Gig…No…No Gig

I had two intense nine-hour and then twelve-hour work days together this week. It’s unusual, but for some reason, things at the station and the needs of people just exploded. So my travel guitar, Charlie, has hung on the wall mostly silent. Yes, I am back to pretty much daily practice again. But as I pass Charlie on the wall, and the steel resonator guitar on the floor, I feel guilty. After all, I am supposed to be practicing every day, no excuses.

It’s tough “coming back” after years of laying off. I played pretty regularly through the eighties, but then slacked off. A year or two ago, I committed to playing regularly again. It was a slow process, but I discovered the charm this winter – put aside the old set lists, the stuff I gigged with set after set, and learned entirely new material. Yes. I know. It would seem logical, but not to me.

So I loaded all the old songs into one folder and got new stuff. I was never a fan of songs in minor keys, but I’ve been practicing it and loving it. I am coming back. But with a different right-hand technique and different material.

So what’s the issue?

Well, I feel as though the guitars in the dining room are conspiring with the ones stored in their cases to get out. What? How many guitars do I have…maybe five? Can’t have just one, you know. But am I paranoid to think that they want to start congregating to ambush me into marathon practice sessions? I mean, I could try to get through the room, like being on a catwalk with guitars on either side demanding to be played! Please, no violence!

Then there was the visit to the music store to buy new strings. There was a Taylor guitar on sale that…no Get Thee Behind Me Satan…no new guitars.I am already loaded up with guitars.

So, here’s the thing. Charlie’s been whispering about heading out and looking for a gig. I have sternly told him, NO GIGS! It’s not just that the new repertoire isn’t ready, and I still need work on the left hand for the barre chords, it’s that years of asthma inhalers, before they got it under control, did not do wonders for the already limited vocal apparatus.

If it’s one thing I would love to fix, in a snap of the fingers, It’d be the croak that the singing voice has sometimes turned into. I went from a fairly clear baritone into a growl. I once wished I could imitate Dave Van Ronks low growl, but now wish I could have my former register back. Then I could get up on stage and begin like I used to:

“Evening folks…I’m Wes Carson. What never heard of me? I’m infamous in fifteen states and jurisdictions…. Well Okay, …not around here. In any case, I’d like to sing you this song…”

No Charlie…No! No gig!!! Back!…Back…Don’t you twaang your strings at me!