“Here ya go, lad,” he said, pulling a long, flat case from the rubble. It was covered in enough dust to give someone an asthma attack. He set it on the same sofa I had slept on and wiped it with a rag that wasn’t much cleaner than the case itself. The dust moved around some, but he seemed satisfied with it. He opened the case to expose a pristine guitar in a golden sunburst finish with offset double cut outs. It nearly took my breath away. “Dalmedo” was emblazoned on the headstock. “Some bloke brought it in here and played a set or two. He was good, too, I tell ya. The lads out front got ‘im drunk and he left without it. I’ve held on to it for ‘im, but it don’t look like he’s comin back.” “How long ago was this?” I plucked it out of its case and felt the balance. It was exquisite. I put the strap over my shoulder and started tuning it. “Dunno,” Westie said. “Thirty years ago? It was a little after you’d gone to the states.” “Wow.” I shook my head, as I inspected this beauty. Along the bottom, under the pickguard was a signature. “Conor Hook” it read. “This was Conor Hook’s guitar.” “Yeah, that sounds right. You know him?” I laughed. “ You might say so. He’s one of the most respected guitarists in the world.” “All right, then,” he said. “Here ya go.” He reached behind another stack of boxes and came up with a Vox tube amp and cables. “Westie, you are absolutely the best. This will be brilliant.” “Just sell some pints for me lad, we’ll be all right.” Westie carried the amp to the stage while I carried the Dalmedo. As I followed him down the corridor, I said, “Do you know this guitar was made here in England?” “Don’t care, lad.” "The Guitarist" copyright/Mary Ogden Fersner/2012
Posted on: Wed, 31 Jul 2013 01:33:58 +0000
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