Galleri Fisk

He had to take two buses to school, and to kill time during the half-hour wait for the second bus, he’d stop by an instrument store called West Music. There was a beautiful Les Paul gold-top guitar hanging on the wall and when he played it, he tried to imagine that he was shredding up the stage with the Stooges, sending squealing guitar solos spiraling to the rafters as Iggy Pop convulsed at the microphone stand.

At school, he befriended a rocker named Rick Van Sant, a longhaired stoner who had a Stratocaster guitar and a Marshall amp stack in his basement and needed a bassist for his band.

So he walked into West Music one afternoon with an empty guitar case. He asked for a work application and, when the guy turned around to find one, he stuck a guitar into the case. His heart was hammering through his shirt and he could hardly speak when the guy handed him the form.

He had his first guitar. He was ready to rock, so he headed straight for Rick’s basement. 

“You need a bassist,” he told him. “I’m your man.” 

“You need a bass guitar,” Rick sneered. 

“Beautiful,” he replied as he threw the case on a table, opened it up, and pulled out his newest possession. 

“That’s not a bass. That’s a guitar you fucking idiot.”