Do you have a place where you can be alone?
A place you can pretend you’re perching your right, Cuban-heeled, foot upon a chunky Marshall monitor, grimacing orgasm-faced as you twist paroxysms of squealing cosmic joy from the single-coils and humbuckers of the six-string slung across your shoulders?
Can you hear the muted breathing of the serried faces, ranked thousands-deep and poised in anticipation of your next note?
Are the curtains closed?
Then go for it. Pick your favourite pick and let the air guitars rip.