I treated myself to a new G-string yesterday. It’s good
to have a back up just in case the one you’re using snaps. As I went to
leave the guitar shop I spied a Fender just like the one Hendrix used
to play. Foolishly I asked to try it out.
Hairy Music Dude
asked me what style I play. I should have said, “Oh I’m really only
starting out. I haven’t got the hang of it yet”. But, flattered by the
suggestion that I might actually be a guitarist, I fell into character,
shrugging nonchalantly and claiming, “I just like to see where the
music takes me, man”.
I knew I was doomed. Hairy Music Dude now
presumed I was some sort of blues legend. The truth is that last week I
nearly took my eye out when I flicked a plectrum into my own face and
almost broke my wrist attempting to play an F. I knew I’d be rumbled as
soon as I started strumming. There was only one thing for it: I had to
go Total Blues.
“I play blindfold!” I declared, tying a scarf
round my face, “and take three of these strings off. I play it pure.”
Then I started hammering away like a man possessed whilst belting out a
stream of blues inspired lyrics covering all the obligatory themes:
boozing, brawling, trains, women and figure skating. My performance
lasted six hours.
When finally I ran out of steam, I put the
guitar down and untied the scarf to find that I was alone, the lights
were off and the shop was closed. Hairy Music Dude had stuck a post-it
note to my forehead. It said: ‘You’re shit’. I wrote one back. It
said: ‘Your guitar is out of tune and you need a haircut’, and I left
with my pride intact.
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