I was going to be so damn cool. I was going to be the next Sting, or Chris Squire or Geddy Lee. I was going be the next great bass player, and chicks would really, really dig me. At least that’s what I thought nearly four years ago when I went into Guitar Bar, 160 First St., Hoboken, with a pocket full of cash and pulled the ultimate impulse buy, picking up a bass guitar and amp – on my way to the heights of hip. This past weekend, I dragged my sorry ass and my sorry axe back to Guitar Bar and surrendered the dream a sad, sullen loser.
I underestimated how much it would hurt to return the bass – it felt like I was returning my dog to the pet store after realizing I didn’t have enough time to care for it. I really wanted to make this happen, but happened to be moving apartments and became conscious of the fact that this was the third time I had moved this thing and still hadn’t made an effort to play.
In my new apartment, space is at a premium, so there’s little room for a glorified hat rack with amplifier. I guess I heard somewhere that playing an instrument takes practice, and I had every intention of doing so. When I first got it home, I would just sit next to my stereo and listen to The Specials’ “Message to Rudy,” Bob Marley and the Wailers’ “Trenchtown Rock,” and Elvis Costello’s “Watching the Detectives” for hours while I tried to mimic the bass line. I assumed I’d just be a natural, and once the bass was in my hand, I’d quite simply run with it.
Once I realized I sucked and there would be a little more work involved, that’s when the dream began to fade (sorry if this starts to read like a cheesy, melodramatic VH-1, Behind the Music script). A friend went as far as to give me books and CDs on how to play bass, but I never got around to using them.
Eventually I went as far as to put the cover back on it, pretty much marking the end of my musical career. It sat in its little cocoon throughout the first move, and I thought for sure I’d break it out once I got settled in. Years later, after the second move, I still had hope. But here we were after a third move, and I simply decided it was time to take the puppy back to the pound and hope it could find a happier home.
Walking into the Guitar Bar, I worried that maybe I’d have to deal with some snickering, elitist tool that would just make me feel worse about myself for even buying the thing in the first place. However, it seemed as though they could see the remorse in my face, and they were gentle.
They told me that overall, the bass was in pretty good condition, except the neck was a little warped from sitting around – evidence of my neglect, like a fat belly on a thin dog. They were able to correct it, and as one of the clerks sat there playing, I thought, “You talented $*@%, stop showing off.” But I realized it wasn’t he who was at fault, but me for being so lazy. In the end, I got back about $100 less than I had spent originally – not bad for basically leasing a guitar for four years.
I haven’t given up on the dream of playing bass. As I’ve mention in previous columns, I play a killer “air bass” down at the bar after a few pints. Hopefully someday I will get back and learn the real thing. In the meantime, I have to concentrate on what I am good at and be proud. I can probably make a better Manhattan than Les Claypool, and I’ll bet Sir Paul McCartney sucks at lacrosse.
Christopher M. Halleron, freelance writer/bitter bartender, writes a biweekly humor column for The Hudson Current and websites in the New York Metro area. He spends a lot of his time either in front of or behind the bar in Hoboken, New Jersey where his tolerance for liquor grows stronger as his tolerance for society is eroded on a daily basis. Feel free to drop him a line at c_halleron@yahoo.com.