I suppose this is less a story about Fran than it is a story about me, or maybe it’s about Fran-and-me, or the way that things can change their meaning as your life changes… Fran and I met through MacJams. We got into an online chat about the wah-wah pedal generally and one of his that was acting up specifically. I had previously worked in a music store that stocked replacement pots for Dunlop wahs, just because they failed so frequently. I think he was hoping that I was a dab hand with a soldering iron and could drop one into his pedal, but alas, I was and am pretty unskilled in that department. When we finally met in person, which was at my old house in Littleton, I showed him my meager and evolving home recording set-up, and we played some guitar. More to the point, HE played every guitar I owned. As it turned out, he fell in love with my Alvarez Yairi DY56, which is a thin body single cutaway dreadnought acoustic-electric that I string with extra light strings and that plays pretty close to an electric guitar. He loved the neck, he loved the action, and he loved the sound. He ended up borrowing it frequently and for long stretches, and using it on a number of his CDs. He took it upon himself to christen the guitar ‘Smokey’. He used it on a number of recordings, including one he called “Ed’s Guitar.” One time he borrowed it because he had been adding acoustic songs to his performance repertoire and wanted to open some of his shows with a bit of acoustic playing. After one of the gigs he called me up and said, “Listen, I’m embarrassed to ask this, but did that guitar have a ding maybe, on the face of it?” Well, I had loaned that guitar to a number of friends and several of the young men I’d taught to play guitar over at the group home where I used to be clinical director. I thought about it, and said, “Not dings, exactly…it has some little nicks and fingernail marks and some dimples…No actual dings, per se, no divots…” Silence on the other end of the phone, followed by a sigh. “Listen, I’ll call you back.” Fran calls back later and says, “Yeah, listen, I think I put a ding in the top.” “Is it noticeable?” “Well, yeah, I’d have to say it’s noticeable. It’s not HUGE, but you can see it.” “Well, maybe it was there before…I’ll take a look next time it comes home.” “Well, I called and asked Bryan and Fran and they said, ‘Yeah, you clunked it right into the mic stand…You don’t remember that?’...I’ve gotta say, I don’t REMEMBER it, exactly, but they say I gave it quite a clonk…” Big breath on my side. At this point I’m thinking visible bracing and shattered spruce. “Listen, does it PLAY?” “Oh it plays FINE…It’s just got this ding…Listen, I feel bad, I’m going to bring it back to you…” So back comes the guitar. We open up the case, and there it is. Not huge, but noticeable. It goes through the finish and into the wood. I wasn’t thrilled, mind you, but this was my friend and my policy has always been, don’t loan something that’ll bust up a friendship. I said it was okay. Fran offered to have it refinished or repaired or whatever I wanted. I still said it was okay. He offered to buy it, then and a few other times, and despite one moment of temptation, I ended up keeping it. And that’s how it was left. Don’t get me wrong. I wanted that to be a little easier for me than it was. I wanted that ding to be a littler thing than it sometimes seemed to be. It bothered me a little more than I let on. I tend to take good care of my guitars, and I felt a little sad sometimes seeing that bit of raw wood peaking through the top, but I tried not to dwell on it and the feelings faded over time, as they do. Fran was still welcome to borrow it when he wanted or needed it. Over time my son fell in love with it and played it easily as much as he played his own guitars. He and Fran liked to bicker over whose guitar it really was, totally, and I mean TOTALLY, ignoring the irrelevant fact that I was the guy that actually OWNED it. Until, one morning shortly after Christmas I awoke to the word that my friend was gone. And…then, one morning a week or two after that, I opened up the case, and there it was: Fran’s Ding. And of course, in an instant, my mind shifted and that ding was transformed. All of a sudden it became an imprimatur, a seal of approval, a seal of authenticity, an autograph. As it used to say on the Woodstock album, “like the scars in fine leather.” Proof positive that my friend had used, played and loved that guitar. Proof that it got real and passionate use. It was suddenly and obviously precious, a gift to me, and a good thing. And so it has remained.
Posted on: Wed, 09 Jul 2014 16:08:59 +0000
Trending Topics
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015