Six strings of fury

I wrote yesterday that I would happily sell the guitars, my only truly prized material possession, in a heartbeat and not think twice about it.

The guitars caught wind of this, and they are pissed.

I went to the attic last night to fetch something and the Stratocaster caught my eye. "Well hello, you ungrateful bastard," it seemed to say. "All the hours of pleasure and frustration that we've been through together. Now, here I sit in this cold, dark attic, dust covered and being offered up to the highest bidder, from what I hear."

"No, you don't understand, that's totally out of context..." I started to say. Then, from behind me, another voice. This one deeper and more threatening.

"Look, pal, cut the crap." It was my well worn Squier bass, almost hidden behind the boxes of toddler clothes. Lurking in the shadows, it resembled a scythe, menacing and ready to cut me to the quick.

"We all know what you're up to. You're using us to demonstrate how little material possessions mean to you. Fine. Whatever. But what about.....the music?"

Now, honestly, I am at best a ham fisted player. I've "played" since I picked up my dad's guitar at age 9. Yet after more than three decades of diligent practice, I would describe my style as being closer to sub-bar band scarcely melodic mediocre proficiency than anything else. I watch a video of Eric Clapton and feel the hot sting of jealousy and profound frustration welling up in my chest (Priolsec usually helps alleviate this.)

But still....I love it, and sometimes just sitting and grinding noisily away is one of life's great, unabashed, time-is-standing-still pleasures. I love listening to and watching great players, but actually having six (or four) strings at hand still beats all.

In an attempt to make up for lost time, I brought them down to the den, dusted and tuned and reunited them with their long lost acoustic brother from the back closet. Restored to their glistening beauty, they sit proudly on their stands, erect and ready like the finest soldiers.

With a regal flourish, I strapped on the Strat, plugged it in and turned on the amp. Channeling my finest Pete Townsend windmill, I thundered out a mighty "G" chord, followed immediately by a fusillade of feedback which made the windows rattle. Somewhere down the block, I like to think one of my neighbors sat up and said, "What the hell was THAT?"

Meet the new boss. Same as the old boss. These guitars are no longer for sale.

RA's Army of Darkness, 11-15-07.

9-15-07, Austin, TX. And the usually packed Gibson tent cleared out almost immediately....