I always wanted a guitar. I always wanted to be a cowboy singer

In the words of Dick Dale, the master of surf guitar, there is a confession both simple and profound: “I always wanted a guitar. I always wanted to be a cowboy singer because I also listened to Hank Williams, and he would always sing these neat romantic songs.” These words, spoken with the innocence of desire and the fire of memory, carry with them the eternal truth of longing—longing for expression, for identity, for a place within the song of the world. To yearn for an instrument, to dream of becoming a singer, is to crave not merely sound, but the power to shape the soul’s cry into something lasting.

The ancients would have called this yearning the “voice of the daimon,” the inner spirit that guides a man toward his destiny. The guitar, in this sense, is more than wood and strings; it is the vessel of transformation, a weapon of the heart. To desire it is to desire freedom, to desire a tool by which the unspoken emotions may become music that outlives the mortal breath. Just as the warrior longed for the sword, the dreamer longs for the instrument. Dale’s words remind us that no man is complete until he has found the instrument through which his spirit may speak.

And what of the cowboy singer? This figure, standing astride the vast frontier, is a symbol of both solitude and storytelling. The cowboy roams alone, yet his voice, lifted in song, gathers the hearts of many. So too did Dale dream, to embody this spirit—half wanderer, half poet—singing truths to the stars and to the people around the campfire. To desire such a role is not vanity, but a deep yearning to merge the self with myth, to live not as a shadow in silence, but as one who leaves behind echoes.

The mention of Hank Williams is no accident. Williams, the tragic bard of America, sang of love, loss, and the bittersweet ache of the human heart. His romantic songs were not shallow amusements; they were laments and hymns woven together, carrying both sorrow and tenderness. Dale, listening as a young dreamer, was struck not only by the beauty of the melodies, but by the courage of Williams—the courage to bare his heart through song. Here lies the deeper meaning: to be moved by another’s voice is often the first step toward finding one’s own.

History, too, gives us parallels. Think of Orpheus, the ancient musician whose lyre could charm gods and beasts alike. His power was not born of skill alone, but of longing. He longed for Eurydice, he longed for the underworld to yield, he longed for love to conquer death. Like Orpheus, Dale’s longing for a guitar was not about possession, but about finding the key to unlock the hidden worlds within. His guitar would one day shape not only his destiny, but the soundscape of an entire generation.

The lesson for us is clear: the desires of childhood are not trifles to be discarded, but seeds of destiny. When a soul whispers, “I always wanted…,” we must listen, for it may be the very path to greatness. Too often, men dismiss their youthful longings as foolishness, yet within them lies the truth of who they were meant to be. Dale listened to his own yearning, and through it gave birth to the thunderous voice of surf rock, forever altering the course of music.

Therefore, O listener, guard the flame of your desire. Do not quench it with doubt or let the years bury it beneath duty and distraction. Seek your own instrument, whether it be a guitar, a pen, a brush, or even the humble work of your hands. Nurture it, as Dale did, and let it sing for you. For the world is always in need of voices unafraid to be heard, and the gods smile upon those who honor their calling.

In the end, Dale’s words are not about a guitar alone, nor about cowboy songs, nor even about Hank Williams. They are about the eternal truth that man is born with a longing, and that to follow this longing is to carve one’s name into the fabric of time. Dream, desire, and dare—and you too shall create a song that outlasts the silence.