Nobody Reads This Page – “Guitar Man”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-24)

 

 

In yonder days, when I was a teenager living in New York State, the pursuit of Rock & Roll dreams occupied my thoughts with an obsessive hold that was literally inescapable. Every moment of the day somehow tangentially related to the idea that I would find success as a music poet. The foundation for such projects always involved a guitar of some sort. Most often, out-of-reach plucksters hung up for sale at stores around my home, in the city of Ithaca. I would visit and drool, and ask about payment plans. Which of course mattered little, because I had no regular income, or any desire to submit myself to punching a time clock. This disparity meant that my only tool in the game was a battered, three-quarter scale, no-name Japanese axe. A tonal mess that I originally thought must have been a Teisco, but later identified as an even more pedestrian Kawai product. Made by the company that acquired their name and designs in 1967. My soundpole was tinny, prone to breaking strings, and the subject of much teasing from friends who had ‘real’ guitars made by companies like Fender and Gibson, or better copycats from the Orient. Yet when patched through a homemade amplifier fashioned from a cassette player and a Philco, cathedral radio that had belonged to my great-grandfather, it produced a considerable growl. I had wired an input jack directly to a connection for the tape head, so the mismatch in signals produced a wall of feedback when potted up to full blast.

 

Sadly, nothing I had after that primitive, experimental period ever reproduced the yield of my desperate creativity.

 

Associates in the Empire State who shared my appetite for the public stage owned a variety of their own instruments, all better than my personal prize. One named Judah had a sunburst, Ibanez Les Paul copy, which I borrowed on occasion. The counterfeit Gibbo was solid and played well enough to inspire lawsuits later, over copyright infringement. I enjoyed sessions with that plectrum player in my hands. Another six-string slinger of the same brand was a black, Deluxe 59er, used by my pal David who was a cohort at the local Channel 13 public-access studio. Girlfriend Suze had a red, Fender Bullet, a budget, bottom-end twanger with a thumping resonance. But most notable in that era was our chum Invisible Dick, who possessed a booming, Hagstrom 8-string bass, made in Sweden. An oddball piece to behold, even at that time.

 

I was humbled to be stuck with a music machine of such unremarkable quality. So, when better days arrived and I had the financial foundation to support a bigger stable, I began to buy guitars whenever they appeared. First, this included a blue, Crescendo copy of a teardrop Vox, then a Supro arch-top, in an orange hue, and finally, a Harmony Stratotone H45, because it reminded me of the woody mule used by Brian Jones, in his early period with the Rolling Stones.

 

I bought and bought and bought, until my closets and crawlspaces and knick-knack nooks were all jammed with guitars. But then, came a realization that over time, my chops had diminished. I had arthritis in both hands, and poor circulation. My fingers swelled when trying to hammer out riffs. I could barely manage to compose verses of power-chord glee. Though my writing abilities remained unaffected.

 

If I were more practical, this epiphany would’ve stalled my quest. But instead, despite sober moments of reflection and remorse, I once again started to peruse listings on eBay and other online sites.

 

It was a habit that I could seemingly not unlearn.

 

“Well I quit my job down at the car wash

Left my mama a goodbye note

By sundown I’d left Kingston

With my guitar under my coat

I hitchhiked all the way down to Memphis

Got a room at the YMCA

For the next three weeks I went a hauntin’ them nightclubs

Just lookin’ for a place to play

Well, I thought my pickin’ would set ‘em on fire

But nobody wanted to hire

A guitar man...”

 

Despite being surrounded by these talismans of a bygone self, I hadn’t really practiced in years. Life had taken me on a detour adventure, one fraught with all sorts of challenges and pitfalls. Job losses, divorces, relocations, and disability. In the fray, I had lost touch with this once-important habit. When I did attempt to revisit the craft, a struggle ensued. Though in my head, there were still visions of fantasy. I could hear stanzas of Rock anthems, echoing from those yonder times.

 

The spirit was alive, somewhere. Inspired by masters like Chuck Berry, Link Wray, Keith Richards, Roy Buchanan, and the rest.

 

“Well, I nearly ‘bout starved to death down in Memphis

I run outta money and luck

So I bummed me a ride down to Macon, Georgia

On a overloaded poultry truck

I thumbed on down to Panama City

Started checkin’ out some o’ them all night bars

Hopin’ I could make myself a dollar

Makin’ music on my guitar

I got the same old story at them all night piers

There ain’t no room around here

For a guitar man...”

 

Scrolling through entries on my computer, I saw an assortment of familiar targets. Telecasters, Stratocasters, Mosrite versions, Guilds and Gretsch beauties, and such. Cobbled-together relics from the United Kingdom, Europe, and the old Soviet Bloc. One-off specials, handcrafted, luthier creations, and trashy outliers with wild dimensions, materials, and colors.

 

My search was indefensible, in terms of a meager budget, and plodding performing ability. Yet the vibe once identified as ‘Guitar Acquisition Syndrome’ by author and contact Jay Wright persisted. I could not completely let go of my hunger to have at least one more steed in my stable.

 

“So I slept in the hobo jungles

Roamed a thousand miles of track

Till I found myself in Mobile Alabama

At a club they call Big Jack’s

A little four-piece band was jammin’

So I took my guitar and sat in

I showed ‘em what a band would sound like

With a swingin’ little

Guitar man

Show ‘em son...”

 

Everything I saw was in questionable condition, or overpriced, or both. Several of the Gibson models had cracked necks at the headstock, a familiar malady. Others were missing pickups, tuners, wiring, or guards. But the proliferation of Teisco’s May Queen versions made me pant with lust, a peculiar offering shaped like an artist’s palette. I remembered seeing one at Arrowhead Music, in nearby Mentor, many years ago. Something that at the time, I considered to be a sighting of a holy grail. Now, having been reproduced by the Eastwood company, they were more plentiful. And cheap!

 

I had to log off with my hands shaking. Even in the confined space of a 21^st Century existence, cowered by empty pockets and failing fingers, it was still difficult not to think like a guitar man.

 

Note: Lyrics for ‘Guitar Man’ c. 1967, Jerry Reed