I did, indeedy, destroy an acoustic guitar. On purpose. I hung it from a dead oak tree and flung hatchets at it till it said 'uncle.' In no way an obligation, to a small degree a pleasure, listing towards a puny imperative, I must explain why I did it behind the house,here in Poison Ivy Meadows.
That guitar, with it's failing abilities to remain in tune, had come into my life by way of a weakened, canted, rotting basement entrance. It saw in me a weak point, and took advantage. It came to me as if it was a volunteering friend, a kitten that was at once in both need and love, which is, in emotional terms, the very basement entrance through which assholes and bad music arrive.
A musical marriage was bonded one capricious day. It was $19.99, marked the whole way down, like a public hanging. It was the last Adam Levine guitar sold in the Westview, Pennsylvania Kmart. Musical instruments had been completely discontinued, though Adam's line of fashion merchandise is still graciously sold at that dreamland Kmart. I bought an Adam Levine bomber jacket, at one of so many big box rummage sales, a sassy off-shoot of the too famous Members Only bomber jacket of the post-disco era. I lived through it. Many didn't.
I bought the guitar on a whim, without evening looking at it. It was in a plain brown box, just over waist tall, like a casket for a kid. Lugging it home by bus was humbling. Comments were made, ranging from, "Them's good guitars," to "White people are capitalizing on everything." But it seemed impossible, at that price, for anything really, really bad to happen as a result of it. I can afford to lose $20. And after a few days of monkeying with the ax, it was in tune, resting in the corner, sounding rather good when plucked. Like a harp in Hell.
The thing showed promise, but is a cheap guitar. It doesn't rate, and it recorded atrociously. But for several years, I was content to wang out folk songs, like I always do, though at one point resolving to never record with the awful guitar. And then I saw Adam Levine on television. It was as if a mile long Electrolux vucuum cleaner hose was sucking the marrow out of the Earth. I felt fatter, yet lighter, from watching Adam coach a young woman in the art of pop singing. It was icky, horribly, horribly icky. Icky to such a degree, that I felt worse than I already did about the guitar. I know what good sound is, and good musicianship, and I have to live with being somewhere under par. Damn it. I don't need to be reminded, further, by a guitar filled with globalized domination, or the subjugation of the the human spirit. There are more reasons why the guitar was fastened to a dead oak tree, like a Scottish King from the olden days, when people weren't so consumately chicken shit.
I came upon slab of history worth repeating, like a good cuss word. Centuries ago, in Scottland, there was a custom. Once their king got too feeble to run things, he got tied to a tree and stabbed to death, in a gruesome, ceremonious manner. Part of the beauty of it is that to be a king, a fellow had to appreciate that this would happen to him eventually. I believe this was a practical deterrent to so many character defects of the type that make modern US a wee bit of a shit hole. The Scotts were on to something, as relates to the Adam Levine acoustic guitar that bought the farm a few weeks ago, here in Poison Ivy Meadows.
It's a lesson in adversity. If everyone and everything faced stiff consequences for fucking up, there would be less fucking up. The Adam Levine Guitar won't fuck up another one of my recordings. And I got some pent up anger out of my system. Happier, I am of better service to human kind. And a curse has been lifted. I think.
That guitar, with it's failing abilities to remain in tune, had come into my life by way of a weakened, canted, rotting basement entrance. It saw in me a weak point, and took advantage. It came to me as if it was a volunteering friend, a kitten that was at once in both need and love, which is, in emotional terms, the very basement entrance through which assholes and bad music arrive.
A musical marriage was bonded one capricious day. It was $19.99, marked the whole way down, like a public hanging. It was the last Adam Levine guitar sold in the Westview, Pennsylvania Kmart. Musical instruments had been completely discontinued, though Adam's line of fashion merchandise is still graciously sold at that dreamland Kmart. I bought an Adam Levine bomber jacket, at one of so many big box rummage sales, a sassy off-shoot of the too famous Members Only bomber jacket of the post-disco era. I lived through it. Many didn't.
I bought the guitar on a whim, without evening looking at it. It was in a plain brown box, just over waist tall, like a casket for a kid. Lugging it home by bus was humbling. Comments were made, ranging from, "Them's good guitars," to "White people are capitalizing on everything." But it seemed impossible, at that price, for anything really, really bad to happen as a result of it. I can afford to lose $20. And after a few days of monkeying with the ax, it was in tune, resting in the corner, sounding rather good when plucked. Like a harp in Hell.
The thing showed promise, but is a cheap guitar. It doesn't rate, and it recorded atrociously. But for several years, I was content to wang out folk songs, like I always do, though at one point resolving to never record with the awful guitar. And then I saw Adam Levine on television. It was as if a mile long Electrolux vucuum cleaner hose was sucking the marrow out of the Earth. I felt fatter, yet lighter, from watching Adam coach a young woman in the art of pop singing. It was icky, horribly, horribly icky. Icky to such a degree, that I felt worse than I already did about the guitar. I know what good sound is, and good musicianship, and I have to live with being somewhere under par. Damn it. I don't need to be reminded, further, by a guitar filled with globalized domination, or the subjugation of the the human spirit. There are more reasons why the guitar was fastened to a dead oak tree, like a Scottish King from the olden days, when people weren't so consumately chicken shit.
I came upon slab of history worth repeating, like a good cuss word. Centuries ago, in Scottland, there was a custom. Once their king got too feeble to run things, he got tied to a tree and stabbed to death, in a gruesome, ceremonious manner. Part of the beauty of it is that to be a king, a fellow had to appreciate that this would happen to him eventually. I believe this was a practical deterrent to so many character defects of the type that make modern US a wee bit of a shit hole. The Scotts were on to something, as relates to the Adam Levine acoustic guitar that bought the farm a few weeks ago, here in Poison Ivy Meadows.
It's a lesson in adversity. If everyone and everything faced stiff consequences for fucking up, there would be less fucking up. The Adam Levine Guitar won't fuck up another one of my recordings. And I got some pent up anger out of my system. Happier, I am of better service to human kind. And a curse has been lifted. I think.
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