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...
I watched it all from my spot on the bench beneath the cedar-pole awning of la Hacienda Gustamos over the course of one solitary month. During those thirty days, for lack of anything better to do, I whittled their likenesses from chunks of manzanita wood as I watched them work; the super-hard, desert-dried ironwood forcing me to make frequent pauses for blade resharpening, but by the time their construction project was completed so was mine, as I had carved out rather lifelike 3D figures of them all… boy, girl, and burro. The pair rode double into Ciudad Juarez with the boy behind, their bouncing synchronized astride the swayed back of an overloaded, yet quick-stepping burro, the burro‘s pace appearing suited to the pair’s dispositions. A bulging towsack tied to it’s rump increased the burro’s already considerable load. The day was warm in Ciudad Juarez, as always, the sky clear, as usual. The burro came to an abrupt standstill on the banks of the city’s thinly flowing river, whe...
So this is where the years wind up? This is where it ends? The man crouched on the stool atop the stage touches the strings of his guitar with delicate if resilient fingers, but the tattered Marshall amp on which his boot rests doesn't care. The cranked up Marshall likes it loud, just as the Gibson connected to the amp does, and just as the old rocker who has slung the classic guitar low down from his shoulder does. And like the other two the aged amp still works fine. It proves this by ejecting the single chord the man has strummed through the “business end” of its 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 his fingerprints and sweat streaks besmudge the guitar’s fire-burst design, soiling it, the same as the man’s blue jeans are soiled, and the boots be...
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