For Tai Snaith
In the corner of the garage hangs my Sunburst American Deluxe P Bass, with a J-style humbucking pickup & an active 3-band EQ. This axe is a motor. Bright & fuzzy when it needs. Lilting on all the right notes, a metaphysical hand-me-down from the Kims (Gordon & Deal). Succinct & prompt. It slams down the open A exactly when you mean it. A pathway to psych, surf, garage, blues, three-chord-staples. When I’ve been unsure, it slurs, the black, red & orange moulding into some version of the trusting, linear artist that’s playing it. Through blown up amps, fallen mics & roundabout line-ups, I’ve thumped at it with drumsticks, reaching for the perfect discord. I’ve spent whole nights swooning, satisfied with the smooth conversation of song.
The neck, a lover’s arm. Held gently & stroked softly, it might just tell you something new about silence. It cries in whole paragraphs. When difficult, it’s because you asked the wrong question. In this garage, it is in the overthrows of neglect. I am a daily habit reduced to yearly. How quickly the twenties become thirties. How quickly that salty E & sharp D become a riff that never leaves you. The strings that tie you up.
When it’s kicking, I’m home.