While down in Cornwall recently I happened upon a guitar shop. There, gleaming at me from the dark interior was a shining black acoustic bass. And it was reduced in the sale. The store was closed, so I was reprieved from making a rash decision. I slept on it. Next morning its seductive black contours returned as clear as day in my minds eye.
I walked back into town, swept inside the shop and made the purchase. I am now the owner of two guitars I can’t play. The first I can be forgiven for. It was an extremely generous gift. A Fender Telecaster 60th anniversary limited edition. The second is strictly down to a sudden rush of blood to the head. The difference is, I’ve always harboured the desire to play bass. Ever since I heard the bass-line to the B-side of the Beatles ‘Paperback Writer’. A true masterpiece recorded during the ‘Revolver’ sessions: ‘Rain’. Then there was Jack Bruce, thundering out those jazzy bass-lines (don’t tell Eric) with Cream, his head bobbing like a demented budgie. And John Entwistle, fingers flying as he played those blistering lead bass-lines on many a classic Who song. Since then, my ear has sought out the low notes in thousands of recordings, my fingers plucking along in thin air. Now, I have the real thing.
I’ve placed an order with Amazon for a copy of ‘Bass Guitar For Dummies’ and await its arrival with optimistic anticipation… “Mr. Bass Man, you've got that certain somethin’, Mr. Bass Man, you set that music thumpin' “
2008-04-24 @ 02:22