The other night I was in a rehearsal room, playing through a new piece of music. I had one of those Proustian moments where the sight of the guitar took me back to the first time I had knowing looked on an electric instrument and wondered at the design and capabilities of it. That’s to say, when I was a lot younger, I found myself gazing at a pair of bass guitars outside a dressing room. I was bewitched by them and wanted to live in the world they lived in. My far more practical friend pointed out this could only happen if I learned to play the bass and got good enough to deserve such a piece of kit.

So, almost immediately, I abandoned my plans and embarked on becoming a bass player.

Back in the rehearsal room the thought occurred that, after all this time I should be over the delight of seeing yet another guitar, but I’m not. The idea of such a thing, passively waiting to be played, was just as exciting. Of course, the guitar is just a tool. But it’s a powerful tool, capable of healing, bonding and enrapturing a listener.

This was just one seemingly trivial moment among the many hours of playing music, but it reminded me of why I love what I do.


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