speed of dark

Husband says he wants to start playing his guitars again. He has read my recent time travel post about Ry Cooder. These two sentences are not related; however, I think that they should be. Anyway, the barrier to these personal home concerts is that the guitars are out of tune, and Husband can't find his electronic tuner anywhere.

So on Saturday I guide him to the recently-opened Guitar Center store. As we walk up to the building, Johnny Cash is blasting into the parking lot from a large speaker on a stand near the door. That's OK with me, and good for him because he likes Johnny Cash. Inside the store it's not so pleasant. A different song is coming from each of three sections of the L-shaped main room. It isn't set up so that in any one section you hear one artist; no, throughout the store the three sound systems blend into general cacophony. Nirvana over Lou Reed over Blink 182.

Husband looks around in dismay. The store seems to cater only to the electric persuasion. Then we see that the acoustic paraphernalia is behind the closed glass door of a room in the crook of the L. Cool and dim, it's a Zen meditation retreat compared to the rest of the store. A young man sits on a bench quietly picking out "Stairway to Heaven." Row after row of birch-fronted beauties hang on the walls from the floor to the darkened ceiling. Husband starts telling me about a Martin backpacking guitar he once saw. I point to the corner where an odd thing with a Gumby-shaped body hangs. That's it! Nearby are a few ukes, looking like baby guitars not yet big enough to sell.

In another enclosed room with a glass door, we can see a young man strumming and trying to sing like John Mayer to his tall, poker-faced girlfriend. Next to that is the banjo room. "The bag-pipes are probably in there too," jokes Husband. He can joke; he plays banjo. We have to get help to locate the tuners, and Husband buys a fairly simple one. A very thin girl with black hair explains to him how it works, and he nods politely and pays attention. He already knows how it works, but he doesn't want to spoil it for her.

We go back home, and he gets out one of the guitars. Then he wants to know where the other ones are, and where are the autoharp and the banjo? I moved into his house almost a year ago, and some things are not where he is used to finding them. Like on the dining room table. My role in our family of two is Finder of All Things Lost. This is scary because years ago in my own house, Indie Mom had to be Finder for ME. Notice that I was not able to find the guitar tuner, which is why we had to buy another one. I locate the other guitar, the banjo, and the autoharp, and remind him that he gave a guitar to my grandson, He Might Be Giant, last summer.

He spends an hour or so tuning all the instruments and returning them to their cases. I'm still waiting to hear him actually play, however. When he does, he'll play funny folk songs and Hank Williams, Johnny Cash, and Dave Van Ronk. It doesn't matter to me what he plays, as long as he plays for me. I love having my own personal guitarist.

From The Best Thing You Ever Had (1996)

Lurgee (live)

Anyone Can Play Guitar (live)

Blow Out (live)