it happen to you.

‘Rings of Passage’ chosen for top 10 by Ezvid Wiki

My novel, Rings of Passage, has been chosen for a top ten list of Regal Romance Novels About Royals And Aristocrats by Ezvid Wiki. In the email informing me of this honor, the website was described as the world’s first video wiki, and is now among the top 3,000 websites in the United States.

Ezvid Wiki - Regal Romance Novels - ,Karla Tipton's Rings of Passage

What a surprise! This came a half dozen years after the novel first saw print.

Founded in 2011, the website presents thousands of topics in four-to-seven minute videos, introducing content in a “gentle nature” useful for teaching environments.

As #10 in the list, Rings of Passage’s few seconds of fame comes at timecode 5:58, right at the end. Feel free to jump ahead, but also consider the other deserving novels in the list.

Years ago, I followed my bliss, Richard III, the much maligned medieval king of England.

Richard, the rock star
His story was not unlike the dead rock star legends I cut my teeth on as a teenager. He was a flawed hero, misunderstood and judged harshly by those who considered themselves superior (read: Tudors and/or The Establishment).

Richard’s historical details and tragic life and death consumed me. I wrote a time travel novel, in which the heroine traveled back to the 15th century, met and fell in love with the doomed royal. (I won’t deny there was a little bit of wish fulfillment in that plot.)

More than two decades after I wrote Rings of Passage, the remains of the king, unknown since his battlefield death in 1485, were found beneath a parking lot in Leicester, on the ancient location of the Greyfriars monastery, where some research suggested he might have been buried.

I recognized the opportunity to unearth my old novel, and revamped it to include things like cellphones, and to modernize the heroine to be less of a damsel in distress. Then I pitched it to e-publishers, which did not exist when my agent shopped it around New York romance publishers in in the early ’90s, and which were much more willing to take on non-traditional romance stories. The rest, they say, is “history.”

Witness to history
In 2015, Richard, one of the few kings without a proper resting place, would be reburied by the British government in Leicester Cathedral.

With my book having been newly published, and my former fondness for Richard renewed, I knew I had to bear witness to history. I flew to the UK in March 2015. As a member of the Richard III Society, I was able to attend a special service held inside the cathedral. The Society has existed since 1924 to defend Richard’s reputation through historical research, and was instrumental in the archaelogy project resulting in the discovery of his bones. The service was reverant and moving, officiated by representatives of both the Catholic faith and the Church of England, with many hymns and presentations, as Richard lay in state before us.

That trip to England, taken so many years after my first visit to Richard’s “car park” in 1990, when it was only speculated he might be buried there, was a transcendent experience. Read about it in my travel story published on Perceptive Travel, “An American Novelist in King Richard III’s Court.”

Podcast review: Waxing philosophical

My nightly ritual: Stephen West’s ‘Philosophize This!’

Stephen West, you are an enigma wrapped in a scroll writ all over with ancient wisdom.

You get right into my head, as I listen to you every night, trying to catch up with the current episode of the Philosophize This! podcast, still three years away in my Spotify future — and yet I don’t want to run out of episodes too quickly.

Somehow, you are able to synthesize all those philosophers I muddled through in college, as I took course after course across all my semesters, trying to comprehend the ideas and wondering how one could make a career of it without becoming a professor.

So thrilled was I with what I learned in those classes, that I once tried to convince a suited up boss at an office where I was working my way through school, that everybody should be required to take philosophiy in college, and that it was way more important than getting a business degree. He laughed. “Most people wouldn’t think so.”

Not long after that, I went out into the world outside of college, and found that what he said was true. Most people don’t think.

Philosophize This!
Philosophize This!

And so it is genius that you are so thoroughly able, in this troubled 21st century, to translate these vintage ideas to those of us wanting to go deeper, but who don’t have the time to read all the thick tomes and multi-volumes required, and to do so with that quirky sense of humor that always makes me laugh out loud. On lists of the best podcasts ever, I wonder if you are aware Philosophize this has appeared several times in the top 20?

It doesn’t seem like you’re on social media all that much, which I believe is wise. I fear too much of it would intrude upon your relationship with the ideas and inhibit your ability to unfurl them back into the world as a clean white ribbon of thought.

So I wish we could know you better. There have been only tidbits so far, mentioned occasionally during the podcast — how both your parents were addicts, and how you were homeless for awhile. You have come far, and the story intrigues me.

Where I exist now, way back in 2016 of your podcasts, you mentioned you wrote a book, but when I looked for it on your website, I must have arrived too late.

I imagined it might be an autobiography like the one written by Alan Watts, whose philosophical lectures I used to listen to on KPFK Pacifico Radio when I lived in LA. The recordings played late at night, back in the 1980s. He, too, would offer up the occasional fact about his life, posthumously, because he was gone by the time I was listening. At last, I tracked down his authobiography at City Lights bookstore in San Francisco. Perhaps Philosophize This! fills a void once occupied by Alan Watts.

Please know how important the podcast has become to me since discovering it a few months ago. I am now just entering my 60s and longing for the depth of soul I had when I was younger, back when I was just outside of the timeframe of the counterculture movement. As the years wore on, I somehow lost the feeling.

It is too hard in these trumpian times to have faith in anything that had once seemed impervious, like the rule of law inherent in the U.S. Constitution built upon philosophical ideas. Or even just the unblinking nerve of politicians in suits to carry the mantle of the free world with some semblance of decency while appearing in public, even if, in private, they’re as flawed as anybody.

When learning and re-learning philosophy, as applied to the world today through your interpretation, it somehow makes me hope that someday, somehow, I might permanently regain my belief in the shine of ideas conveyed purely for the beauty of the light. For now I am content with 30 minutes a night.