Jon Silberman
10-29-2008, 07:51 AM
Whoever it was who started the thread yesterday about trying this again here and now apparently deleted it for some reason so here we go again, this time under the rubric of, "Novel? No. Fun? Sure!"
“The Guitar Hero”
A Cyber-Collaborative Short Story by members of the PRS Discussion Forum (c. 2000)
(in order of contribution): Jon S., Karl Paecht, Dragon Eyes, JamesT, jiml, Brian S., Patrick Ginnaty
A fine grey mist covers the rocky terrain, obscuring his vision and complicating his quest, but the man in the colorful garb pays no mind. Slinging his McCarty-laden gig bag over one shoulder with the savoir-faire of an experienced wailer, he kicks his Harley into gear and twists his way down the peak towards the ramshackle neon village in the valley below. With the wind in his hair, he makes his way down the twisted path, all the while wondering what awaits him in the neon village.
He is a rocker. Born of the fruit of Chuck Berry and Buddy Holly with a hint of Little Richard. Hardened by years on the road. Always playing what he felt, never minding the trends. And now he is upon yet another village of young nubile sexually curious women who couldn't care if he played like Jimi Hendrix or like Hanson. "Hold on, Mac", he says to the guitar. Here we come on an unblazened trail.”
With that familiar uneasy, almost queasy anxiousness, he asks himself, “Will there be any music stores?” Years of searching for that hard-to-find PRS HG70 combo with original footswitch and user's manual have left him tired and frustrated. Oh, there have been the encounters, the near misses - that 4X12 PRS cab in Mexico, the HG70 head in 'Frisco, the window tag sale in Peoria, countless Peavey salesmen touting TransTube technology. And there were the doubts, the kind of doubts that kept him awake all those lonely nights, like, “Can a transistor really sound like a tube??” Oh, sure, many attempts have been made, but that one mysterious review of the HG70 on Harmony Central, with fewer than 250 produced in total, still echos in his mind. He's seen heads and cabs strewn about on his dogged travels, but now with this neon mecca before him, optimism blazes anew in his vintage heart.
"I see that yonder village consists primarily of blues clubs, rock bars, and chilli joints - 'cept for that pathetic 7-11 in the center, of course,” exclaims the gruff guitarist, his rainbow-colored poncho fluttering in the blustery breeze like a disconnected minor double-stop in a major-key jump blues. And then, just as he is about to open the door to Ms. Facockta's, the dirtiest, nastiest, raunchiest club of 'em all, out steps a deadly-looking dude dressed all in black wielding a matching scorpion-shaped axe. "I know who you are," sneers the surly SOB in the most low-down and guttural of tones. "Born of the fruit of Chuck Berry and Buddy Holly with a hint of Little Richard, are you not? You are the one I've been awaiting. Now whip out your pathetic PRS and let's see what mettle you're made of (and I'm sure it ain’t 'heavy')."
With a grin like a spotlight, the guitar hero momentarily flashes his gold tooth at the SOB. And quicker than the SOB can rub his eyes, our hero whips the McCarty out of the bag and crunches a power chord, knocking the SOB back. (Little had the SOB known that our hero keeps his McCarty loaded with a Pignose that's always on.)
"OK, ‘Sam-bora," our gruff hero cries. He is all too familiar with the name. He has heard many tales of the black clad, scorpion-equipped guitar slinger throughout his travels. Yes, Sam-bora, the same one who traverses the land in search of open-mic nights, open blues jams and at times, even kareoke, playing 12-bar blues on a black, insect-like guitar, causing every guitarist in his wake to switch to bass or the drums. The gruff hero enters Fackota's, scribbles his name on the "next to play list,” goes to a dark corner, and opens his PRS gig bag. He pulls out his trusty Mac, quietly tuning it in the din of the open-mic stage. "Damn,” he mutters to himself, “if only I could retrofit the standard low mass tuners on this thing!!"
Sam-bora the dark is onstage now, beating the band of burnt-out blues junkies into submission with his rendition of "Killing Floor." The gruff and slightly detuned hero notices the fat, angelic-like tone being generated by the dark axeman. "It can't be from that roach of a guitar, I've played Edburgers before that were better," he thinks as he looks out across the stage. "But what is that glowing combo in yonder dark corner?"
The glowing combo in the dark corner turns out to be the PRS Forum web host who says, "Geeez guys, don't you know that I'm a clinical psychologist who listens to stories like these for a living!?” The McCarty-slinging, Pignose-laden hero turns to the house band’s Marshall (a JPM, we suspect), plugs it in, and says, “Analyze this, Sam-bora, and let us have our fun!” And with that, the colorfully garbed stranger lets loose a jetstream of pentatonic double stops.
Like a bagful of helium-filled balloons popped by a gaggle of hyperactive 4 year-olds, the notes swish across Ms. Fackota's swill joint, blowing away the clientele, hardened, grizzly battle-of-the-bands veterans and astonished young nubile sexually curious women alike. But the SOB just rolls his eyes and smirks. "The crux of the biscuit," he says with wicked intent, pushing up the sleeves on his jet black spandex, sorry-looking excuse for a shirt to reveal a faded tatoo of Karen Carpenter, "is the apostrophe." Our hero replies... "An apostrophe, eh? Is that an apostrophe before, or after, the ‘S’?"
The clientele spread to the edges of the room as the black scorpion starts into the "Red House" intro. A collective moan escapes the patrons’ lips, who assume the rainbow stranger is doomed. But all they can see is the slight smile playing upon the stranger’s lips. A torrent of notes greet the stranger during the scorpion’s solo. The crowd turns downcast. But our hero, feels no fear. He grabs his McCarty, picks the 2nd string’s 10th fret A, and holds it for 36 straight bars.
A rainbow of colors fills the room as the note blossoms! The black scorpion falls to his knees, his head bowed. He knows he has been upstaged. All he can do now is bow his head in shame, knowing that he has been beaten by a single note.
“The hero invoked the BB King method and destroyed the scorpion with one note!,” murmurs the amazed crowd. The nubile young women sigh in rapture. The hero, however, looks off to his left at the beaten man beside the stage. He maintains a wry smile of victory, but he also feels sorry for his fellow guitarist, however scorpion-like he may be. He says to the scorpion, "You were looking for the note ... I found it."
And with that, the SOB slinks out the room on his hands and knees like the beaten snake he is, seemingly oblivious to the shards of broken glass and ubiquitous wet spots on Ms. Facockta’s floor, his ragtag scorpion-shaped axe dragging behind him like the impotent phallic symbol that it has become. Our McCarty-slinging hero turns immediately to his right to high-five the first hand offered to him. Thick and dark-skinned it is, calloused and aged, yet warm and wizened it seems as well, as if representing in a microcosm an image of the whole of the massive gent now confronting him.
"Way to go, 'Bro," the owner of the hand exudes, "I couldn't have done better myself!" "Why thanks, B.B.," our multicolored poncho'ed hero replies. And with that, the hero slings his McCarty-laden gig bag back over one shoulder, kicks his Harley into gear, and twists his way back up the peak.
THE END
“The Guitar Hero”
A Cyber-Collaborative Short Story by members of the PRS Discussion Forum (c. 2000)
(in order of contribution): Jon S., Karl Paecht, Dragon Eyes, JamesT, jiml, Brian S., Patrick Ginnaty
A fine grey mist covers the rocky terrain, obscuring his vision and complicating his quest, but the man in the colorful garb pays no mind. Slinging his McCarty-laden gig bag over one shoulder with the savoir-faire of an experienced wailer, he kicks his Harley into gear and twists his way down the peak towards the ramshackle neon village in the valley below. With the wind in his hair, he makes his way down the twisted path, all the while wondering what awaits him in the neon village.
He is a rocker. Born of the fruit of Chuck Berry and Buddy Holly with a hint of Little Richard. Hardened by years on the road. Always playing what he felt, never minding the trends. And now he is upon yet another village of young nubile sexually curious women who couldn't care if he played like Jimi Hendrix or like Hanson. "Hold on, Mac", he says to the guitar. Here we come on an unblazened trail.”
With that familiar uneasy, almost queasy anxiousness, he asks himself, “Will there be any music stores?” Years of searching for that hard-to-find PRS HG70 combo with original footswitch and user's manual have left him tired and frustrated. Oh, there have been the encounters, the near misses - that 4X12 PRS cab in Mexico, the HG70 head in 'Frisco, the window tag sale in Peoria, countless Peavey salesmen touting TransTube technology. And there were the doubts, the kind of doubts that kept him awake all those lonely nights, like, “Can a transistor really sound like a tube??” Oh, sure, many attempts have been made, but that one mysterious review of the HG70 on Harmony Central, with fewer than 250 produced in total, still echos in his mind. He's seen heads and cabs strewn about on his dogged travels, but now with this neon mecca before him, optimism blazes anew in his vintage heart.
"I see that yonder village consists primarily of blues clubs, rock bars, and chilli joints - 'cept for that pathetic 7-11 in the center, of course,” exclaims the gruff guitarist, his rainbow-colored poncho fluttering in the blustery breeze like a disconnected minor double-stop in a major-key jump blues. And then, just as he is about to open the door to Ms. Facockta's, the dirtiest, nastiest, raunchiest club of 'em all, out steps a deadly-looking dude dressed all in black wielding a matching scorpion-shaped axe. "I know who you are," sneers the surly SOB in the most low-down and guttural of tones. "Born of the fruit of Chuck Berry and Buddy Holly with a hint of Little Richard, are you not? You are the one I've been awaiting. Now whip out your pathetic PRS and let's see what mettle you're made of (and I'm sure it ain’t 'heavy')."
With a grin like a spotlight, the guitar hero momentarily flashes his gold tooth at the SOB. And quicker than the SOB can rub his eyes, our hero whips the McCarty out of the bag and crunches a power chord, knocking the SOB back. (Little had the SOB known that our hero keeps his McCarty loaded with a Pignose that's always on.)
"OK, ‘Sam-bora," our gruff hero cries. He is all too familiar with the name. He has heard many tales of the black clad, scorpion-equipped guitar slinger throughout his travels. Yes, Sam-bora, the same one who traverses the land in search of open-mic nights, open blues jams and at times, even kareoke, playing 12-bar blues on a black, insect-like guitar, causing every guitarist in his wake to switch to bass or the drums. The gruff hero enters Fackota's, scribbles his name on the "next to play list,” goes to a dark corner, and opens his PRS gig bag. He pulls out his trusty Mac, quietly tuning it in the din of the open-mic stage. "Damn,” he mutters to himself, “if only I could retrofit the standard low mass tuners on this thing!!"
Sam-bora the dark is onstage now, beating the band of burnt-out blues junkies into submission with his rendition of "Killing Floor." The gruff and slightly detuned hero notices the fat, angelic-like tone being generated by the dark axeman. "It can't be from that roach of a guitar, I've played Edburgers before that were better," he thinks as he looks out across the stage. "But what is that glowing combo in yonder dark corner?"
The glowing combo in the dark corner turns out to be the PRS Forum web host who says, "Geeez guys, don't you know that I'm a clinical psychologist who listens to stories like these for a living!?” The McCarty-slinging, Pignose-laden hero turns to the house band’s Marshall (a JPM, we suspect), plugs it in, and says, “Analyze this, Sam-bora, and let us have our fun!” And with that, the colorfully garbed stranger lets loose a jetstream of pentatonic double stops.
Like a bagful of helium-filled balloons popped by a gaggle of hyperactive 4 year-olds, the notes swish across Ms. Fackota's swill joint, blowing away the clientele, hardened, grizzly battle-of-the-bands veterans and astonished young nubile sexually curious women alike. But the SOB just rolls his eyes and smirks. "The crux of the biscuit," he says with wicked intent, pushing up the sleeves on his jet black spandex, sorry-looking excuse for a shirt to reveal a faded tatoo of Karen Carpenter, "is the apostrophe." Our hero replies... "An apostrophe, eh? Is that an apostrophe before, or after, the ‘S’?"
The clientele spread to the edges of the room as the black scorpion starts into the "Red House" intro. A collective moan escapes the patrons’ lips, who assume the rainbow stranger is doomed. But all they can see is the slight smile playing upon the stranger’s lips. A torrent of notes greet the stranger during the scorpion’s solo. The crowd turns downcast. But our hero, feels no fear. He grabs his McCarty, picks the 2nd string’s 10th fret A, and holds it for 36 straight bars.
A rainbow of colors fills the room as the note blossoms! The black scorpion falls to his knees, his head bowed. He knows he has been upstaged. All he can do now is bow his head in shame, knowing that he has been beaten by a single note.
“The hero invoked the BB King method and destroyed the scorpion with one note!,” murmurs the amazed crowd. The nubile young women sigh in rapture. The hero, however, looks off to his left at the beaten man beside the stage. He maintains a wry smile of victory, but he also feels sorry for his fellow guitarist, however scorpion-like he may be. He says to the scorpion, "You were looking for the note ... I found it."
And with that, the SOB slinks out the room on his hands and knees like the beaten snake he is, seemingly oblivious to the shards of broken glass and ubiquitous wet spots on Ms. Facockta’s floor, his ragtag scorpion-shaped axe dragging behind him like the impotent phallic symbol that it has become. Our McCarty-slinging hero turns immediately to his right to high-five the first hand offered to him. Thick and dark-skinned it is, calloused and aged, yet warm and wizened it seems as well, as if representing in a microcosm an image of the whole of the massive gent now confronting him.
"Way to go, 'Bro," the owner of the hand exudes, "I couldn't have done better myself!" "Why thanks, B.B.," our multicolored poncho'ed hero replies. And with that, the hero slings his McCarty-laden gig bag back over one shoulder, kicks his Harley into gear, and twists his way back up the peak.
THE END