Where the piano had seemed incomprehensible, I was able to make music on the guitar almost instantaneously - melodies, chords, song structures fell at my fingertips. Somehow I could listen to a song on the radio and then make a passable attempt at playing it. It was a miracle. I spent hour after hour, day after day, month after month just playing, rejoicing in the miracle and probably driving my parents around the bend. But it was their fault in the first place.
Music is an addiction, music is a religion, a disease.
There is no cure, no antidote. I was hooked. There was only one radio station in England at that time, it was the BBC, and you could hear the Beatles and the Rolling Stones side by side with bits of Mozart, Beethoven, Glenn Miller, and even the blues. This was my musical education, its eclecticism, supplemented by my parents' record collection of Rodgers and Hammerstein, Lerner and Loewe, Elvis Presley, Little Richard, and Jerry Lee Lewis. But it wasn't until the Beatles that I realised that perhaps I could make a living out of music.