The year was 1964.  John, Paul, George and Ringo hit the airwaves and just like every other kid in my grade school class I went Beatle crazy: I got the famous bowl-cut Beatle haircut, the very cool looking, black ankle high Beatle boots and, of course, my Beatle lunch box. Come to think of it, if I had the lunch box today, it would be worth very big bucks! Needless to say, the Beatles were huge!   Actually when I was about 9 or 10 it was   Ringo Star that caught my fancy and  I began the art of banging the drums. It wasn’t until a couple of years later that Carlos Santana’s playing caught my ear, and I soon realized my true calling: the guitar!

I bought my first one when I was about fourteen. It was an inexpensive, nice little student guitar: a Carlo Robelli, the Sam Ash brand electric Les Paul copy.       Like all kids — but like kids from that time especially — I wanted something better as soon as possible. So I went to work that next summer and the following winter delivering groceries on my bike. I will tell you I put plenty of miles on that old bike of mine! I saved all my tips and soon had about six hundred dollars to spend on a new real Gibson Les Paul guitar. It was a lot of money, but, hey, I knew it was for the right cause: Rock’n Roll!

During that time I went to the music store everyday to check out the Gibsons, and I would plug in every Gibson on display searching for that Santana tone. When I’d finally put the instrument down, I would drive the poor salesman crazy with a host of questions.

When the day finally arrived that I was ready to buy the Gibson, I nervously approached my dad to get his permission to purchase it. I explained to him that I knew it was expensive, but that I had earned the money for it working all last year.

My father who always supported my interest in music  was impressed by my commitment and hard work. “If that’s the guitar you want, then we will go down there together to get it!” he announced with pride. I played that guitar in various bands through out high school. In those days everyone hired bands to play at parties and I ended up gigging around three or four times a month.

One of my bands actually got decent enough to perform and win the Lincoln High school “Battle of the Bands” contest. We were sort of like The Carpenters: I was on the guitar and leader of the band; My sister, A very accomplished musician herself handled the vocals. This band was completely inspired by the big hair bands of the day and the classic hard rock sounds of Heart,Queen , Led Zep and of course Carlos Santana.  We became well known and enjoyed playing dances and block parties.

Towards the end of that summer, my mom sat me down — concerned or maybe terrified that I would not choose to go to college —  told me that there were colleges in the city with excellent music programs. Well, mom was on the money as usual. While attending college. I had the pleasure of meeting and performing with many talented musicians. I joined high-level original bands and also  cover bands. We got hired regularly to play Doobie Brothers, Bad Company, Led Zep and, of course, Santana.

Those gigs paid some bills and gave me the opportunity to perform in front of an audience. But, most importantly, I worked my ass off striving to learn the guitar parts of these masters note for note.

During my third year at college, I had what I like to call “my big break” that landed me in the hospital and in music business:  A huge Marshall speaker cabinet road case crashed right into my face and broke my nose as we loaded the gear on to the back of the truck after a gig.

During the weeks of recuperation, I studied Eddie Van Halen’s ‘tapping’ guitar parts, searched for the secret of Carlos Santana’s sweet singing guitar tones, and missed registering for college classes.  When my mother found out, she didn’t skip a beat: “It would be a very good experience for you to work in the music business while you are waiting for the next school semester to begin.” She announced. I told her about west 48th street. She said. “That would be a great place to start.”

So the very next morning I found myself with thousands of other commuters on the D TRAIN from Brooklyn heading to the Big Apple. I  walked into Alex Music inquiring about work, and right away the elderly man with a thick Italian accent behind the counter put me to the test: He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a pen: “If you think you can be a salesman then sell me this pen!” He handed it over to me.  I told him that this was a wonderful piece of equipment for the money, “a real value for the dollar.” I announced that it was the most popular model that we sell. And I finished with: “Go ahead test it out for yourself!” The old guy smiled broadly and took my contact information. I asked him if he could check with Mr. Alex and let me know if there is an opening here.

“Mr. Pisani are you Italian?” he asked. “Yes,” I replied. “I am Mr. Alex and you start tomorrow.” We both laughed and I called my mother to tell her the great news.

Twenty years later, I see that the big nose break, turned into my big career break, too. But don’t worry, I didn’t leave my Carlos Santana dreams that far behind. I now was poised to stand closer to this rock god than ever before.

One day in ’94 or ‘95 I received a call from the Paul Reed Smith Guitar Company, the builders off high quality custom electric guitars. They explained that Carlos Santana would be appearing later that afternoon on the David Letterman show and that he needed a guitar his performance .  I am used to these ‘crisis’ calls and have a messenger service delivering equipment for guest artists appearing on the show. The Ed Sullivan Theater is just a few short blocks away from “music row’ in midtown Manhattan, so it is a convenient situation for everyone involved.  I figured that Carlos needed one of his PRS signature model guitars to perform.  It is hand made from selected woods with stunning abalone inlay and figured flame maple tops.

I went up to the stock room and brought down the guitar.

A couple of hours later, a customer entered the store who at first glance looked like one of the countless mid-life rockers still chasing a dream. (God bless them. With out them I would not have any high end customers to sell to!)

“Can I help you,” I asked while taking a second look at the guy. Now my heart started racing. “No way,” I said to myself. “Carlos would have sent a delivery boy to fetch his prize.” But, damn, it certainly looked a lot like him. As the strangely familiar man approached, he asked me for his guitar as he pointed to the PRS Santana model I hanging on the display wall.

“I have it all set up for ya  Carlos!” I proudly said.

While I was finishing his paper work, a customer stopped along side of us and said “Hey dude, you know you look a lot like Carlos Santana!” Carlos stepped back and turned around to face him and said:  “Buenos Diaz Senor, I am!  The guy’s jaw dropped to the ground.

Several months later, I was behind my counter and I glanced out the front door. There standing in front of the store looking in the front window was Carlos  once again! Here is my chance, I said to my self while I ran over to the display case and grabbed another new PRS Santana model. I could finally have a personally autographed model for myself.  (What’s another six thousand dollar guitar to my collection?)

“Hey Carlos, how are ya? Remember me? I was the guy that hooked you up with the PRS when you did the Lettermen gig.”

“Oh yeah, how are you?”

“Very cool” I said feeling real confident with the PRS Santana model hanging from my hand. “How about signing the guitar for me. Er I mean to me’?”  I said while lifting the killer axe towards him. At that moment his assistant or roadie jumped in and said: “Sorry Carlos is off today. No signatures!!”

Well I do have some professional pride here and I said back to both of them: “I am ok with that. No problem.”

Then I handed them a couple of business cards. “Take my business card: one for you and one for Carlos. Let me know if I can ever help you.”

After all, the possibility of the next big sale can distract you from dreams lost any day of the week.