|
Once or twice a year I’d pull the battered
old brown case out from under my bed.
To the casual observer, it probably looked like
a guitar case. It’s really a treasure chest.
The instrument held inside is a Kalamazoo six-string
electric, made by Gibson to look a bit like a Fender
Strat. Fire engine red, single pick-up, circa 1968.
For many years, my ritual was unchanged: open the
case, hold and admire the guitar, play a few out
of tune chords, replace my beauty, close the case.
A while back, on a lark, I carried my relic into
the guitar shop and had it reconditioned. The next
year I opened the case, held and admired the guitar,
really cut loose by playing an entire version of
Good Lovin’ by the Young Rascals with in tune
chords, replaced my beauty, closed the case.
But, a change is gonna come.
A few months back, a different set of hands reached
under the bed. My son, Nathan, has taken up the
guitar. He opened the case, held and admired the
Kalamazoo, plugged into a baby amplifier I had sitting
around, and off he went. With the addition of a
pretty cool distortion pedal, Nathan’s already
riffing on a little Deep Purple, Cream and Black
Sabbath. He’s planning on starting a band.
He likes playing the Kalamazoo. I like telling him
of the day I found it. I especially like telling
him that the story begins 38 years ago:
It’s the summer of ’68. I’m 14,
the shortest kid in my class, male or female, and
as the 60’s move into the 70’s I am
beginning to look shockingly like John Denver and
Elton John’s love child. I’m also an
AM rock radio fanatic. Most of my friends want to
be the next Bart Starr or Willie Mays when they
grow up. I want to be the next Eric Clapton.
It makes sense; I’ve grown up in a musical
family. My sister plays violin. My brother will
become an excellent trumpet player. But the star
of the family is dad: former vocalist for a dance
band, singer at weddings and community musicals.
In a few years he’ll be the Bert Parks of
the Miss Southwest Iowa Pageant. I admire him. I’m
intimidated by his talent.
Perhaps most disturbing, I play clarinet. There
are no clarinet solos on the new Three Dog Night
album.
Think it’s time for a change.
One fresh Midwestern Saturday, dad drops by the
bedroom I share with my brother, Kevin.
“Let’s go downtown.”
Our family has moved a couple of times in recent
years and this particular downtown happens to be
Richland Center, Wisconsin, a weathered burg where
dairy farming and the late 1960’s are crashing
headlong into one another (our school has both a
state renowned wrestling team and a couple of guys
who come to class stoned, wearing what some folks
call, “Jesus robes”).
Anyway, dad and I climb into the lime green Buick
Special and motor the half dozen blocks to the main
drag. Dad parks in front of Saffel’s Appliance
and tells me we’re going in. We wander in
the front door and are greeted by a large, open
room of modern conveniences: washers, dryers, console
color TVs, the works. My first hope is that I’ll
see Karen, Mr. Saffel’s exotic and beautiful
teenage daughter. My assumption, in that mom’s
birthday is one day after mine and also coming up,
is that we’re here to select a new Amana or
Motorola.
Surprisingly, dad walks right on through the tunnel
of sparkly white and avocado monuments to household
technology. He stops at the staircase at the back
on the store. Saffel’s basement. Saffel’s
Appliance and Music. Only in America. Upstairs:
a spanking new fridge. Downstairs: Rock ‘n’
Roll!
I’ve forgotten about Karen and the beginnings
of a new hope springs to life.
“We’re going downstairs.”
I follow dad. He seems to know where’s he’s
going. Perhaps he’s searched for buried treasure
before.
At the bottom of the stairs, we face a wall lined
with electric guitars, a row of amplifiers placed
underneath.
I remember a feeling that I still have each time
I walk into a guitar shop, the sense that those
instruments were alive and sacred. Others may think
they’re wood and steel and plastic. Those
are just the ingredients. Mixed together by artists,
they are magic.
Dad moved me out of my reverie and positioned me
in front of two particular guitar-amp combos.
“Your mom and I talked. We can afford either
of these. You get to pick which one. Happy birthday,
son.”
That day, my dad was the coolest guy in the Dairy
State.
I made a slow and careful choice, finally settling
on the red Kalamazoo and the Gibson amp, complete
with tremolo. I walked out of the store a different
boy than the one who had walked in.
Five lessons later I was in a band, playing rhythm
guitar and singing backup vocals. The height of
our popularity was opening for the Chieftains, a
regional favorite group of Native American guys
who performed in buckskins. We rocked out to “I
Gotta Line” by Spirit and “Sunshine
of Your Love” by Cream at the Richland Community
Center. Dad says he snuck in and listened to us,
hiding so he wouldn’t make me nervous.
One year, and a move to Iowa later, I met Mike
and Dennis. We started Utopia. I was playing a little
rhythm guitar, a little bass guitar and singing
lead vocals. Our name was later borrowed by Todd
Rundgren of “We Gotta Get You A Woman”
fame (although I don’t remember seeing him
at any of our shows). We did credible covers of
Santana, Grand Funk, Alice Cooper and Cream. Frankly,
we kicked major butt on the James Gang’s “Walk
Away” and Zeppelin’s “Livin’
Lovin’ Maid.” Band members came and
went. We practiced constantly and played out occasionally.
Two years later, I put the Kalamazoo under my bed,
went to college and gave up my rock ‘n’
roll dream. When I could finally afford the pay
my bills, I bought a fine Alvarez acoustic guitar,
a kinder, gentler instrument. But every year I would
reach under whichever bed I was sleeping in, just
to connect with the memories of another slightly
out of step kid who felt just a bit cool with six
strings of perfect noise strapped around his neck.
Last night I was listening to Nathan play for one
of his buddies. He’s improving steadily. I’ve
shown him a few things: bar chords, a few riffs.
Mostly, my dad’s approach demonstrated for
me that I need to stay out of Nathan’s way;
supply him with the tools and watch him have fun.
It doesn’t matter to me if he plays for a
while, or for the rest of his life. It doesn’t
matter to me if he plays around, or becomes the
next Eric Clapton.
I will admit one thing that does matter. We could
afford a newer, more expensive guitar. For now,
Nathan wants to play the Kalamazoo; the treasure
found in the basement, kept safely under the bed.
He seems to understand the feeling of having six
strings of perfect noise strapped around his neck.
Thanks, again, Dad.
|
