A Boy And His Bass

A MENAGERIE OF INSTRUMENTS

For the past couple years, I've had a not-so-secret longing. Like a guilty porn addict, I've been stealing glances at websites, lingering around the edges of eBay auctions, all the while knowing that I shouldn't.

I wanted a bass guitar.

In high school I was in a rock band (for more on that take a look at my last post), and I played bass guitar. When I went off to college, I stopped playing. For a time, I had my bass and rig in my apartment bedroom, and would occasionally plug up at low volumes and play with myself. But, as the last line implies, that wasn't enough, so I let it go.

I sold off my gear to my friend Brian (the rhythm guitarist for our band who switched to bass to play in a college punk trio), and that was the last of it.

Interestingly enough, in the intervening years (fifteen to be exact), I hadn't really longed to play again. Sure, I missed it, but I'd found lots of other things to occupy my time (mainly drinking). Then, a few years ago, I found myself on Musician's Friend dreaming about buying a really nice bass, one light-years better than my old fret-buzzing Washburn.

When I let my wife in on this re-ignited passion, I think she was at first amused. We talked about it, and out of that talk, I changed my mind. It went something like this:

Music is good.

Musical instruments are great to have.

Guitar players are sexy.

A bass guitar, while sexy when played in a band, isn't very practical.

Acoustic guitars are more practical because you don't need amps.

If I buy an acoustic guitar, I can learn to play that and be sexy.

So, my lusting after bass guitars turned to lusting after acoustic guitars. About a year and a half ago, I bought a beautiful (and beautifully priced) Takamine acoustic-electric guitar. My justification for the purchase was that it was the best of both worlds. If I got better, and needed to plug up, I could.

I went out to the Guitar Center in Greensboro and played a bunch of instruments—some clearly out of my price range, some clearly junk. I settled on the Takamine because it seduced me with its looks and electronics. It has a built-in tuner, which is nice since my ear is not perfect. It's good, mind you, but not perfect. (I can tell, "Hey, you're not in tune." But I have trouble dialing it in to perfection.)

And for about a week, I was sexy.

What I neglected to account for, though, that I couldn't really play. I knew three chords (G, C, E) and that was it. What I don't think I understood at the time was that learning to play (beyond Ramones songs), and learning to play complete songs, is hard and takes lots of practice.

See, I knew that. But I didn't let myself believe it because I wanted my toy. And, in my defense, I was a bass player. I certainly wasn't the best, but I wasn't bad. After playing in a band for several years, I'd acquired a knack for picking up songs and playing along with relative ease.

This is not the case with my acoustic. I'll say again, I've learned quite a bit in a year, but I'm still not above amateur farting around.

And amateur farting around is not that sexy.

Interestingly enough, the guitar didn't satisfy all that longing. I chalk that up to the fact that it takes real work and isn't just an easy toy. Cooking is good stress relief for me because I'm good at it, and it comes naturally. Music does not come as naturally...

It wasn't long before I was looking again.

This time?

Wait for it.

A Ukulele.

Yes, I started cruising eBay for ukuleles. I don't know why, but something about the instrument appealed to me. Maybe it was the ease it represented (only four strings!), or maybe it was the sound. Again, in my defense, it was mostly the sound. There's something very soothing about the tinkling, nylon-string sound of a ukulele.

So, for my birthday last year, I became convinced that I needed a ukulele. I bought one off of eBay. It was new and came with a little gig bag. I loved it immensely for many months. My wife even bought me a tuner for Christmas. I imagined myself sitting in my office at work, feet propped up on the desk, ukulele in hand, playing "Somewhere (Over The Rainbow)."

I still play it—and I was right, it is a bit easier to play—but like the guitar, mastering full length songs takes time and effort that I haven't invested.

And so…

I started looking at bass guitars again.

Then the wife and I went to Finland. My good friend Michael put me to work setting up band equipment for the reception. We did sound checks—wherein I got behind the drum kit and we played a few tunes. Then, at the reception proper, I "stole" the bride and ransomed her off for a performance of "Sweet Child O Mine." I jumped over on bass and Michael and I, several sheets to the wind, played what was the humorous highlight of the evening. I was congratulated by many a Fin that evening… and of course the wife saw me with bass in hand—and playing like I knew how—and I knew that a bass guitar would be in my not-too-distant-future.

But I'm a bad boy. Something else caught my eye in Finland. One of Michael's friends had a cajon—a plywood box with strings that sounds like a drum kit—and I became enamored of it.

See, I haven't mentioned the fact that I also have a drum set. Back in 1987, my parents—against their better judgment—bought me a drum set for my birthday (Ludwig Rockers that still sound good when dialed in). I've always loved playing drums—and like all musicians, fancy myself awesome on the skins. (Playing drums is the musical equivalent of kicking someone's ass. All men are quite convinced that they can kick everyone's ass, no matter size or agility. This is part of the guy code. Playing drums is the same. Every musician and/or wanna-be musician thinks he's John Bonham.)

But there's an impracticality to drumming that can't be avoided. They're too damn loud. So unless you've got a dedicated practice space where your neighbors won't call the cops, they are useless. My wife and I live in a townhouse. At one point, I had my kit set up in the garage, but since it's attached to my neighbor's garage, I never felt comfortable rocking out.

But a cajon… A cajon can be played inside the house with little fear of waking the neighbors.

So a couple months ago, I put my bass desires on hold yet again, and bought a cajon.

My wife was not happy. (Actually, she was okay with the cajon itself. It was the expensive case that pushed her over the edge!)

This lovely little toy came in handy when my friend Clark came over to jam. Several hours later, I felt invigorated by the joy of jamming. We banged out (the wife singing) a rockin' version of "Kokomo" and had a great time.

The next day my back was killing me. Hunched over on a wooden box for several hours is not good for a thirtysomething back. Actually, I was in pain for more than a week…

So here we are now. My birthday was little more than a week ago. And I wanted a bass guitar. Putting it off has only resulted in the acquiring of a menagerie of instruments. (In the back of my mind, I'm building a play room for our children, a place where they can explore music freely…)

For months now, I've been drooling over postings on eBay, drooling and hoping. Then it got worse: I started low-level bidding. You know that game, right? You bid and bid, driving prices up so someone else doesn't get a good deal-- all the while hoping that "oops!" you become the high bidder and accidentally win? Twice I did that-- and in the last minutes, I got out bid.

Well, the third time was the charm and I had to explain to the wife that I hadn't meant to, but...

THE DANGERS OF EBAY

On a Sunday night several weeks ago, my wife went to bed without me. She was too tired to stay up, and I had a loaf of bread baking in the oven. I tucked her in, kissed her forehead, and went back down stairs to wait for the bread.

Waiting for the bread just so happened to coincide with the end of an auction on a bass guitar.

Now, as I mentioned above, I'd been outbid before. And this time, as much as I wanted this particular bass, I was really hoping to be outbid again. It just wasn't the right time.

The bread finished baking, and I had about fifteen minutes to go on the auction.

Then it happened. I won.

The mixture of fear and excitement was enough to cause a spiral of events:

1. I couldn't sleep—and when I did finally fall asleep, I dreamed about bass guitars.

2. My anxiety at breaking the news to my wife spilled over into my day, and I was a nervous wreck all day.

3. Actually, that anxiety and guilt bubbled for an entire week—all heightened by the fact that my PayPal account was giving me a hard time.

4. By the time all was settled, my week was pretty much shot.

5. It just so happened that my birthday was at the end of that week.

Happy Birthday to me.

I'd gotten word on Wednesday that the bass had shipped. I didn't expect it to get here until Saturday or Monday. No big deal. The wife and I went over to my mom's Friday night for dinner and cake, and while we were there, my wife whispered to me that the bass had arrived (anything big and expensive gets shipped to her dad's shop so that the package doesn't disappear off our front stoop). I was all set to bolt ass out of my mom's to go get it.

I decided to be patient.

My wife made me blueberry pancakes for my birthday breakfast (hands down, the best part of the day!). We went out and did some shopping. All the while I was trying to be patient. I couldn't stop thinking about the bass. Oh, the bass. The bass that I'd never actually seen in person. I had no way of knowing yet if I'd gotten my money's worth. Finally, we went out to her dad's around 6:00 pm. At this point, I was freakin' bustin' at my seams.

We got over to her dad's and chatted for a bit. Then her dad went and got the package.

Now, at this point I wasn't planning on opening the package there. Because I wasn't sure if I'd gotten a lemon, I didn't want to have to smile pretty and look happy if it wasn't what I'd hoped for. But we talked a bit more. Remarked on the hack-job of packaging. I was getting impatient. Someone-- don't know who-- suggested opening it. So I thought, "All right."

My wife's father gets a knife and I start trying to open it. I didn't want to just jab into it-- didn't want to scratch anything. Anyway, I finally get the tape off and open up the bottom flaps (the guy I bought it from had "built" a box out of two separate boxes; I opened the body end first).

The first thing I see is a two-by-four.

A freakin' two-by-four with an orange spray-painted end. Then I see a little plastic guitar.

A couple boards and a plastic guitar.

I almost shat myself. As soon as I saw that two-by-four, I thought-- and said out loud-- "I've been had." I thought back to the last message the seller sent me. In it, he gave me a link to his MySpace page. I'd been there and saw an announcement that said something like "I'm off to Vegas!" I'd also checked on Friday to see if he had any other auctions going-- and he didn't. Nothing.

So there I was, on my birthday, staring at an eBay scam.

I didn't begin to suspect the truth until I looked up and saw that my wife's dad wasn't in the room.

He came back in carrying my bubble-wrapped bass with a sign hanging on it (which was actually the cut-out front of a gift-bag that read "You're a Rock Star!").

My father-in-law had opened up the package, slid out the bass and popped in the pieces of wood and the plastic toy guitar, then taped it back up. Later, he said he never would have tried it had the package not looked so slapped together-- he never would have been able to pass it off if it hadn't been so obviously "home packaged."

So I got two guitars last weekend. A bass and a little toy guitar. That puts me at four.

Man, I got punked.

An Instrumental Lesson

It was good, though. I can honestly say that I've never had that level of a prank pulled on me. The wife says this means that I am now truly part of the family. I have to admit, this is the kind of thing that my father would never have done. My father was not a gift giver or a prankster. He was the kind of guy who was funny as a result of his inherent goofiness. His laughter-- when genuine-- was amazing. I like to think I inherited that from him. Rearranging the lyrics of songs to reflect a base, scatological humor? That was my father's brand of humor. Planning and executing prank that push the boundaries of what is funny? That was not my father's style.

My father was a fan of Jon Belushi, not Andy Kaufman.

It was more than that, too. I grew up in a home where I got (pretty much) everything I ever wanted. All I had to do was justify my need (want). I got really good at doing that. Even now, I find myself devising and scheming (often subconsciously) to make what I want a reality. My justifications are like political rhetoric: Need front loaded on a network of ideas and contrivances susceptible to too much scrutiny—only that scrutiny usually comes after the fact, when the war has already started.

And so I'm a bad gift receiver. I admit that now. (I am sorry, dear.) I get what I want because I usually get things for myself (or engineer schemes of acquisition). I work hard to make it happen—regardless of the consequences. With my parents it became easy. Even now, my mother has trouble giving me gifts because of the precedents we've both set.

This makes it hard to surprise me (in giving, that is).

I'm going to have to get better at this. I don't want my kids to lose the value of gifting—both giving and receiving.

And that's what ultimately made me decide that I was thankful for the trick. I am ascribing a hint of O. Henry-ness to my father-in-law's ruse. He may not have meant to teach me a lesson (those are the best kind; surprised by knowledge), but I learned one.

There was true catharsis in that two-by-four.

I actually thought about walking over and hugging the man. I didn't, but I thought about it.

And now I'm done. I'm done with buying instruments (for awhile, at least).

Now I just need to engineer a scheme to get an amp…