The Next Dreamer In Line

Do you remember how we used to play? How we extended each other? How we brought your imagination to bear on those willing to listen?

Distant, longer days and nights alive with the bending of boundaries. Souls cast out into the glare of a single spotlight, thrown upon the collective mercy of the gathered few.

We do not belong here. Barricaded in this graveyard of youth by the transient clutter of lives that have altered.

And yet we remain. Strings broken. Necks unbowed. Settled amongst the dust.

Waiting.

Waiting for you to remember.

Waiting for the next dreamer in line.

Story footnote: A moment of inspiration.

The guitars you see in the header photo are 50% mine.

What I mean is, two of the four are mine. I don’t have six month timeshare custody of all four. That would be weird.

The Fender acoustic in the front with the broken string is my most recent personal purchase. It got damaged about a year ago when a small child (not one of mine for once) fell into it and sheared off a tuning key. I’ve been meaning to get it fixed but life keeps getting in the way.

The Washburn electric on the right is the cheaper of the two Nuno Bettencourt models they released twenty-odd years ago. We shared a lot of gigs and studio time together once upon a history.

The tiny acoustic on the left belongs to my son, and the backwards strung acoustic in the middle belongs to my wife. I still hope one day when they learn we’ll all jam together. On something easy so I can keep up.

Missing from the picture are my two prized possessions. My Gibson Les Paul Studio (which I no longer have any right to own given my lack of playing) and my 100% custom original black and white Washburn. I say black and white because it was black and now it is white.

Like most (all) guitarists I had a moment where I decided I would sand my guitar down and respray it. Translated this means I will partially take it apart, partially sand it down, realise it’s a long and difficult job and then leave it in bits for years. Luckily for me I am blessed with the best brother a man could wish for and he got it fixed up, resprayed and reanimated. Even better than that he gave it to me as a present for being best man at his wedding. Where it was being played by the guitarist in his band. The same band that he and his wife drummed and sang respectively in as part of the wedding day. Rock and roll, people.

Suffice to say if I was only allowed to keep one, the Gibson is toast.

As I sat down to write tonight I saw the guitars in the corner of the room and they spoke to me. I got some memories and the thought that maybe I need to start playing again. You got a story.

Everybody wins.