Trouble

During the past two weeks, I’ve been making efforts to take down “Charlie,” my traveling guitar, and practice. I own at least four guitars, so why this one? Charlie has been with me for more than sixty years. If Charlie could speak, he would embarrass me with all the nasty, revealing stories that only a close friend knows about. “Remember that time in…when you and…got into…and you wound up running for it?” Yes, that’s the sort of tale he’d tell.

So if making me practice is to gain traction, it has to be with Charlie. I know every spot on the neck where a fret really needs replacing, but we finesse the note; every scrape and ding has a story – some even funny. In other words, that guitar and I have a history and a relationship.
The speed neck Gibson and I do, too, but it needs repair. Osceola, its name, can compete with Charlie. It can remind of that coffeehouse in Maryland. or tell a tale of that night in grad school when I – never mind, that’s too embarrassing!

People who’ve never performed don’t usually understand why instruments are named. They also don’t know why performers save their “ax” before anything else ( other than the pets). So not every guitar becomes a Lucille, Trigger, or a Blackie.

It’s not just the instrument; it’s the chemistry between the player and the instrument. So I’ve placed Charlie somewhere I’ll see him in the mornings and evenings. I can take him off the wall, and we’re in a coffeehouse for a few minutes. It’s 1968, and the house is rowdy. Watch out for that dude in the third row. He’s almost finished that bottle of wine, and it looks like he wants trouble.

A life without music? Boring.