關於 easy guitar riff ，我們在網路上蒐集到這些相關的討論、資訊與評價

媽呀！這師資根本就是沙漠中的綠洲嘛！

維尼是拍謝少年、昆蟲白與神經病的吉他手！

沈簡單Easy Shen在我表演瘋狂吉他噪音下台後跟我說我很三八耶！

我最近三把吉他都是拿去Chiang Guitars 江吉他整理的！

所以，高雄的同學們快點去報名吧！

嗨大家晚安，我是鹽埕吉他鋪的校長兼撞鐘張維尼，在百忙又百忙中，這個月又要回高雄開講座了，今年的鹽埕吉他鋪延續去年的豐盛內容，以及平價收費，在高雄港邊再次歡迎大家光臨。

2016的鹽埕吉他鋪專攻吉他手所需的紮實技術內容，但也令人驚喜地有許多不同領域的聽眾加入講座；看到大家聚在平常看演出的 Live Warehouse 裡，以同樣愛音樂的熱情，用不同角度重新觀看音樂，身為一個講座主辦人，我覺得非常幸福。

今年的講座，我想要在講座原本擅長的技術層面上，強化搖滾樂／吉他的「文化面向」，讓講者帶領大家挖掘更多深入的音樂史、體會更多潛伏在吉他零件裡頭的精準，以及感受創作過程的幽微與不為人知。

重新登基金曲台語歌王的謝銘祐，是台灣樂壇最強悍溫柔的台語歌寫作者，他將為大家詳細整理台語流行歌數十載的歷史，以及賞析台語歌的心法。台語作為日常庶民語言的角色，由於許多政治經濟因素干擾，正逐漸衰退中，但我相信未來台語創作者的反彈會只更為劇烈，在困境中寫作出更多震撼人心的作品。關心台語文的你，請向你的朋友們推薦這堂課程。

台灣獨立音樂界的全能創作才子沈簡單／Easy，持續產出著不斷突破自我的新專輯，多變的風格與器樂編曲能力，在我們這一代的創作者中留下難以突破的標竿。Easy 始終是位忠於自我的神秘創作者，作為樂迷除了對他的音樂著迷之外，也好奇著支持他不斷創作的能量與工具來自何方。Easy 將在這次講座用他獨特的語言與魅力，向大家開誠布公自己的創作者之眼，這是一場不輸於 Easy 演出，卻又充滿 Easy 風格的精彩講座。

延續去年的精實技術風格，鹽埕吉他鋪邀請到江吉他工作室的主理人江韋樺來分享電吉他的保養／維護秘技。人稱老哥的江韋樺，另一個身份是經典樂團「光景消逝」的貝斯手；老哥遠赴美國 MI 修習 Guitar Craft 之後，曾經任職於 S7G Guitars，也向拾音器傳奇廠牌 Lollar Pickups 創辦人拜師學藝，學成歸國後便創建江吉他工作室。專業扎實的訓練，加上樂手的獨到眼光與熱情，江吉他工作室已擁有一群固定上門求救的樂手客戶們。對於電吉他／電貝斯的保養、維護原理懵懵懂懂的你，老哥江韋樺將傳授你最適合亞熱帶台灣的保養祕技，快點帶著你的樂器來現場一起動手做！

產量驚人的小說家臥斧、以及逗點文創總編輯陳夏民，將帶領大家從文學與歌詞的視野，洞察歌曲背後的社會脈動，聆聽音樂之外的聲音。事實上，除了大家熟悉的作家、編輯身份之外，臥斧與夏民的音樂聆聽量驚人，也擁有自己獨到的詮釋與鑑賞力。在 Bob Dyan 獲得2016諾貝爾文學獎之後、在這個歌詞書寫日益被重視與看見的年代，對創作者與樂迷來說，對「歌詞」的敏感度訓練都是必要的。臥斧與陳夏民都是非常風趣與專業的演講者，南部的書迷與樂迷們，別錯過這個難得又豐富的對談！

最後，我整理了關於「吉他 Riff」的知識與手法，想與大家好好地分享。若說數位錄音時代中，吉他還能在流行音樂工業中留有一席之地，那麼「吉他 Riff」必定是最不可取代的創作語言與個性。橫跨節奏、和弦以及旋律，甚至在中文語意中不能翻譯的「吉他 Riff」，是所有吉他手創作中最想尋找的聖杯，也是樂迷辨識愛歌的重要特徵。我會帶著大家從聆聽來解構「Riff」，最後重新將「Riff」的重要元素：節奏、和弦、旋律結合起來，讓想要寫歌的你，寫出自己獨有的「吉他 Riff」。這幾乎是我這幾年全職教琴所整理好的最重要心得，我想用最經濟的價錢，回饋給住在高雄的鄉親們。

炎炎夏日，就等太陽西下，大家吹著夏夜晚風，來港邊享受精采的講座；去年曾經參與的朋友，也請來體驗更深更廣的內容，我們港邊相等！
--
★鹽埕區最大聲的吉他講座，2017年再度招生！
★集結台灣金曲創作者、吉他教師、專業吉他調整技師、文化評論講師群
★五堂課，充實您的「彈奏技巧」、「創作理論」、「搖滾樂背景知識」

7/18（二）19:00《吉他 Riff 的結構與解構》
講師：張維尼（拍謝少年吉他手／專業吉他教師）

7/19（三）19:00《關於創作的一次性分享》
講師：沈簡單／Easy Shen（全能創作才子）

7/20（四）19:00《電吉他的保養祕技與維護》
講師：江韋樺／老哥（美國 MI Guitar Craft 畢業／Chiang Guitars 江吉他工作室負責人）

7/25（二）19:00《台語歌的歷史與特色》
講師：府城流浪漢 － 謝銘祐（資深音樂製作及詞曲創作人／金曲獎最佳台語男歌手、最佳台語專輯獎得主）

7/27（四）19:00《 用文字與社會對話──淺談搖滾與流行音樂裡的歌詞》
講師：臥斧Wolf Hsu（作家／著有《碎夢大道》、《硬漢有時軟軟的》）、陳夏民Sharky Chen（逗點文創結社總編輯／讀字書店負責人）

講座地點：高雄 LIVE WAREHOUSE
講座地址：高雄市鹽埕區大義街2-5號
購票方式：現場購票、KKTIX 活動報名售票平台及全台全家便利商店
票價：單日票$200／五日聯票$900
主辦單位：鹽埕吉他鋪
協辦單位：文化部、高雄市政府文化局、Live Warehouse

下週三 Easy 就要來到高雄跟大家分享創作經驗，
有興趣的朋友們，也可以帶上你心愛的樂器一起來喔！

7/19（三）19:00《關於創作的一次性分享》
講師：沈簡單／Easy Shen
地點：高雄 Live Warehouse（駁二藝術特區C10倉庫）
地址：高雄市鹽埕區大義街2-5號
https://yenguitarshop.kktix.cc/events/yenguitarshop2017

更多活動詳情請洽： 《鹽埕吉他舖》

★講師介紹：沈簡單 Easy Shen，全能創作才子，金音獎提名「最佳創作歌手」

★個人經歷：新加坡 Freshmusic 雜誌評比最佳新人，2012發行首張個人專輯《預言》、2015年，《如果身體全部開放了》獲金音獎提名「最佳創作歌手」「最佳風格類型專輯」、2016年發行第三張專輯《如果時間流轉我們依然》；亦是教學多年的吉他教師

台灣獨立音樂界的全能創作才子沈簡單／Easy，持續產出著不斷突破自我的新專輯，多變的風格與器樂編曲能力，在這一代的創作者中留下難以突破的標竿。Easy 始終是位忠於自我的神秘創作者，作為樂迷除了對他的音樂著迷之外，也好奇著支持他不斷創作的能量與工具來自何方。Easy 將在這次講座用他獨特的語言與魅力，向大家開誠布公自己的創作者之眼，這是一場不輸於 Easy 演出，卻又充滿 Easy 風格的精彩講座。

我好心動我要搶票：https://goo.gl/M8r1aY
----------------------------------------------------------
★★《2017 鹽埕吉他舖——當代台灣搖滾吉他深度講座》★★

★鹽埕區最大聲的吉他講座，2017年再度招生！
★集結台灣金曲創作者、吉他教師、專業吉他調整技師、文化評論講師群
★五堂課，充實您的「彈奏技巧」、「創作理論」、「搖滾樂背景知識」

7/18（二）19:00《吉他 Riff 的結構與解構》
講師：張維尼（拍謝少年吉他手／專業吉他教師）

7/19（三）19:00《關於創作的一次性分享》
講師：沈簡單／Easy Shen（全能創作才子）

7/20（四）19:00《電吉他的保養祕技與維護》
講師：江韋樺／老哥（美國 MI Guitar Craft 畢業／Chiang Guitars 江吉他工作室負責人）

7/25（二）19:00《台語歌的歷史與特色》
講師：府城流浪漢 － 謝銘祐（資深音樂製作及詞曲創作人／金曲獎最佳台語男歌手、最佳台語專輯獎得主）

7/27（四）19:00《 用文字與社會對話──淺談搖滾與流行音樂裡的歌詞》
講師：臥斧 Wolf Hsu（作家／著有《碎夢大道》、《硬漢有時軟軟的》）、陳夏民 Sharky Chen（逗點文創結社總編輯／讀字書店負責人）

講座地點：高雄 LIVE WAREHOUSE
講座地址：高雄市鹽埕區大義街2-5號
購票方式：現場購票、KKTIX 活動報名售票平台及全台全家便利商店
票價：單日票$200／五日聯票$900
主辦單位：鹽埕吉他鋪
協辦單位：文化部、高雄市政府文化局、Live Warehouse

Nobody’s Fool　　( January 2011 )

Yoshitomo Nara

Do people look to my childhood for sources of my imagery? Back then, the snow-covered fields of the north were about as far away as you could get from the rapid economic growth happening elsewhere. Both my parents worked and my brothers were much older, so the only one home to greet me when I got back from elementary school was a stray cat we’d taken in. Even so, this was the center of my world. In my lonely room, I would twist the radio dial to the American military base station and out blasted rock and roll music. One of history’s first man-made satellites revolved around me up in the night sky. There I was, in touch with the stars and radio waves.

It doesn’t take much imagination to envision how a lonely childhood in such surroundings might give rise to the sensibility in my work. In fact, I also used to believe in this connection. I would close my eyes and conjure childhood scenes, letting my imagination amplify them like the music coming from my speakers.

But now, past the age of fifty and more cool-headed, I’ve begun to wonder how big a role childhood plays in making us who we are as adults. Looking through reproductions of the countless works I’ve made between my late twenties and now, I get the feeling that childhood experiences were merely a catalyst. My art derives less from the self-centered instincts of childhood than from the day-to-day sensory experiences of an adult who has left this realm behind. And, ultimately, taking the big steps pales in importance to the daily need to keep on walking.

While I was in high school, before I had anything to do with art, I worked part-time in a rock café. There I became friends with a graduate student of mathematics who one day started telling me, in layman’s terms, about his major in topology. His explanation made the subject seem less like a branch of mathematics than some fascinating organic philosophy. My understanding is that topology offers you a way to discover the underlying sameness of countless, seemingly disparate, forms. Conversely, it explains why many people, when confronted with apparently identical things, will accept a fake as the genuine article. I later went on to study art, live in Germany, and travel around the world, and the broader perspective I’ve gained has shown me that topology has long been a subtext of my thinking. The more we add complexity, the more we obscure what is truly valuable. Perhaps the reason I began, in the mid-90s, trying to make paintings as simple as possible stems from that introduction to topology gained in my youth.

As a kid listening to U.S. armed-forces radio, I had no idea what the lyrics meant, but I loved the melody and rhythm of the music. In junior high school, my friends and I were already discussing rock and roll like credible music critics, and by the time I started high school, I was hanging out in rock coffee shops and going to live shows. We may have been a small group of social outcasts, but the older kids, who smoked cigarettes and drank, talked to us all night long about movies they’d seen or books they’d read. If the nighttime student quarter had been the school, I’m sure I would have been a straight-A student.

In the 80s, I left my hometown to attend art school, where I was anything but an honors student. There, a model student was one who brought a researcher’s focus to the work at hand. Your bookshelves were stacked with catalogues and reference materials. When you weren’t working away in your studio, you were meeting with like-minded classmates to discuss art past and present, including your own. You were hoping to set new trends in motion. Wholly lacking any grand ambition, I fell well short of this model, with most of my paintings done to satisfy class assignments. I was, however, filling every one of my notebooks, sketchbooks, and scraps of wrapping paper with crazy, graffiti-like drawings.

Looking back on my younger days—Where did where all that sparkling energy go? I used the money from part-time jobs to buy record albums instead of art supplies and catalogues. I went to movies and concerts, hung out with my girlfriend, did funky drawings on paper, and made midnight raids on friends whose boarding-room lights still happened to be on. I spent the passions of my student days outside the school studio. This is not to say I wasn’t envious of the kids who earned the teachers’ praise or who debuted their talents in early exhibitions. Maybe envy is the wrong word. I guess I had the feeling that we were living in separate worlds. Like puffs of cigarette smoke or the rock songs from my speaker, my adolescent energies all vanished in the sky.

Being outside the city and surrounded by rice fields, my art school had no art scene to speak of—I imagined the art world existing in some unknown dimension, like that of TV or the movies. At the time, art could only be discussed in a Western context, and, therefore, seemed unreal. But just as every country kid dreams of life in the big city, this shaky art-school student had visions of the dazzling, far-off realm of contemporary art. Along with this yearning was an equally strong belief that I didn’t deserve admittance to such a world. A typical provincial underachiever!

I did, however, love to draw every day and the scrawled sketches, never shown to anybody, started piling up. Like journal entries reflecting the events of each day, they sometimes intersected memories from the past. My little everyday world became a trigger for the imagination, and I learned to develop and capture the imagery that arose. I was, however, still a long way off from being able to translate those countless images from paper to canvas.

Visions come to us through daydreams and fantasies. Our emotional reaction towards these images makes them real. Listening to my record collection gave me a similar experience. Before the Internet, the precious little information that did exist was to be found in the two or three music magazines available. Most of my records were imported—no liner notes or lyric sheets in Japanese. No matter how much I liked the music, living in a non-English speaking world sadly meant limited access to the meaning of the lyrics. The music came from a land of societal, religious, and subcultural sensibilities apart from my own, where people moved their bodies to it in a different rhythm. But that didn’t stop me from loving it. I never got tired of poring over every inch of the record jackets on my 12-inch vinyl LPs. I took the sounds and verses into my body. Amidst today’s superabundance of information, choosing music is about how best to single out the right album. For me, it was about making the most use of scant information to sharpen my sensibilities, imagination, and conviction. It might be one verse, melody, guitar riff, rhythmic drum beat or bass line, or record jacket that would inspire me and conjure up fresh imagery. Then, with pencil in hand, I would draw these images on paper, one after the other. Beyond good or bad, the pictures had a will of their own, inhabiting the torn pages with freedom and friendliness.

By the time I graduated from university, my painting began to approach the independence of my drawing. As a means for me to represent a world that was mine and mine alone, the paintings may not have been as nimble as the drawings, but I did them without any preliminary sketching. Prizing feelings that arose as I worked, I just kept painting and over-painting until I gained a certain freedom and the sense, though vague at the time, that I had established a singular way of putting images onto canvas. Yet, I hadn’t reached the point where I could declare that I would paint for the rest of my life.

After receiving my undergraduate degree, I entered the graduate school of my university and got a part-time job teaching at an art yobiko—a prep school for students seeking entrance to an art college. As an instructor, training students how to look at and compose things artistically, meant that I also had to learn how to verbalize my thoughts and feelings. This significant growth experience not only allowed me to take stock of my life at the time, but also provided a refreshing opportunity to connect with teenage hearts and minds.

And idealism! Talking to groups of art students, I naturally found myself describing the ideals of an artist. A painful experience for me—I still had no sense of myself as an artist. The more the students showed their affection for me, the more I felt like a failed artist masquerading as a sensei (teacher). After completing my graduate studies, I kept working as a yobiko instructor. And in telling students about the path to becoming an artist, I began to realize that I was still a student myself, with many things yet to learn. I felt that I needed to become a true art student. I decided to study in Germany. The day I left the city where I had long lived, many of my students appeared on the platform to see me off.

Life as a student in Germany was a happy time. I originally intended to go to London, but for economic reasons chose a tuition-free, and, fortunately, academism-free German school. Personal approaches coexisted with conceptual ones, and students tried out a wide range of modes of expression. Technically speaking, we were all students, but each of us brought a creator’s spirit to the fore. The strong wills and opinions of the local students, though, were well in place before they became artists thanks to the German system of early education. As a reticent foreign student from a far-off land, I must have seemed like a mute child. I decided that I would try to make myself understood not through words, but through having people look at my pictures. When winter came and leaden clouds filled the skies, I found myself slipping back to the winters of my childhood. Forgoing attempts to speak in an unknown language, I redoubled my efforts to express myself through visions of my private world. Thinking rather than talking, then illustrating this thought process in drawings and, finally, realizing it in a painting. Instead of defeating you in an argument, I wanted to invite you inside me. Here I was, in a most unexpected place, rediscovering a value that I thought I had lost—I felt that I had finally gained the ability to learn and think, that I had become a student in the truest sense of the word.

But I still wasn’t your typical honors student. My paintings clearly didn’t look like contemporary art, and nobody would say my images fit in the context of European painting. They did, however, catch the gaze of dealers who, with their antennae out for young artists, saw my paintings as new objects that belonged less to the singular world of art and more to the realm of everyday life. Several were impressed by the freshness of my art, and before I knew it, I was invited to hold exhibitions in established galleries—a big step into a wider world.

The six years that I spent in Germany after completing my studies and before returning to Japan were golden days, both for me and my work. Every day and every night, I worked tirelessly to fix onto canvas all the visions that welled up in my head. My living space/studio was in a dreary, concrete former factory building on the outskirts of Cologne. It was the center of my world. Late at night, my surroundings were enveloped in darkness, but my studio was brightly lit. The songs of folk poets flowed out of my speakers. In that place, standing in front of the canvas sometimes felt like traveling on a solitary voyage in outer space—a lonely little spacecraft floating in the darkness of the void. My spaceship could go anywhere in this fantasy while I was painting, even to the edge of the universe.

Suddenly one day, I was flung outside—my spaceship was to be scrapped. My little vehicle turned back into an old concrete building, one that was slated for destruction because it was falling apart. Having lost the spaceship that had accompanied me on my lonely travels, and lacking the energy to look for a new studio, I immediately decided that I might as well go back to my homeland. It was painful and sad to leave the country where I had lived for twelve years and the handful of people I could call friends. But I had lost my ship. The only place I thought to land was my mother country, where long ago those teenagers had waved me goodbye and, in retrospect, whose letters to me while I was in Germany were a valuable source of fuel.

After my long space flight, I returned to Japan with the strange sense of having made a full orbit around the planet. The new studio was a little warehouse on the outskirts of Tokyo, in an area dotted with rice fields and small factories. When the wind blew, swirls of dust slipped in through the cracks, and water leaked down the walls in heavy rains. In my dilapidated warehouse, only one sheet of corrugated metal separated me from the summer heat and winter cold. Despite the funky environment, I was somehow able to keep in midnight contact with the cosmos—the beings I had drawn and painted in Germany began to mature. The emotional quality of the earlier work gave way to a new sense of composure. I worked at refining the former impulsiveness of the drawings and the monochromatic, almost reverent, backgrounds of the paintings. In my pursuit of fresh imagery, I switched from idle experimentation to a more workmanlike approach towards capturing what I saw beyond the canvas.

Children and animals—what simple motifs! Appearing on neat canvases or in ephemeral drawings, these figures are easy on the viewers’ eyes. Occasionally, they shake off my intentions and leap to the feet of their audience, never to return. Because my motifs are accessible, they are often only understood on a superficial level. Sometimes art that results from a long process of development receives only shallow general acceptance, and those who should be interpreting it fail to do so, either through a lack of knowledge or insufficient powers of expression. Take, for example, the music of a specific era. People who lived during this era will naturally appreciate the music that was then popular. Few of these listeners, however, will know, let alone value, the music produced by minor labels, by introspective musicians working under the radar, because it’s music that’s made in answer to an individual’s desire, not the desires of the times. In this way, people who say that “Nara loves rock,” or “Nara loves punk” should see my album collection. Of four thousand records there are probably fewer than fifty punk albums. I do have a lot of 60s and 70s rock and roll, but most of my music is from little labels that never saw commercial success—traditional roots music by black musicians and white musicians, and contemplative folk. The spirit of any era gives birth to trends and fashions as well as their opposite: countless introspective individual worlds. A simultaneous embrace of both has cultivated my sensibility and way of thinking. My artwork is merely the tip of the iceberg that is my self. But if you analyzed the DNA from this tip, you would probably discover a new way of looking at my art. My viewers become a true audience when they take what I’ve made and make it their own. That’s the moment the works gain their freedom, even from their maker.

After contemplative folk singers taught me about deep empathy, the punk rockers schooled me in explosive expression.

I was born on this star, and I’m still breathing. Since childhood, I’ve been a jumble of things learned and experienced and memories that can’t be forgotten. Their involuntary locomotion is my inspiration. I don’t express in words the contents of my work. I’ll only tell you my history. The countless stories living inside my work would become mere fabrications the moment I put them into words. Instead, I use my pencil to turn them into pictures. Standing before the dark abyss, here’s hoping my spaceship launches safely tonight….

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