The Shame of it All
The Shame of It All So this is where the years wind up? This is where it ends? The man crouching on the stool atop the stage touches the strings with delicate if resilient fingers, but the tattered Marshall on the floor beside him, the one one which his boot rests, doesn't seem to care. The Marshall likes it loud, just as the Gibson plugged into the amp does, and just as the old rocker who cradles the classic guitar to his breast does. And just like the other two, the aged amp still works fine, which it proves by ejecting the single chord that the man strummed through the “business end” of it’s speaker like a well-tuned cannon’s blast. The lonely chord reverberates through the practically empty room, an amplified clarion call of Axeman, Gibson and Marshall, but the few paired-up people in the bar are inattentive, all but one. In the harsh glow of the footlights that one who is paying attention can see where his fingerprints and sweat streaks have besmudged the guitar’s fire-burst d...