I play the acoustic guitar. I’m not a great guitarist, for me it’s just a hobby, a way to cool down, to take a break from all the crap we deal with every day, to have some limited kind of creative release. I’ve even posted a few videos on you tube:
http://www.youtube.com/user/stevetwarner?feature=mhum, mostly to see, after all these years, what I really sounded like. I like to call myself a campfire guitarist. It’s a nice skill to be able to sit around a campfire with friends and family or the fire-pit at our house and be able to bang out a few simple tunes and entertain a hopefully not-too-critical audience.
Still the one after all these years!
I have played the guitar since my middle brother bought me a used Yamaha six string around 1987 as a Christmas present. It was a gift I hadn’t foreseen, a beautiful blond body, shiny gold pegs, fresh strings that vibrated out beautiful, sensual notes when plucked and strummed. I still play that same Yamaha guitar that he gave to me. I’ve never upgraded it, never thought to replace it. It’s the guitar I built my first relationship with, that I gave my musician vows to, that I touched and held and caressed until I learned to make it sing and it taught me to sing along with it. It’s like an old friend to me, like a beautiful woman who has been, for so many years, by my side, held in my arms, sitting on my lap, hanging around my neck, and helping me make music for over two decades.
I would be cheating on Yamaha if I started strumming the strings, massaging the neck, cuddling the body, lubricating the wood finish and fingering the frets of a new guitar. My Yamaha would know, it would confront me. And if I did would the passion between Yamaha and me fade away like some lost relationship tossed away over a hot tryst between me and a sexy new Gibson Guitar at the local Guitar Center store? Just me and Gibson, sneaking away to the acoustic guitar room with its closable doors and its controlled climate, secluded away like some cheap mirrored-ceiling motel room, stealing away a passionate musical moment, away from the electric guitars with their thick strings howling and moaning their repentant tunes, away from the pianos with their keys being harmoniously finger stroked in a rapid fire of musical eroticism, away from the drums unleashing their sensual rhythm, banging and pounding away on their loose bass drums and tight snares. Yes, just me and Gibson coaxing out a little music, maybe even inserting a guitar pick-up into Gibson’s sound hole and plugging in to add some electricity, to amplify the experience, to hear the intense sound penetrate the walls of our secluded meeting place. Just me and Gibson, playing and picking and strumming and caressing and rocking and vibrating and singing… and picking and strumming and playing and caressing and rocking and vibrating and singing and picking and caressing and oh, yeah, and foreplaying and Oh, Yeah Baby, and strumming and rocking and… OH MY GOD … GIBSON BABY… and fingering and plucking and… OOOOOH YEAH, play me an F# minor chord and maybe a B7 chord…. AND MY GOD, Hallelujah… TAKE ME TO THE PROMISED LAND BABY… OH YEAH, TAKE ME ALL THE WAY TO NASHVILLE… YOU HOT, CURVY, SEXY, SIX-STRING, MOTHER OF ALL GUITARS………
Yeah, I think Yahama would notice… and I think I need to go take a cold shower…
Like this:
Like Loading...
The Brown Road Chronicles 