So a month or so back, stwish
(who happens to be my dad, and who also happens to be a luthier
) send me an electric guitar he made from the wood of a bradford pear that netcurmudgeon
's dad cut down due to structural unsoundness, which wood I then drove down to North Carolina in the bed of Eunice, the now-dead former little red truck that could.
I just slapped the shoulder strap that neutronjockey
made for me on it and borrowed TBRE's boyfriend's amp so I could try it out.
I am still the world's shittiest guitar player***, and my finger-picking and broken-ass Bminor don't sound any better on an electric guitar than they do on either of the acoustics, but boy did I annoy the neighbors with "Brown-eyed Girl." (I have three strum patterns*, and that is one of them. Another is straight eights. I did say I sucked! I'm here to have fun, man. Not to impress anybody.)**
As is traditional, when launching new guitars, of course the first thing I played on it was "House of the Rising Sun." (I also did "City of New Orleans." Funny thing--the guitar has a deeper sound than my steel-string acoustic, and I find myself trying to sing in my alto range, which is much more limited than my extremely limited soprano range. Hurmity.)
That was fun. And now I have to go meet TBRE, The Jeff, and others to go fall off a mountain in Plainville. With my blistered fretting fingers. Yeah, this may not have been my brightest plan.
*And two and a half finger picking patterns. *g*
**Also, hand ANYBODY an electric guitar and they feel like Keith Fucking Richards, man. You just can't help yourself. The strut is encoded in the wood of the axe.
***I am not a musician, and the fact that I now own three guitars, a musical frog, a rattle, and a criminally neglected banjo does not make me one.