Nobody Reads This Page - “Cropduster” (“Undefeated, Part Two”)

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(4-24)

 

 

I used to play at least one of my guitars every day. A habit that began during childhood, while experimenting with instruments from my father’s collection. As my own arsenal of plectrum relics grew, I started to record demo tracks on cassette tapes, whenever a creative jones moved me to write. But as career concerns and responsibilities took precedence, I quit doodling with my axes. It seemed right to focus on real issues instead of Rock & Roll dreams. That choice left me feeling gutted and soulless, but yielded a gainful income for many years.

 

Until it didn’t.

 

Disability pushed me over the precipice, into early retirement. When I finally summoned the courage to revisit this first love of many, it produced a moment of stunning self-awareness. Though words and melodies still flowed through my head, and colored the hues of writing projects penned for newspapers, magazines, and books, I no longer had the chops to play.

 

Sitting with a bargain amplifier bought through eBay, and my Fender Telecaster Standard, I was taken down a notch. Or perhaps, two or three...

 

For a long time while out-of-service, I had considered myself to be a fan of Fender products. In discussions online, or casual conversations, I always indicated that this personal tilt remained in effect. Even when talking about guitar history with my friend and mentor Dennis Chandler, who once worked for Gibson as a district manager of some kind. My first electric twanger was a no-name, Teisco offering. A student-sized appliance, made in Japan. Yet heavily influenced by the designs Leo himself had sired. That provided a template which directed my purchases going forward. I found a Swedish, Hagstrom II, which reminded me somewhat of a Jazzmaster. Later came a Peavey T-60, which was a tribute to the venerable Stratocaster. And a Hofner from Germany, which also carried the telltale traits of those noted creations.

 

But in modern terms, I struggled with the workhorse instrument. My late friend Paul Race had fancifully called his own blonde Tele from the 1960’s a ‘Fender Cropduster.’ He inspired me to lust after that kind of no-frills, playing experience. So, finding myself uncomfortable with one of the breed made me confused and disheartened.

 

While snoozing in bed, later that night, I remembered some of the other electrified jammers in my collection. Some force of reason guided me to ponder a black, Gibson Les Paul that had languished in a closet for several years, with boxes of forgotten junk.

 

I wondered and wandered through the dreamscape aimlessly, while counting sheep. What about that guitar? What about trying something totallydifferent?

 

Late in the morning that followed, I finished a pot of coffee and then moved to my desk in the back office. I had managed to retrieve the Gibbo from its exile, and found a cable to plug it into my low-buck amp. With the guitar sitting across my right knee, I clutched at the fretboard. And began to hammer out a simple, Blues riff.

 

This time, my hands were not so numb.

 

I started with a setting of high gain on the Ibanez soundbox, something associated with Punk pioneers who used their Les Paul models to thrash out power chords. Like Steve Jones of the Sex Pistols. But soon, I twisted up a more modest level on the dials. This cleaner tone fit the groove where I had settled. A new sense of confidence bolstered my spirit.

 

Quickly, I crouched over my computer keyboard, and typed out three verses of lyrics. Then, reached for the iPhone in my pocket, and decided to record a first take of what had come to mind.

 

The humiliation of yesterday morphed into a gentler flush of accomplishment, and satisfaction.

 

“Black Les Paul No. 1”

 

Here’s a word to the wise

Peering into the dark abyss

With bloodshot eyes

Here’s a word to the fool

Baited too many times

Into breaking the rules

I know what to say

To dispel demons

On judgment day

I know what to reveal

When the soldiers go slipping

On banana peels

 

Here’s a word to the meek

Flailing without a paddle

Up on Cripple Creek

Here’s a word to the fine

Who have gone up the ladder, lazy

Paying it no mind

I know where to turn

In a forest of trouble trees

That bend, break, and burn

I know how to laugh

When lost and languishing

With my Esso roadmap

 

Here’s a word to the strong

Those who hear this tale of woe

And sing along

Here’s a word to the jester

Leaping around the throne

Of Mister Mister

I know what begins

When the daylight dips deep

And night holds all the pins

I know what to think

When sober days grow heavy

And my soul thirsts for drink.”

 

My recorded work was pedestrian compared to some of the wild fantasies of yonder days. Yet it resonated with worth. After such a long episode of alienation from my creative self, I took heart in being able to play, once again. Having saved the audio file, I attached it to a series of e-mail messages, and shared it with friends. This act rendered a more immediate sense of gratification than compiling cassette volumes of my demos, and mailing them at the post office. Something I used to do when my studio was a basement room, filled with vinyl records and collectible trinkets.

 

After finishing this musical endeavor, I sat with a brew on my front porch. A reflective mood made me consider that after a lifetime of beholding the Telecaster as a sort of holy grail, I had now reached a point where that axe no longer felt good in my hands. Murmuring a silent prayer, I asked my late cohort from Corning, New York for forgiveness.

 

Then, I recalled that my first truly competent guitar was a Kent, crafted in tribute to Gibson’s most iconic model. That sunburst, humbuckered, note-harvester was buried in a closet, next to the bathroom. I hadn’t taken it out to play in years.

 

Unwittingly, I had traced a circle from that day in my youth, to the here and now. From the first moment when I slung the LP copy over my shoulder, to the point of being stooped and slowed by age.

 

My journey came with the flip of a power switch, and the stroke of a pick. And my own ‘Cropduster’ sitting in a corner by the file cabinet.