The acoustic guitar my dad bought was for my sister, but I was the one who got the lessons. Not formal music studio lessons, but from the guy who plays in a town-based combo in my hometown in Obando, Bulacan. I never saw him play in anywhere but funerals.
It was a crappy guitar, but my dad bragged it was from Cebu. I bought it to class one day, and my religion teacher couldn’t tune the thing.
I remember running to my room, crying, when my brother twisted the knob too tight and breaking its first string. The name was Rosette, named after a girl I liked then, and upon discovering it was the proper name of the decorative strip around the soundhole.
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My system is void of any musical prowess, hence, I never really learned the guitar, which was pitiful since rock music was my thing. I know chords, and I did have a high school band. This was when Nirvana broke out, and I did know my Lithium. We played at a high school event, we were called Prophylactica (don’t ask), and we rehearsed with an old boombox with busted speakers that gave us more than gratifying distortion. By some twist of fate, I switched to bass for that school performance, and I remember not remembering the chords to that Introvoys hit, Line to Heaven.
But playing Lithium for the first time with all the crappy equipment we had, the dusty provincial road in full view, and the kabukiran environs surrounding the house, was glorious.
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My current guitar is labeled Craftsman, which my ex got for me at a mall sale. I didn’t know there was a minor problem with the bridge, but maybe I should be the sort to play the thing: so-so skills deserves so-so instrument. I do take care of it still, and replace the strings every so often.
When at night though, when I can’t sleep, with a soul to quench, I don’t reach for that big thing in a large black case at the foot of my bed: I pick up my ukulele, which is clearly not a guitar anymore, hence I stop here.