8d • General discussion
The Day My Massage Room Turned Into a Music Masterclass
Some days in massage therapy are routine—quiet music, soft lighting, a peaceful session, maybe a story or two shared. And then there are the days when the universe throws you a curveball wrapped in a celebrity, tied up with guitar strings, and delivered straight to your massage table.
This story is one of those days.
It Begins With a Phone Call…
The spa scheduler called me, her voice bubbling the way it does when she has good gossip but isn’t allowed to say it outright.
“I’ve got a musician coming in who specifically asked for a really good therapist. You’re up.”
Well.
That’ll perk up anyone’s morning.
I asked who it was.
She wouldn’t say—just that he played guitar.
That could mean anyone from the kid down the street who learned three chords last week to someone whose poster I once pinned to my teenage bedroom wall.
I grabbed the CD I wanted—a beautiful acoustic, new-age style album that made my heart feel warm and my nerves behave themselves. We still used CDs back then, which meant that timing our sessions required knowing the length of each track. (Our spa owner believed clocks were “disruptive to the spiritual atmosphere.” Never mind that they’re also helpful for knowing how long you’ve been in a room.)
As I walked in that morning, CD in hand, I was blissfully unaware of who I was about to massage.
Then I Saw His Name
Now, I am not easily star-struck.
I’ve massaged VIPs. I’ve worked with high-profile clients. I’ve seen humans in all forms of undress—you stop being intimidated real fast.
But when the scheduler casually pointed to the next name on the roster…
I felt the earth do one of those cartoon screeching-halt moments.
Him?
HE?
On my table?!
Let’s just say I’d heard his music.
And let’s just say he wasn’t exactly unknown.
And let’s also just say…I needed a minute.
I forced myself into professional mode. My best “Oh, this is nothing out of the ordinary, I massage famous guitarists before breakfast all the time” face.
Inside, of course, I was screaming like a teenager at a boy band concert.
I Set the Stage:
Acoustic Guitar CD. Dim Lights. Deep Breaths.
I prepared the room with the sacred efficiency of a priest tending an altar.
Table warmed.
Sheets perfect.
Music lovely.
And my heart rate… questionable.
Then he walked in.
Tall.
Lanky.
Humble smile.
Warm presence.
And absolutely no idea that I had just had a tiny meltdown in his honor.
We shook hands. I introduced myself as calmly as if I did this sort of thing every day. He requested an hour. I nodded like that was normal, while a small voice inside me whispered:
“He wrote half your college soundtrack. Play it cool.”
The Musician Notices the Music
It didn’t take long before he commented on the CD I had chosen.
“Oh! You like this guy?”
The way he said it—admiring, almost reverent—told me immediately that I’d made the right choice.
He wasn’t just familiar with the artist.
He loved his work.
And then it began.
The most unexpected, delightful, and utterly mesmerizing two-hour music lesson of my life.
He Told Me the History of New Age Guitar
And I Mean ALL of It
He spoke with the kind of passion that comes from living inside a craft—like the guitar wasn’t something he played, but something he was connected to at the molecular level.
He told me about the pioneers of new-age acoustic guitar.
He described one particular innovator—“the man who changed everything”—with such awe that I felt like I was listening to a mythic tale told around a campfire.
This guitar legend had developed a technique that made it sound like two guitars were being played at once, even though only one man sat behind the strings.
“And I can’t do it,” he admitted with a laugh.
“Oh, I’ve tried. I’ve tried for years. I just can’t get it.”
There was no ego in it.
No competition.
Just pure, unfiltered admiration.
It was honestly refreshing.
I massaged his shoulders while he talked.
He’d pause, gesture with his hands, then go right back into another story about influences, innovations, stage life, and the evolution of the genre.
I was getting a massage session AND a masterclass AND a behind-the-scenes interview.
For free.
He Talked About His Life, Too
Somewhere between the rhomboids and the triceps, he grew more personal.
He spoke about his young wife back home,
their baby twins,
his desire to be a good husband and father even with the demands of touring life.
He talked about how dancing on stage all those years—jumping, spinning, whipping his hair like gravity owed him money—had destroyed his knees.
He talked about the surgeries he’d endured in order to keep performing.
But he never complained.
He told it like a man telling the story of a great adventure, one that had a cost—but was worth the price.
The Hour That Became Two Hours
I kept glancing mentally at the CD, tracking the track lengths, but the stories were so engrossing, and he was so relaxed and happy to talk, that the hour slipped away unnoticed.
He didn’t seem bothered.
Neither was I.
We stayed in that room for two hours.
Talking.
Laughing.
Learning.
Connecting in that beautiful, unexpected way that sometimes happens in the world of healing work.
It never once felt unprofessional.
It felt like two humans sharing space—one talking about the language of music, and one listening with the earnestness of a student who knows she has stumbled into something rare.
When It Was Over
He sat up slowly, rolled his shoulders, and smiled.
“That was incredible,” he said.
And I wasn’t sure if he meant the massage or the music conversation—or both. I hoped both.
He thanked me warmly, shook my hand like colleagues do, and stepped out into the world, long legs leading him back into the life of a touring musician and father of twins.
I cleaned the room afterward in a dreamy haze, thinking:
Did that actually just happen?
Is that real life?
It Remains One of My Fondest Massage Memories
Not because he was famous.
But because for two hours, I saw the soul of a musician.
The passion.
The artistry.
The childlike wonder mixed with the hard-earned wisdom.
The real human behind the celebrity.
And because it reminded me that in my line of work, the massage table becomes a stage of its own—a place where stories, hearts, and worlds open up in the safety of a dim room and gentle music.
It was one of those days when I drove home feeling like my heart had grown three sizes.
And yes… I still have that CD.
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The Day My Massage Room Turned Into a Music Masterclass
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