Remembrance of Strings Past

Who do you think is the best guitar player?  Why not meditate on how many angels can dance on the head of a pin? Which is about the room Kristin and I have some nights dancing in Fells Point.

Such a conversation got me pondering my path up and down life’s fretboard.

When I was 5 or 6, my Dad would sometimes take me on house calls. One of his patients, Mr. Ketzner, seemed to own every type of stringed instrument. That gentle man died when I was about 12 and bequeathed me a Vega “Little Dixie” tenor banjo. I still have that lovely instrument.

When I was 13, the Mahon brothers moved in down the street. Pat played rock then transitioned to jazz and eventually classical. From him, I purchased my Gibson ES-175. Joe, a folkie, taught me flat-picking standards like Wabash Cannonball and Tom Dooley. 

My college career began coherently enough, but was soon befogged in ignominy. One shining light was Charlie Brocco. Many a cold, upstate New York night he showed me not only where my fingers went, but how to make the strings sing. He also taught me not to regurgitate songs, but to make them my own. 

In the waning of my 20s, I came to the realization that the time had come to abandon my Peter Pan lifestyle. A return to college and the casino industry ensued. The guitar became a hobby, an idle way to pass the time.

Life’s river flowed, and the revolution of Fortuna’s wheel brought me to Fells Point. In the waning of my 50s, I was touched by a red-haired Aoide, the muse of song. Through her, I embraced and was embraced by a brotherhood of players.  The guitar is again a passion. Words cannot express my gratitude. As ever - BB


"There is no end. There is no beginning. There is only the passion of life." - Federico Fellini