I miss my guitar.
I’ve had the same twelve-string acoustic since 1990, when I bought it in a small music shop while on holiday in North Wales, and then hauled it over the long ocean to Canada. I chose it because it made a lot of noise - twelve strings always sound more accomplished and polished than six, and you don’t need amplification to busk. I did a lot of busking. On the ferry from Tsawassen to Swartz Bay, I pulled out the guitar and busked Indigo Girls tunes to pay for the bus journey into Victoria.
In 1990, I discovered that the best acoustics were to be found in the bathroom of my college residence: I sat on the counter with my feet in the sink while the steam swirled around me, and I strummed along to my showering peers.
In 1991, I jammed with Valdy beside a cedar wood fire. Later that winter, sitting in the art studio of a friend who was completing his exhibition, I doodled with acrylics on the sides of the instrument - swirling patterns of colours combining. What I didn’t realise is that the paint constricted when dry and changed the sound of the guitar completely. The next day, it sounded like I was strumming on a biscuit tin. I spent another long evening easing the paint off the curves of the guitar with the edge of a plectrum. Peeling away acrylic skin, layer by coloured layer.
I’ve always had a thing about traveling light. I try to take only the smallest backpack - just hand luggage if possible - and few clothes or possessions. Books can be exchanged along the way, knickers washed, sarongs or sarapes bought in place of sheets, towels, skirts, shawls. Taking a guitar was a big thing for me, because it was big instrument - it had to be checked in on planes. In 1992, the guitar travelled with me wherever I went; from northern Canada to Central America via a Great American Road TripTM, a voyage to the Outer Hebrides and extremes of temperature and humidity, extremes of music. I picked up tunes along the way, music to entertain people in any and every place - a bit of Nueva Canción here, a touch of Leonard Cohen there, a few Scottish folk tunes to round off the mix. And my own stuff too, which I was constantly twiddling with. My guitar was my constant travel companion.
Until I met T, and settled down.
T was an accomplished guitarist, and he knew it. He did twiddly things with his fingers while I was still plodding away without phenomenal skill, but with enormous, infectious passion. That had always been my thing; to inspire others to participate, rather than to bandstand. T preferred the limelight - and our relationship wasn’t big enough for two guitars. So he kept playing, while my Tanglewood sat in the corner, gathering dust. I still sang, though the tunes were his choice. He held the melody, and I would tack on a harmony, improvising as we went. We were good together. Our music made sense. It was logical, accomplished, rational. But it lacked passion.
In 1993 I moved to Liverpool, where I ended up living with Sam, who played the guitar in a series of terrible bands with a terrible names. Sam was more into Hawkwind and Hendrix than Nick Drake and John Martyn, and our flat resounded nightly to his elaborate and lengthy riffs. My guitar had made the move with me, but the time between my caresses seemed to get longer and longer.
By 1994 I was barely playing at all. It seemed futile and embarrassing to hammer out my crowd-pleasing run-of-the-mill stuff when those around me could stun and amaze with their talent and virtuosity. Better to keep quiet.
In 1995, I moved to Spain, and then Bolivia. Guitars weren’t nearly as commonplace as they were on the student scene in the UK, and I gradually found it easier to do my turn at parties, borrowing any guitar to hand. I made no pretense to be able to play with the skill of the flamenquinos or charanguistas, but I had a clear advantage in my favour: I could hack out most REM and U2 songs - in English. I cannot count how many times I heard the phrase “sabes tocar…?” followed by the name of a song by anyone from Bryan Adams to Alanis Morrissette.
By 1996, I’d figured out how to deal with requests. They’d name the song, and I’d then transpose it to three basic chords (all great western music is written on three chords; don’t let anyone tell you different). Then after the second verse and chorus, during the bridge, I’d translate the lyrics on the fly, or make up a rough approximation:
- “…ese es yo en la esquina, perdiendo mi religión….”
- “….deseo ejecutarme…deseo ocultarme…deseo rasgar abajo las paredes que me sostienen adentro…deseo vivir en una pampa alta, donde las calles no tienen ningun nombre…”
- “no es ironico, no pienses?”
- “…era seis pies y cuatro y lleno de musculos….le dije ‘habla mi lenguaje?’ y el sonrie y me dio un bocadillo del vegemite…”
- “…sabes que si…todo lo que hago, lo hago por ti…”
- “…en tu cabeza….en tu cabeza…zombi…zombi…”
- [name those songs, and win a prize: spanish speakers need not apply]
By 1997 I was back in the UK and though my guitar still moved with me from home to home, it had become more like a piece of furniture that helped me to define my living space than an instrument of creative expression.
In 1998 a close friend of mine said she was thinking of taking up the guitar, and I pressed my own into her hands willingly, as an extended loan. I wasn’t really using it, I reasoned, and she’d be doing me a favour. Guitars have to be played, just as much as pearls need to be worn.
We lost touch in 1999, when she moved away.
Now it’s ten years since I bought my lovely tanglewood twelve string - it’s a little worse for wear, and there are probably more knocks and scratches on its smooth surface than a decent guitar should have. The soundboard is a little warped from too many journeys through extremes of climate and if you look closely, you can probably still see a few flecks of coloured acrylic paint around the body. But I would know its sound anywhere. The feel of its hard strings on my fingers is like a familiar lover’s touch. It’s been two years since I last picked it up. And I miss it.
