LETTERS FROM HOME: JIMI, BONNIE, STEVIE RAY, ERIC ... AND ME AND MY GUITAR

January 18, 2001

Dear Ken,

You know how it is when you yearn for someone.

A word leaps out of an overheard conversation because it sounds like her name.

You call her answering machine when you know she isn't home just to listen to her voice.

It can make you crazy.

Fortunately, the object of my yearning was a Fender electric guitar.

I claim no understanding of the attraction between males and electric guitars. I only know that even though it's no longer becoming most of us below the age of getting Social Security benefits secretly want to thrash about with one like AC/DC on a bender.

In the universe of guitarists, I am but a molecule who knows a few chords. For some reason it doesn't matter.

I had a Gibson in the mid-80s. It had a mellow sound, the kind jazz guitarists cultivate. You could barely hear it in the din made by the company garage band. The guitar became more useful when I was laid off. Funny how the price of a guitar is approximately equal to a month's rent.

For years I missed that beauty. When the yearning finally became overwhelming I realized I didn't want another polite guitar. I wanted a guitar for pinning people to the wall.

Would it be a Telecaster that can set up a desperate wail like Bruce Springsteen's on "Born to Run" or a Stratocaster that can speak in mystical tongues that sound like Jimi Hendrix, Bonnie Raitt, Stevie Ray Vaughan or Eric Clapton?

The guitar was DC's Christmas present to me. She sent me off to the guitar store with the commandment to "spend a lot of money." That's her idea of reverse psychology. It's my idea of a blank check.

First I tried a Telecaster. It sounded OK and was on sale. Then I plugged in a Stratocaster. It has a different configuration of pickups and is capable of making more sounds. We like more sounds. They also cost more.

While weighing my choices, I asked my friend Randy to try out the Strat. He plays guitar in the Melroys, a great party band. Unlike me, he has some chops. Suddenly, the Stratocaster began talking. Deft blues licks leapt from the amp, and I heard and understood what this guitar is capable of: pinning people to the wall.

If that sounds a bit testosterone drunk, I think of the instrument itself as female.

You should see my Stratocaster's curves, the way they fit my right hip. You should see her ash blond wood grain body, the maple of her fretboard.

Best of all, you should hear her sing, even in my untrained hands.

No more yearning. Even DC likes my Stratocaster. But I doubt she'll let me sleep with her.

Love, Sam