I hope readers will indulge me. I am an old man now, too arthritic to play well. I can't sing any more, either. I was mostly self taught. The man who inspired me musically only taught me a few things. They were useful things.
My Aunt (a Swede, model and incredible person) phoned friends in NY to get on the list to a "Women's Lib" rally being held in Vancouver. She took my Mom and they went off. I wanted to go. Bras were going to be burned!
Alas, I was dumped on my Uncle. He was a music business guy (for Epic, if you are into labels). He had a visitor and was against the idea of looking after a little kid. He knew I'd be in the car with my Dad, doing collections or chasing skips, though, so he relented. Also, the guest spoke up, saying my Uncle was already babysitting, so why not? My Ma nearly called the whole thing off when she saw him.
"This is One Penny Lenny" my Uncle told us. I asked about his nickname and he told me he was doomed to poverty because he was a jazz musician. He laughed about it, though. Then he taught me to sing scales, tirelessly explaining and demonstrating. You've got to hit the note and feel it, he insisted, or the song wouldn't work. My Uncle, who already knew everything about music became bored and wandered off to make phone calls. There was a battered acoustic in the living room that Lenny played effortlessly, holding notes he wanted me to sing. "This kid has an ear!" he said to my Uncle, who waved him away.
"Are you allowed to play with guitars?" he asked, after I was able to sing a whole verse "on the dot". I felt sure that I was, although I'd been warned off the resident many times. "Not that one" I said.
"That's okay, acoustics are fragile. We are going to play with an electric". Lenny said, with a smile. "You can help me. I just got a new one." he said and bustled away to the guest room. He returned with a cardboard carton and set up on the kitchen table.
"This is a Fender Broadcaster". he said, grinning happily. "I just paid about two month's rent for it." I was surprised it wasn't new. We are going to make it better than new, Lenny assured me. He sent me to the garage to fetch tools. This, I knew was definitely not allowed. I'd been underfoot when this building was reinforced. I used the hidden key no one knew about. To my surprise, every inch of floor space was taken up with motorcycles. To get to the tool chest I had to step around them.
The big red chest had had it's wheels removed and new art was stenciled onto it. It was locked too, with a big padlock and chain. I was curious about this because there were already locks on the drawers. My Dad had kept it locked. He'd taped a spare key to the bottom, like the liquor cabinet and the desk. I'd found it and examined his tools of the trade, as they were called. I'd even tried some quick draws but I almost dropped it and I was afraid it would go off, alerting my Mom. I'd heard her say she'd never allow one in the house.
I located my Uncle's BSA by it's tank badge and unrolled his road kit, another mortal sin.
When I got back to the kitchen my Uncle was there, silent and stoney faced like a smaller version of my Dad. Lenny was quiet too. After a minute I just shrugged and showed the screwdriver I'd stolen. If my Uncle's eyes had begun to glitter, like my Dad sometimes did, I'd have fled. I stared back, having been recently taught to maintain eye contact, no matter what, by his wife. It was an important social skill for a young man, she said.
My fault, Lenny tried to say. My Uncle ignored him. I waited. I wasn't afraid of my Uncle. I'd seen my Dad playfully pick him up by his neck. Also, he wasn't grim and humorless, not usually. Eventually he shrugged. Your Dad is coming home eventually and he'll have to be told, he said.
We spent the rest of the evening watching Lenny tear down his guitar, explaining every minute action. He polished the frets and levelled them, he shimmed the neck and took the cover and windings off a pickup. Then, he edited the wiring, explaining the historical significance of the existing scheme and joking about bass players. I didn't pay much attention, I had other concerns.
When my Dad did arrive, I was asleep on the couch. He's a good kid, I heard him say and I thought I was in the clear. Soon after, I met another Uncle who took me to the gym where I learned to box. It was a tremendous beating but I'd learned scales and could hear them in my head instead of the slap of leather. I became quite silent and my Mom protested constantly. The lessons continued, every second day for weeks. One day my Dad brought a guitar home. I recognized it and knew poor Lenny had lost ground in his financials. I left it alone although my Mother urged me to accept it. I felt it was a trap. Then it went away and I didn't touch a guitar or sing for years. I guess that's the story of my first guitar.
Ten years ago my wife heard me humming scales and dragged me in to see a doctor. They saved me. Music, when I attempt it, is therapy now. I guess it always was?
First thud box in 40 some years. Not the best of the best, but much nicer than the dried out kindling I had back then. Projects quite well when played grip and dig style.
