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  • Hot July one of those days you make a dream real after waiting two weeks watching classified ads stack up one above the other, pushing it further away from.
    No way you can afford another guitar until that next invoice comes in.
    Boom boom chucka-chucka, she's the girl with the sound you want, 80 years old and rusty and hard to play but boy that sound!
    And there she is at something under half what you ought to pay for her, and you're sitting still waiting for a paycheck. Three weeks.
    Four.
    Somebody somebody somebody must have her by now. reselling on the international market, refurbishing for a tidy profit.
    You just want to play, let her sing for people again.

    Tentative emails,
    Dear sir,
    I would like your guitar but cannot afford it, will you wait?
    Sincerely…

    Finally paid. Can't still be for sale. It's been six weeks.

    I first played a Duollian in Saint Louis in 2007, maybe a month after I started to play. That sound, like the hearts of a whole generation singing. History in a noise box for $2700. Can there be a price on that sound?

    I couldn't afford a guitar like that. ever. And then, far away from the city and the market and the high high prices I could. And I was going to realise a dream that day, in July, in the back parking lot of a McDonalds outside a small town. Larry drove to meet me half-way, salt of the earth kindof man, teaching music classes at community colleges for years and loving it. In the heat and the smells of tarmac and big-mac we met, cautious first. I played for a bit and we talked, and I couldn't hand over the money fast enough. Dream guitar. We think the joins in the metal put her somewhere between '32 & '37. I put her in the passenger seat and strapped her in, tight.

    Now she's mine and that dream is over.
    All that is left are the songs to write
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