In the early years of my life in America, in the mid-eighties, while I was still struggling to find a foothold in this glorious country and was looking for something that did not involve a corporate life, I took a job at Guitar Center. Music was always a huge part of my life, and while I didn’t expect this job to directly open doors into the music business, it seemed like a good solution for me: I’d be around musical instruments, got to deal with musicians and I got to make a little money. It was certainly not a career choice – although it could have been, even at Guitar Center, but only if I was willing to join the corporate structure of the company, the very structure I was running away from. A sales job was the perfect holding pattern until I got my feet under me.
It actually turned out that the Guitar Center gig gave me invaluable training in several fields in which I had had no exposure. It taught me how to sell, but more importantly it put the onus on me to learn to do it in a way that preserved my dignity. The last thing I wanted to do was to come across like a car salesman, so I developed my own style, which required that I engaged with the customers on a personal level beyond what they were used to. Music and its creation is a very personal topic, and I found that to be the access door to my customers. I became quite proficient at quickly establishing a personal connection with what was minutes earlier a total stranger.
One morning, while working at the Sherman Oaks store, a beautiful black girl came in to buy a guitar. She was about 20 years old, quite soft spoken, yet had a distinct air of confidence about her, one that made her attractive beyond her striking physical appearance. She seemed to have a rough idea of what she was looking for and wanted to be guided toward her final choice. I spoke with her about the music she wanted to make, connected it to the guitar’s tone, the choices of wood and other factors that affect the playability of a guitar, and after about a half hour of conversation she settled on one of my recommendations. I walked her over to the desk to write up her sales receipt. The beautiful guitar lay in its case on the sales desk, and she inspected it a little further while I got out my order book.
When I asked her for her name, she turned her head with a funny expression, looked me straight in the eye and said “Janet”, which I dutifully wrote down. Then I looked up again and I asked: “Your last name?” A big smile came over her face as she slightly tilted her head and said, in a surprised, almost enquiring tone, “Jackson”.