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My dad and his guitar
Jul. 2nd, 2005 09:58 amAnother story for you from my dad. I know. It's been a while.
Guitar
"Lovely. Here's something to reflect upon.
Don't know if I mentioned it, but several months ago I finally decided to bite the bullet and spend whatever necessary to get my old guitar back into shape. The years have been unkind to it. Its finish is cracked and marred, with little dents here and there, and one evil crack from the bridge to the hole where Bob Bonin kicked a dining room chair into it one drunk, stoned and clumsey day. The bridge had pulled away from the body, and the neck was warped and separating from the body as well. Unplayable, neglected, it's sat silent in its case for the last several years. Enough, I thought, I miss my music, it's time to act.
There is a guitar store in Toronto called "The Twelfth Fret". Many musicians and music producers have steered me there over the years, and so when the bearded old fellow upstairs looked at my instrument and pronounced it dead I believed him. He said it would take about twelve weeks (of fretting?) and $600 to take it apart with no guarantee he could actually put it back together again. Hearing that was a little like taking your cat in for a check-up and being told he needed to be put down. Worse, it was like the vet pointing out that the cat was already dead, I just hadn't noticed.
When I came back down the stairs everyone in the main part of the shop fell into a respectful silence. It must have been my face, perhaps the slumping head and shoulders. They went out of their way to be kind. "I guess I need to look at new guitars," i said to them. They took me to a room and brought instruments to me, and I sat alone playing them for a good long time. They could see me through the window, but mercifully, they didn't have to listen. I am rusty for lack of practice. But I played until my fingers hurt, I wanted them to hurt. My guitar rested peacefully in its heavy black case.
We went home. And months passed. A little while ago Annie mentioned someone had told her about a new guitar store, "Imagine Music" had opened right up the street.
Nothing to lose. I visited, and met a jocular young man from Manchester, whose life had "...always been about music," he said. "Bring it in. Never give up on a guitar."
My guitar is back as of day before yesterday. It's bridge is flat and fastened tight, the long crack is reinforced from the back inside the guitar, the neck is straight and the action is once again light as a sonnet. Light as my heart.
The young man did something else. As he loves guitars, he did some research and confirmed what I'd always suspected – that this is no ordinary guitar. It was built in 1950, in Sweden. It is nearly as old as I am. It is a Goya G-17 with a very low serial number. It is concert quality. He proved that by playing a little for me and I heard my own guitar for the first time in my life. I've a lot to live up to if I want to deserve this instrument.
I always new it was a Goya G-17, I never knew what that meant. It was like discovering the old fiddle you used to take to the hootenanny was a Stradavarius. The piano you were letting rot in the basement, a Steinway. Obviously, it's worth considerably more than I paid back in 1964.
So, I'm practicing away, hardening up my callouses, and trying to get back to where I was. Although, where I was no longer satisfies me. I'm bored with the old repertoire and the same old riffs. So if he'll take me on, I'm going to get lessons from the man who gave me back my guitar.
Stay tuned.
Love, Dad"
Guitar
"Lovely. Here's something to reflect upon.
Don't know if I mentioned it, but several months ago I finally decided to bite the bullet and spend whatever necessary to get my old guitar back into shape. The years have been unkind to it. Its finish is cracked and marred, with little dents here and there, and one evil crack from the bridge to the hole where Bob Bonin kicked a dining room chair into it one drunk, stoned and clumsey day. The bridge had pulled away from the body, and the neck was warped and separating from the body as well. Unplayable, neglected, it's sat silent in its case for the last several years. Enough, I thought, I miss my music, it's time to act.
There is a guitar store in Toronto called "The Twelfth Fret". Many musicians and music producers have steered me there over the years, and so when the bearded old fellow upstairs looked at my instrument and pronounced it dead I believed him. He said it would take about twelve weeks (of fretting?) and $600 to take it apart with no guarantee he could actually put it back together again. Hearing that was a little like taking your cat in for a check-up and being told he needed to be put down. Worse, it was like the vet pointing out that the cat was already dead, I just hadn't noticed.
When I came back down the stairs everyone in the main part of the shop fell into a respectful silence. It must have been my face, perhaps the slumping head and shoulders. They went out of their way to be kind. "I guess I need to look at new guitars," i said to them. They took me to a room and brought instruments to me, and I sat alone playing them for a good long time. They could see me through the window, but mercifully, they didn't have to listen. I am rusty for lack of practice. But I played until my fingers hurt, I wanted them to hurt. My guitar rested peacefully in its heavy black case.
We went home. And months passed. A little while ago Annie mentioned someone had told her about a new guitar store, "Imagine Music" had opened right up the street.
Nothing to lose. I visited, and met a jocular young man from Manchester, whose life had "...always been about music," he said. "Bring it in. Never give up on a guitar."
My guitar is back as of day before yesterday. It's bridge is flat and fastened tight, the long crack is reinforced from the back inside the guitar, the neck is straight and the action is once again light as a sonnet. Light as my heart.
The young man did something else. As he loves guitars, he did some research and confirmed what I'd always suspected – that this is no ordinary guitar. It was built in 1950, in Sweden. It is nearly as old as I am. It is a Goya G-17 with a very low serial number. It is concert quality. He proved that by playing a little for me and I heard my own guitar for the first time in my life. I've a lot to live up to if I want to deserve this instrument.
I always new it was a Goya G-17, I never knew what that meant. It was like discovering the old fiddle you used to take to the hootenanny was a Stradavarius. The piano you were letting rot in the basement, a Steinway. Obviously, it's worth considerably more than I paid back in 1964.
So, I'm practicing away, hardening up my callouses, and trying to get back to where I was. Although, where I was no longer satisfies me. I'm bored with the old repertoire and the same old riffs. So if he'll take me on, I'm going to get lessons from the man who gave me back my guitar.
Stay tuned.
Love, Dad"
