E-mail: davidmsteinhart@yahoo.com
THE EINSTEIN AND ZWEISTEIN GUITAR COMPANY
ESTABLISHED
1860 GMT (7:00 P.M.)
I was buying guitar strings today and was in a bubbly mood as business was
'looking up', and chatting to the female sales attendant I asked; "do you want
to buy a guitar?", "do you already have one?", "do you have any friends with old
ones laying around that they'd like to sell?" etc. etc .
Then, later in the day when I was out for my daily nature walk, I remembered the
scene at the store, and it occurred to me that there must be 12 perfect things
to say if you're going to be the proverbial Jew who can draw blood from stone,
or if you're going to be Jesus at the Last Supper, or if you're going to be the
sun in the heavens and address all the planets at once.
So I thought - that'd be just the thing to write to you, as it's fresh and
tinkly, and I haven't figured it out yet.
Anyway - at the moment I was trying to convince the sales attendant of something
- that she should sell strings in packs instead of just individually (therefore
more expensively). This being Axarquia - the strings are sold in the sporting
goods store right next to the fishing line.
I was trying to take part in the formation of her young psyche, I was
trying to exert the mesmeric power of animal magnetism on her, I was
trying to artfully impose my will upon her or get her to exert hers, in short -
I was trying to make love with her and conceive a pack of guitar strings
as our beloved child.
And as it turned out - she was missing one string and I have to return
tomorrow to hopefully receive a full set.
Thus the need for higher powers.
And so, I've decided to figure this riddle out: 'The 12 perfect things to say if
you're in the sun's position'.
Let's take billiards for an example: Supposing that the cue ball's the sun, the
eight ball's the moon, and the rest are planets - give or take a comet,
asteroid, or satellite here or there.
OK - I'm a common billiard ball and I don't like being pushed and shoved around,
knocked this way and that, influenced first by this thing and then another.
I have higher aspirations in my life, and the driving force of my whole
existence is that I passionately want to meet the eight ball and put her in my
side pocket.
But I know very well she'll have nothing to do with me, won't even look at me,
unless I'm the cue ball, no more than the moon's gonna look at you unless you're
the sun - no hokey-pokey about it - objective science - period.
Well, now that the basics are down, I'm going to attempt to say the 12 perfect
things that - if I can say them right (cross your fingers folks) - will liberate
me from planetary influences, therefore astrology, therefore fate, therefore
leaving me with absolute free will, and with this absolute free will - I will
then decide to live happily ever after.
So here goes:
"Do you want to buy a guitar?"
"No" she says.
"Do you already have one?"
"Forget it" she snaps.
"Do you have an old one in your closet you'd like to sell?"
"None of you damn business!"
"Do you have any friends with old ones laying around that they'd like to sell
for some extra cash?"
"Up yours."
"Do you have any friends who want to buy one?"
"Get out of my life!"
"Do you know anyone who wants lessons?"
"From you? Ha-Ha!"
"Do you know anyone who wants repairs done?"
"No one but you buddy," shaking her head in disgust.
"Do you know anyone who plays guitar and wants to play with me?"
"You're no fun!" she snorts.
"Do you know a guitar teacher who can give me lessons?"
"No one can teach you – you idiot!" she spits.
I get a bit stuck here . . . and then:
"Do you normally react like this?"
(Icy silence)
"Do you believe that I know everything about guitar, therefore life, therefore
I'm Master of the Universe, and hold your fate in my hands?"
"You’re out of your f_ _king mind!"
"Well . . . then do you believe I'm a fake, a machine, and that I say this to
everybody?"
"Yes!"
Boom! And I was stopped cold standing still in the center of the world impartial
and just speaking to everyone and everything all at once individually in
complete equilibrium with myself and my surroundings a fixed point of radiance
in the heavens. . .
. . . and in this sobering state my head clears, and I see standing before me
the eight ball, who I've searched for my whole life , and realizing 'It takes
one to know one', that she's a fake too!
And what do you think I do? Rip off her thin chiffon veil and ruthlessly expose
her as a fraud?
No – I praise her to the skies – telling her how illuminating she is, and I tell
all the neighboring planets and anyone else who wants to hear – about the
wondrous light that emanates from her. And then – amidst all the hubbub and
cheer, I leave her in my place and depart.
And then I do what any intelligent man would do who didn't know what to do but
wanted to appear as if he did:
I write a smashing ending to the tale which goes like this:
To Be Continued
P.S. Do you want to buy a guitar?
TIMBER SELECTION AT EINSTEIN'S AND ZWEISTEIN'S
The first questions that people usually ask upon entering Einstein and
Zweistein's Guitar Store and seeing the beautiful guitars that we have on
display are about wood: 'What kind of wood is it?' 'Is it rare?' and: 'Where
does it come from?
The question of wood will the subject of 'Guitar Corner' tonight.
The selection of timber is the task of the Wood Nymphs, as they are the beings
that are most closely connected with trees and the wood that comes from them.
Tonight, I'll give them the chance to speak for themselves, and for the trees
that they're connected with:
We'll start with Cedar, the type of wood that the guitar necks are made of and
ask the Cedar Wood Nymph to say a few words: "I'm stern, strict, and
unforgiving, and I won't accept anything less than God, though you would never
know it by looking at me, as I appear soft and warm."
You can see why we use it exclusively at Einstein and Zweisteins', as our necks
must remain immortal and constant, and for some of out best customers - even
forever.
Cedar is also used for the tops of many of our guitars, in which case she says:
"You have to take care of me very, very, much or I'll turn into an old bag woman
sounding thing, my lower sounds are always strong, but to make me sing high you
must never damage me. If you do - you'll experience the rags to riches story in
reverse."
Sometimes the necks are made out of Mahogany, which is denser, heavier, a bit
more colorful, but not at all stronger, it's also used for some of the most
common furniture in the world, especially veneers.
The Mahogany Wood Nymph says: "You can use me for anything at all. I'm used
mostly for furniture. My most alluring quality is that people never see me for
what I really am, the word: 'Mahogany' is a magic spell, it's 'Caoba' in
Spanish, and once people hear that 'this guitar neck', or 'side table', is made
out of Mahogany, their perception stops, and they like me mostly because
somebody else at some other time and some other place liked me. Basically I'm a
wood with a past, easy to work with, and require no originality at all. My
middle name is 'Envy'."
From the neck of the guitar we'll continue to the back and sides that are
frequently constructed from Indian Rosewood.
The Rosewood Nymph says: "I'm dark and mysterious as India itself, when sound
resonates in my body I let it enter me and stay there a while before I return it
to the outside world. I make it better and this takes me a bit of time, and as
everyone in India knows: there is no rush at all."
Indian Rosewood imparts a rich and melodious sound to most of Classical Guitars
in the world today.
She has a cousin called 'Brazilian Rosewood', that is much sought after, very
expensive and hard to get, and . . . well we'll let her talk for herself: "I'm
as fascinating as the Carnival in Rio, I'm not dark and heavy like my Indian
sister, but I'm very, very hard, and I add up to exactly nothing if you don't
take the time to work me as fine as porcelain. Not many things made with me
succeed as most people are so awed by my beauty that they expect me to do all
the work for them, in which case I never resonate, and will only be regarded as
a piece of furniture or an object of art to smuggle cocaine in. I need something
very special so that one can have both beauty and good sound, and if you've ever
been to the Carnival in Rio, or seen pictures of it, then maybe you know what it
is."
It's also caught up in many disputes at the moment connected with the Brazilian
Rain Forest, and is caught up in the same trouble that ivory is.
Now Ivory is not a wood, but it is a material connected with guitar making, and
in this case it is not connected with wood nymphs, but with themes dealing with
long ancestral lines and chains, with depictions of history, and for elucidating
sagas.
Back to the guitar world and our specialty here: Flamenco Guitars that don't
have Mahogany or Rosewood backs and sides but Cypress.
Cypress is a light wood whose color is so very close to skin colored that. . . .
we'll let her speak for herself - the Cypress Wood Nymph: "My main point is that
I'm tan - perpetually tan - perpetually charged with light - I remind everybody
always to be human - which - when connected with the guitar world - normally
drives people insane."
"My best friend is the German Spruce that the soundboard is made out of
(normally called the top)."
The German Spruce Nymph: "Well. . .as you are all no doubt a bit familiar with
Marilyn Monroe, femme fatales, and the blondes that 'have more fun', I am the
essence of blonde itself! I'm the soundboard of all stringed instruments
throughout the ages, including pianos. I am more sensitive to sound vibrations
than any other nymph in the world, some of my best friends are birds, but the
thing that really gets me going is a plucked string, I shake and shimmer and
perform wave motion movements and will dance to any tune anyone plays. I'm also
a double being - that's my real secret - and when I'm not in use as a soundboard
- I'm the very muse that gets the artist going in the first place. One way or
the other - I'll get you by hook or by crook."
THERE'LL BE A 10 MINUTE
REST PAUSE HERE.
OK, back to wood and wood nymphs, our subject of discussion tonight at: 'Guitar
Corner'.
From the sunlight made blonds of Germany to the jungles of Africa we'll now
discuss Ebony.
The Ebony Wood Nymph says: "I'm the hardest wood on the guitar, black and deep
as the fathomless world of music that the guitar player has entered. The secret
of my depth is that - you can look at me forever and you'll never get to the
end."
"I make people give up their goal of getting to the end - they try and try and
one day they give up - and then they find the treasure is in the present, is the
present, and is called spontaneity."
From here we'll say a few words about the wood our tools are made of, as many of
the handles of our chisels, and many of our planes are made of this wood: Oak.
Bonnie Raitt, who is a wood nymph in close contact with Oak says: "Nothing much
to look at - just a free ramblin' man."*
*From: Angel from Montgomery
We'll next be hearing from the Maple Nymphs: Flamed Maple, Curly Maple, Bird's
Eye Maple, the Dance around the Maypole, and the real cause of Maple Syrup. . .
Till then remember Einstein and Zweistein's - for all your guitar needs.
Open since 1860 (GMT) daily.
CONIFEROUS
LONGINGS
"Women were the paint the painters squeezed out of the French cafes and onto the
canvas of the world." (Irving Stein - A Painter in Paris)
"Words were the marble that remained behind after the truth had been chiseled
from life." (Irving Stein - The Father of Michelangelo)
"The guitar was the instrument left in the shop after all the tools had been
used." (Irving Stein - Meetings with Schlomo Heifitz)
___________________________________________________________________________
They gathered together at the Ortiz Cafe, arriving between two and three in the
afternoon to order their breakfasts.
Carpenter's pants, lumberjack shirts, scraggly hair, covered up a mathematical
precision the likes the world had never seen before, bordering between
ruthlessness or impartiality, people weren't sure which.
They lived in Axarquia, a province in the south, it was always in the south that
they gathered.
Quarter sawn spruce guitar tops lay on top of the THE SUR daily newspaper placed
there to protect them from the damage that one drop of spilled olive oil could
cause.
There they debated and discussed the pros and cons of the various guitar tops,
hewn and sawn and imported from Northern Europe, Germany, and Czechoslovakia in
particular.
'The Piners' as they were called, this rough and ready group of 'the new guitar
intelligencer' absorbed endless warm drinks and croissants as they plied their
trade in the Ortiz.
The cafe was a bit somber these days, due to Letizia Ortiz's upcoming marriage
to the Prince, pretty girls always came to this cafe and disappeared just as
fast, it was a place that people, not only young girls, were blessed and
departed to the higher strata of life.
Some say that there was a charm on the Ortiz Cafe, others scientifically spoke
of energy vortexes, but it was sure that this was the center of the budding
intelligentsia of the day.
Marisol, Africa, Patri, waitresses at the cafe, would be eying the men as they
dried the cups and dishes, hemming, hawing, and clucking around the guitar
makers like fussy hens, they only rested when chief guitar maker 'Stein' came to
a final decision concerning the validity of one of the guitar tops, everyone
pined till then. . .
When he came to a final decision, more fresh cups of Colombian roast would be
ordered and fresh croissants were buttered, and the petite filles would dance
and flutter about the cafe with school books under their arms, admiring the
stalwart men.
The girl from the hardware store was there, the fresh young girl from the
sandpaper section of the store wearing farmer's blue jean overalls. When you'd
ask her for the 220 grit paper necessary to finish the guitar top, you'd feel as
if you had bruised her upon asking such an abrasive request, then you'd have to
go back to the shop quick and work on your top till it was as smooth and creamy
as she was.
A gypsy couple stood by, misplaced Mayan Indians brought over from the Yucatan
during the Conquest, vibrating in resonance with the going ons in the cafe, why
they were there was a mystery to all, but somehow a force necessary. .
The Spruce tree, an Evergreen and Conifer, was the very primo material of the
flamenco guitars they built. Tops were selected with the same precision that
Michelangelo selected his marble.
There, in the still of the morning, with the fresh light of the day revealing
the true nature of things, alone, in silence, with no one there other than God,
there and then was the time the truth was revealed.
The guitar tops lay on the table, in the morning light at the Ortiz Cafe,
newspapers strewn around, cups here and cups there, newspapers proclaiming the
news of the day: the truth about football and the conquest of Mars, issues of
the day to others that surrounded them.
Stein commented on the 'Hazel Nut' pattern revealed in one quarter sawn book
matched guitar top. The Hazel Nut pattern was like a flame in space, like
lightening in the sky, like a wave in the sea, like the wave in the sea of a
blonde girl's hair.
The hazel nut pattern in the wood showed the pattern's ability to move, direct,
and spread nutrients throughout the tree.
Stein continued to remark to his companions the lore of the hazel nut, remarking
upon it's shape, telling them exactly what the hazel nut looked like, and told
them sternly to keep their minds on the matter at hand!
They did, immediately concluding the session, and started following the petite
filles with the school books under their arms down the street, out to the
fields, wherever they would lead them.
When they would finally catch one of these nature spirits, they would get down
on their bended knees and proclaim, declare, and dedicate the guitar top's
future rosette to the girl.
If she accepted, the Piner was blessed, and immediately set off back to his work
bench to commence the intricate pattern on the guitar top which was to be his
true declaration of love.
During the process the wood nymph involved would flutter around the room and
hover above him, keeping him from going out to bars and cafes and staying there
till he finished his work.
Days and nights would follow in succession, they always did, since the beginning
of time.
They weren't Impressionalists, they weren't Dadaists, they weren't Cubists, no -
they were The Piners, a guitar maker's guild with coniferous longings.
CRITIQUE OF THE NEW E-4000 MODEL
At first
approach you are taken in by its warm radiance and rich earthly colors.
When it is plucked you are astonished by its lightening like response to your
most delicate nuances and most intimate needs.
Its robust bottom range, harmonious mid-range, and singingly lyrical treble
range, make you feel as if you're in a chorus of angels - at the edge of
eternity itself.
The comfort upon holding an E-Model in your arms is as it were made just for you
- you were made just for it - you were both made just for each other.
The price is incomparable with all others on the market. It costs you everything
you've got - down to your last dime, but then. . . once you've put everything
you have into it - there's nothing left of you but soul.
Well. . . I guess you can see now why I married her.
Be sure to join me next week when we'll be discussing guitars.
THE AMAZING MARVI'S WONDO-BRIDGE
Is built according to the same laws and principles as the Nike Air Sneaker.
Inside this ornate bridge compartment (commonly known as the 'tie block') is a
hermetically sealed air chamber - sealed and stamped personally by three hermits
high up in the Himalayas under certain climatic and astronomical conditions
during an elaborate ceremony carried out each year by the ancient sect of the
Maravillas.
And when the instrument is set in motion by the action of the guitarist the
molecules within the air chamber become very excited and form molecular bonds
and chains. They then all hold hands and little beings appear until the scene
within the air chamber is one of a rollicking frolicking dance hall - bawdy and
boisterous!
The little beings have great ears and can really carry a tune, and once they've
got a general idea of your song they get so excited that the guitar practically
plays by itself.
At which point you may take a cigarette break or grab a drink - all the while -
the audience remains enthronged, enthralled, and firmly within your clutches.
But you must remember one thing: Never, under any circumstance should you open
the chamber. No more than anyone in their right mind would ever open a sandwich
after it is made, for the forces would depart - never to return.
You think it's all in the mind? Blind faith? Just a bunch of hot air?
This is not true. Just as in the case of the Nike Air Sneaker - the difference
is that it's Nike's Air, and in the case of your hermetically sealed and
personally signed Wondo-Bridge, it's your air.
Meaningless trivialities you still say?
Then sit down and ask yourself this: When was the last time that you caught your
breath?
THE SECRET OF STRADIVARIUS'S VARNISH
The secret of Stradivarius's varnish has been sought after for centuries. Some
say that his secret was passed down within a certain sect or guild, others say
that it was passed down within his family, others - using the scientific method,
say that they now know its components, thus the formula.
As everyone knows, 'varnish' and 'finish' are practically the same word, so upon
seeking his great formula I sought 'the secret to his finish'.
Getting home late last night from work I thought about the secret of his finish,
and in my 'tired after work state' I thought: 'the secret of his formula was
that he was finished.'
That he was properly done. That Stradivarius himself was done.
Being done - he had more important things to do.
OUR GUARANTEE OF SECURITY – OUR SEAL AND OUR BOND
In case of emergency - don't ask me - I don't know - nobody knows - I never
promised you anything - what are you talking about? - You're crazy ! - I have
nothing to do with it - f_ck you - up yours - leave me alone - why's everybody
asking me? - I'm not Jesus Christ!
For Christ's sake - get off my back! - I can't help it if it broke in a week -
you expect it to last forever?
If I could make something last forever - I'd make myself last forever - then I'd
be immortal - and if I was immortal - I wouldn't be schlocking these artifacts -
no way!
I'd be making other people immortal - I'd be a Saint - I'd reproduce - I'd
repopulate the Earth - I'd have a million wives.
O.K., O.K. - I'll take care of it - just try to cool off - relax - I'm on the
case - it's going fine - trust me.
I'M AN ARTIST
Sitting. . . playing guitar on a Tuesday night. . . the window's open . . I
wonder whether the neighbors are listening? . . What do they think? . . How many
people heard me? . . How important was I? . . Do they think I'm normal? . . Am
I? . . Do they think I use drugs? . .
Then I started to think about the birds that sing on the street at dawn and
other festivals. . .
I wished to take my place amongst them . . . do away with the 'importance' of
being an artist - a creator [therefore sexual] - a musician - a guitarist -
I wished to join the birds on the wire.
What do they get for it? How much do they make?
Ah . . . . . . . . . chicken feed . . . . . . . . . peanuts . . . . . . . . .
it's a dog's life!
MUSIC SCHOOL
It was the first day of music school and we all arrived with our instrument
cases in our hands as our teacher addressed us:
"You just don't pick up your instrument and play in this school. Before you even
think of being a musician, you must write a 'homenaje', a 'tribute' to the great
masters of the past."
"Then you'll be able to tell people you've come from a long line, you have
roots, a heritage, and a firm foundation to depart from."
"The important thing about writing a homenaje is first and foremost: to pick a
dead person that you're sure nobody in the audience has ever heard of, make the
audience feel they've sinned in their ignorance of this great person, then let
on slowly that if they were a little more on their toes, things like this
unnecessary death would never of happened."
"With your glasses lowered down to the tip of your nose try to give the audience
the impression that it is not only you who is looking at them - but that your
grandfather is too."
"And then, once you've got 'em down on the floor, their tails between their
legs, just rotting away with guilt, you start to let on slowly that you're
prepared to let them off the hook under one condition. . ."
"The condition being that they acknowledge you as the true predecessor of the
master that you have chosen."
"And when, under the pressure of being blamed for their ignorance and the
unnecessary death that resulted from it, you let them escape - they will gasp
out their relief straight into your heart and declare you the one and only true
predecessor of Bach, Beethoven, Chopin, or any other master that you choose."
"Even going so far as saying that: 'you are his reincarnation' or that: 'you are
the very incarnation of Beethoven', or things like: 'Beethoven Lives! ! !'"
"The Dalai Lama himself will come personally to verify the incarnation."
"So class, after you've acquired a soul with the artful use of a homenaje you
can then open up your instrument cases and play."
"The homenaje can also be looked at as 'a spirit catcher'."
"If you write a good homenaje there's hardly any more need for musical
instruction."
"You can then leave the business of playing primitive instruments to the
audience and concern yourself with the more important things in life like: yacht
management, fine cuisine, fashion, and choice of a proper psychoanalyst."
We all lined up as our teacher handed each of us a bust of a great master as are
commonly found on top of pianos, bookshelves, and desks. We looked like
astronauts with their helmets in their hands, like explorers waiting to be
blessed by the Queen, like somber old men with top hats in their hands awaiting
the verdict of a grave court room trial.
We all filed out and walked back to our dorms, along the stone paths, and
through the colorful autumn foliage.
We hadn't even been allowed to open our cases that day.
I put my bust on my desk, and left it till later, after dinner. . .
Getting back to my room, ready for my first homework assignment, I took out my
pad and pen and set myself before the bust of my great master.
But. . . .it didn't look at all like the busts I'd seen in the past. . .it
looked a bit too pale. . .a bit too tan. . .it looked more like. . . . . .
.like. . . a store front manikin's head!
I was completely dumbfounded. . . . . . .what should I do? . .
I didn't know whether my teacher had made a mistake or what? . .
I took a walk around to the other student's rooms to sneak a peek at what they
were doing. . .but they were so absorbed in their tasks I didn't dare disturb
them.
I walked back to my room. . .scratched my head. . .paced back and forth. . .it
was the first day of school. . not a day to raise a fuss or ask stupid
questions. I returned to my room and sat down once again before my bust.
I tried looking at it from different angles, I adjusted my desk lamp this way
and that. I tried to creating shadowy depth, a deep point from where I could
grab hold of the tradition from.
I tried putting sun-glasses on the bust, hats, I penciled in a moustache, a
beard, nothing. . . nothing that would bring forth the gushing fountain of
gratitude and respect that I was supposed to feel for this great master.
I tried to empathize with him, sympathize with him, I put my arm around him like
old buddies and chuckled at the folly of mankind in the light of traditional
wisdom and the time worn lessons of the past.
I opened books of poetry, played profound music on the stereo. . .still. . . I
was getting nowhere. . .
I tried telling him that without him I was nobody, that mankind was lost without
him. . .still. . .I couldn't reach the hidden wellspring of compassion and
understanding that would make my pen take flight and write spontaneously.
By now it was almost dawn, and I can't really say to this day whether I was
awake or asleep, when HE finally condescended to speak to me, as if to show me
clearly who was in command, that I was powerless before him, and that the day
and the hour of his coming were his to decide.
I then heard the story of Schlomo Heifitz, the consummate master of Perpetual
Guitar:
"I know to most of you, that the life and times of this legendary figure are all
but unknown, and you've a good right to ask: 'If he's so great, why haven't I
ever heard of him?'"
"A fair question, that will be answered in all due honesty."
"Schlomo Heifitz didn't seek fame, nay - he never sought it."
"He was so unnoticeable that many people doubt he ever existed, and that he was
just an optical effect caused by heat waves on the horizon."
"If he stood right in front of you, you could wipe the sleep out of your eyes
and he'd be gone."
"If you put him into the melting pot of New York City and brought it to a high
boil over oak pitch logs he probably wouldn't come to the surface."
"But the point is: Schlomo Heifitz was a putz. A nerd. He died. And you didn't
know it!"
"What happened to him?"
"Oh. . .he could've slipped down a gutter drain on a rainy Thursday night in the
city."
"He could've been taken away by a big yellow taxi never to return."
"He's dust in the road now, you could sneeze, and that'd be his net worth."
"Schlomo didn't die in vain, he died in Teaneck, New Jersey."
"I'll tell you some of the reasons for his anonymity:
"As a dedicated musician he practiced five hours a day, but when he went to his
customary cafe and casually mentioned he was a guitar player people acted as if
they were deaf."
"His pride hurt by people's lack of respect, Schlomo vowed to practice one hour
more the next day. At the end of the next day when he entered the cafe and was
filing his fingernails and casually dropped that he was a flamenco guitarist,
again he was ignored and asked instead whether he'd like a pastry with his
coffee."
"Insulted by the treatment he received, Schlomo determined to practice one hour
more the next day."
"At the end of the next day when Schlomo entered the cafe this time with his
guitar case, and casually said that he was a guitar player, he was shunned
completely. But when he left a twenty-five cent tip for his coffee and roll, all
the waitresses in the cafe rose to their feet yelling: "Encore! Encore Schlomo!"
"Near tears in frustration, Schlomo left the cafe vowing to practice one hour
more the next day."
"When he returned the following day with his nail file and his case, he brought
some sheet music with him to browse through. People didn't notice, they thought
he was reading the baseball scores of the day, and one guy asked him which was
his favorite baseball team?"
"Enraged, Schlomo vowed to practice one hour more the next day."
"The next day when he arrived at the very same time as he did on all other days,
the waitresses commented on his 'marvelous sense of rhythm'."
"When he left the cafe everyone commented on his 'syncopation'."
"When he returned the next day, in better spirits, the people in the cafe said
it was a 'beautiful transition'."
"And on and on it went. He was always ignored for his guitar playing, but given
credit for every other meaningless triviality."
"And so, the day eventually arrived when Schlomo was playing guitar twenty-four
hours a day and no one could hear him anymore even if they had wanted to."
"Of course Schlomo was known amongst the initiated and ultra-hip, and the day I
heard the music stop, I rushed to his apartment. There he lay, prostrate on the
floor, with a note in his hand saying: 'Carry on for me - Don't let the music
stop - The music of joy'."
"I took the note from his hand feeling as one just knighted or touched by a
magic wand. I left his apartment and entered the very first music store I came
to."
"In this 'blessed state' I told the attendant about Schlomo, his plight and
mine, bought a guitar and returned home."
"The next day when the attendant from the music store awoke and bent down to put
on his socks, he paused a moment, a moment one second longer than usual, and in
that moment remembered the story of Schlomo: 'The guy that worked so hard he
became invisible' and burst out laughing!"
"His wife, surprised by his laughter so early in the day, demanded to know: "Are
you laughing at me or with me?""
"So he had to tell her the story of Schlomo."
"Later that day when his wife was out shopping and was in the fruit and
vegetable section, she paused a moment, a moment one second longer than usual,
and in that second she remembered the story of Schlomo: 'The schmuck, the the
putz, the nerd that worked so hard he disappeared from the face of the earth'
and started howling with laughter!"
"The man behind the deli-counter yelled at her saying: "Hey! - are you laughing
at me or with me?""
"So she had to tell him the story of Schlomo."
"When the deli-man was waiting for the bus home from work that day, his eyes got
a bit fuzzy staring out to the horizon, and he was silent, a moment longer than
usual, and in that moment remembered the story of Schlomo: 'The putz that worked
so hard that he vanished from the solar system' and doubled over with laughter!
The whole line of people waiting for the bus demanded to know: 'whether he was
laughing at them or with them?'"
"So he had to tell them."
"And so it occurred that on one Friday afternoon the entire village could be
seen in the town square howling with laughter and slapping each other on the
back jesting and buffooning at high calibre over the sad plight of Schlomo
Heifitz: 'The putz that worked so hard for respect and recognition that he
became more and more invisible until he dissolved back into the fabric of the
universe, returned to the all and everything, became part and parcel of
everything existing, his particles were everywhere, he permeated the whole
world, was everywhere at once, and was omnipresent'."
"But at the height of their laughter, they noticed a guy sitting on the town
hall's steps, chin cupped in the palm of his hand watching them intently."
"The townspeople rushed over to him demanding: "Hey! - are you not laughing at
us or are you not laughing with us?""
"At this, the man rose to his feet and said: "I am Schlomo Heifitz, and this is
the great symphony that I wrote!""
""But that's impossible - you were found dead two years ago?" The townspeople
said."
"No, that is not true. I had just finished writing a symphony and was in the
process of seeking an orchestra when I wrote a note to my predecessor and simply
lay down to rest."
"The symphony's called: The Music of Joy."
I'M COMING OUT OF THE CLOSET
It's late at night, and a wave of realization has just come over me. . . maybe I've known it for a long time and hid the truth from myself and others, or maybe I've just become one. . .
I guess I'm telling you this because I think that by telling you the truth I'll feel a whole lot better, with my inhibitions released, and my once repressed feelings radiating anew. . .
Well, the truth is, . .that I think that I'm the greatest guitarist on earth at this very moment.
There's no
use living in denial all your life, maybe it isn't something to be ashamed of
after all, maybe everybody's a little bit 'the greatest guitarist in the world'.
Schlomo Heifitz breaks his silence and speaks to the New York Times
NEW YORK
TIMES INTERVIEW WITH SCHLOMO HEIFITZ
Times: "Schlomo, may I call you Schlomo? Thank you
Schlomo. Schlomo, can you tell us a little bit
about your early influences?"
Schlomo: "Well. . .I think my mother was a big help
getting me me started, after that I used to
hang out at Pop's place and pick up licks."
Times: "He was a musician was he?"
Schlomo: "No - he had an ice-cream stand and me and
my buddies use to go out there and see him
on hot summer nights."
Times: "That must be why you're so cool."
Schlomo: "Yeah. . .I think so. . ."
Repoter: "Schlomo, they say that you rarely, if ever,
play in rhythm, can you comment on this?"
Schlomo: "Well. . . I believe it all adds up in the end, I
believe in Divine Justice."
Reporter: "Uh. . . huh?"
Schlomo: "How could mortals even try to understand this
concept? Their idea of rhythm is so limited,
their attention span so minimal. . .their idea of
rhythm is that of a fruit fly at a discotheque on
Saturday night. . ."
"Tsk tsk. . . . how can it be explained. . . If
you think my music is out of time and out of
rhythm it's your short attention span, you
expect rhythmic confirmation immediately,
when in my music sometime another rhythmic
confirmation or 'beat' occurs only once a day."
"My music is actually more planetary, a cycle
coming to conclusion in much longer periods
of time, that's why you say it's out of
rhythm. . ."
Reporter: "So what you're saying is that if we want to
dance to your music we don't get more than
one beat a day?"
Schlomo: "Why complain? That's the dance of the
immortals."
Times: "Schlomo, you're such a dreamer, such a
visionary, but could we just stick to the
present for a moment?"
Schlomo: "I'm here, Frank."
Times: "Schlomo, how does it feel to be the greatest
guitarist in the world?
Schlomo: "Well. . .it's not such a difficult
accomplishment, seeing as that I'm the only
one."
Times: "What do you mean? There's thousands - if not
millions of guitarists in this world!"
Schlomo: "Mere frauds and impostors. Take a second
look and you'll see right through them."
Times: "I don't get it Schlomo. What does one see if he
sees right through them?"
Schlomo: "Well, as anyone knows who's been to music
school - they're creative and momentum
vibrations. . .basically you'd see that they're
all drones."
Times: "How do you explain this occurrence?"
Schlomo: "Well Frank, I must say that leakage has
always been a problem for me. I've never
.been able to find a perfectly soundproofed
room."
"People have heard things outside my room,
copied them and passed them on."
"It's a very difficult problem."
Times: "Yeah. . .that must really bother you - all those
people prancing around receiving honor and
fame in your name."
"What can be done about it?"
Schlomo: "Well, I think a general armistice can be
called, and those that turn in their guitars,
nothing more need be said."
"The others should be arrested, jailed, and
fined. And once they've seen the error of their
ways, they can be set free on parole under
the condition that they limit their musical
activities to flute-a-phone and recorder."
Times: "That's lenient of you."
Schlomo: "Yeah. . .I feel I'm being quite magnanimous
about the whole situation. . ."
"Because I usually deal with the situation by
rounding up all the offenders and shrinking
them. Then I assign them jobs inside my
guitar. I've got guys on bridge duty,
guardians of the higher harmonics, tuning
inspectors, and there's actually
4000 little people I use just to decorate my
sound hole - all holding hands forming an
expressive mosaic pattern."
"There they remain - jailed forever - for daring
to play guitar on the Lord's Earth."
"Do you play guitar?"
Times: "No - no - of course not! I'm an individual with
great respect for other individuals."
Schlomo: "Good, do you want to hear me play?"
Times: "Yes Schlomo - play for us."
Schlomo: "I am - I'm always playing - I'm the greatest
guitarist in the world."
FOR ELISE
Did I tell you that I used to hang out at Beethoven's house in Bonn?
I was over his house at Christmas time, I stayed a short time and saw his piano and some other artifacts he had left behind him in his artist's quarters.
I was with Geila, the at the time mistress of the first guitarist in our band that I was there in Germany playing with (I was the second guitarist), then we went to see a Woody Allen movie called Zeelig, which was about a guy who. Every time he had an encounter with another being, be it a man, woman, even a Chinaman, would end up looking like this person in a very short period of time. It was a movie about form changing. . .
And deep in this German winter I lay in bed reading Beethoven's biography at 33 Eiffel Strasse, and reading his death scene the book said that as he lay dying he shook his fist at God as if to say: "Who are you to take this life from me!"
. . .and in the margin of the book were some student's notes (as the book had been dug up and out of a box in the basement on this cold winter's night) saying: "If only this could be verified!"
. . . later. . . about 20 years later. . . I lay in bed reading Woody Allen's book called: 'Without Feathers', and in it was a story called 'The Whore of Mensa' which was about men who payed woman for the pleasure of debating literary classics with them, like Kafka, Dostoevsky, etc. They payed by the hour and by the half hour, then they left. In short - it was a funny take off on prostitution.
Anyway, Allen stated that if he ever had one of these 'classics' in his hand, and if a student had read it before him, then invariably and without fail penciled into the margin beside the text would be the student's words exclaiming: "How true! How true!"
Epilogue: It has now been verified that in Beethoven's dying throws he shook his fist at God as if to say: "Who are you to take this life from me!" I was just playing 'For Elise' on the guitar, as it’s been taught to me this very day, so it seems - "I've taken your life - now you shall never die."
ROLLINGSTEIN MAGAZINE - ISSUE 58
PETER GREEN
OF FLEETWOOD MAC BUYS VINTAGE GUITAR
I was in a local bar today to pick up a pack of smokes where I was questioned
and propositioned as to the truth behind the story that Peter Green of Fleet
wood Mac bought a guitar from me at my guitar store a little over a week ago.
It happened like this; at 5:45 P.M. precisely on Saturday the 23rd of February a
somewhat elderly man (for a rock star) accompanied by a younger one entered
Einstein and Zweistein's Guitar Store on Calle Almirrante Carranza in Nerja
after gazing through the windows for a while.
Both of them were dressed up fine and rich, Peter was wearing a hippy-cowboy
jacket, and both men's shoes shined like new as they entered the store.
At the moment the good looking guitars in the windows were two Romantic guitars
(the Romantic guitar period being from 1820 - 1910), one dating from 1885, the
other a reproduction approximately half the other's age.
Peter's younger guitar playing companion Michael went for the guitar from 1885
and Peter picked up the reproduction, and they played them together cozily until
Michael asked me the price of the older guitar and whether I had a case to go
along with it? .
I answered that I didn't have a case for it at the moment but that they sold
them over at Monte's sporting goods store, and it being Saturday and all, I
would personally walk them over there (to make sure that they'd buy a case
meaning that they'd certainly buy the guitar).
Walking up the street filled with tons of joy and enthusiasm that a big sale
would be made and that me and my wife wouldn't have to sell our one and only
milch cow, I turned around to find that Peter was already one mile behind me
back down the street, so Michael asked me if I could I please slow down a bit?
At this point I realized that Michael was also Peter's caretaker, and that
Peter's health wasn't good enough to make it to the next Olympic games with.
One reason he said he was interested in going to the sporting goods store was
that he was also actually very fond of fishing.
Shit! . . would my Saturday walk turn out to be a disheartening one? Would he
just buy fishing tackle and bait, to bait and tackle another poor guitar maker
with, on Saturday and all, who had a wife to feed and a cow to milch? . .
So, Mr. Monte himself goes ahead and unsheathes a new black guitar case for
Peter at the store and. . . and. . . he doesn't buy it. . . he says. . . mumble
jumble. . . he says. . .he'll see me back at the shop in a half an hour. . .
I return to the shop, my joy and enthusiasm turned down to a simmer on a low
flame, I go the bathroom for a minute, and there, due to it being a center of
instinct, I'm reminded that Peter White was here last July. . .
Peter White said that he didn't want to boast about it none, and that being as
great as he was, he's also naturally a very humble man, but the fact is that
he's the guitarist and singer of the group The Temptations and presently staying
at The Riu Monica Hotel.
'That Peter' said he was interested in buying a guitar for his son (as he
personally owned several thousand, but wouldn't let his kid touch his).
Anyway, as you can imagine, I flushed the toilet and exited the bathroom and my
joy and enthusiasm. . . well. . .the flame might of gone out it was down so low,
and we could all die in our sleep from gas affixation or from an explosion any
minute.
But in a minute - just on time, a half hour later, there they were! They
returned! And as coolly and calmly as could be payed me a fair sized hunk of
cash for the Germanic Romantic guitar from the year 1885 that had been restored
by me.
It was the only guitar I'd ever seen in 27 years of lutherie experience that had
wormholes in it. . .To restore it I went down to the local hardware store to buy
some kerosene to kill the worms. . .the guy didn't have any kerosene but told me
I could nuke them just as well with gasoline.
So, I went over to the local garage and got myself a jar of gasoline and walked
home with it as one does with some type of a sample that doctors want.
I injected it in all the holes with a syringe and afterwards filled up all the
holes with glue and wood dust and that was that.
Now. . . I wasn't 100 percent sure that they were all still alive and living an
industrious life eating my money while I slept, because I hadn't actually seen
any of them, just the holes, but I filled them all up dutifully, and feeling
proud of myself (or very humble for being so great) my wife would always find a
few new ones. . .normally in the morning. . . just as soon as I forgot to be
humble for being so great. . .
And then there was that pretty hot guitarist in the shop playing it, he paused
for a minute to light up a cigarette, my wife called out anxiously: 'Careful -
the guitar could blow up!''
It actually took about a month or so for the smell of the gasoline to go away,
for a while I called it the 'Route 66 guitar', it smelt like something a gas
station attendant would play between fill-ups, or a garage mechanic would play
between lube-jobs. . .
Anyway, besides taking care of the guitar's parasite problem, parts of the sides
were replaced and cracks were fixed on the back, bridge pins were made out of
ebony and fitted, as the guitar was missing most of them upon arrival, the
intonation was corrected, and it was refinished to a certain degree.
It seems to me that Peter's aid Michael was buying the guitar on Peter's behalf
and for Peter's collection. as Peter is also a known guitar collector, his
collection numbering about 100 guitars at this moment.
So everybody's happy, the photographer comes, Jose my partner comes in, my wife
and milch cow stand by sheepishly, fans outside the store try to break through
the police barriers but are finally restrained, Jose Luis Roja hands Peter the
guitar with his left hand, they shake hands with their right, Jose asks Peter:
'What will you do with the guitar`? Play it, add it to your collection, give it
to a friend? . . '
He said: 'I like it 'cause it reminds me of a lot of history, my history, rock
and roll history, and that's just what my memory needs right now.'
'New guitars have no memory, no past, I do, but I'm sort of missing part of it.'
Epilogue: Peter Green is the author of the song Black Magic Woman that Santana
made famous, and that's a bit of his-story.
THE GRAND PIANO OF LIFE
I met
a fellow a while back who told me that he played the piano, and that he was hard
at work on the 'Bach etudes'. He further told me how very special and gifted he
was and that he was practically the only real piano player that there was alive.
Then, a couple of weeks later, I ran into another guy who told me that he was playing the 'works of Chopin' on the piano, and that he was also very special and gifted, and also the only real piano player that there was on this earth.
And then. . .it happened again a few more weeks later, that I met a fellow who was working on playing 'Beethoven's ninth symphony', and he told me exactly the same thing!
And then I began to wonder. . . did they know each other? Were they aware of each other, did they have blinders on over their eyes to avoid seeing each other, etc. etc?
And then I further realized that there was thousands and thousands of earnest pianists in this world, and either they weren't aware of each other, didn't want to be aware of each other, or had no time to be aware of each other, because they practiced and played so very long and hard. . ?
And each of them always said they were playing 'this or that' piece, this 'sonatina or this fugue', this 'opus or that symphony'. . .
Me. . . I didn't play the piano, but I became very interested in these pianists. . . .something was very strange about their behaviour. . .
Well. . .I forgot about these odd circumstances, other events in my life gained prominence, and then one day years later when I was trekking in the northern regions of Nepal on vacation from the cares of the world, I saw a sight that explained everything -
At first I couldn't make out what it was that I saw, but I had a good set of field glasses with me and after examining what I saw before me at great length, I concluded that it must be the largest piano in the world!
It stretched out for many, many, many, miles. . .It looked like a ring around the earth, just as Saturn had it's rings. . .
Black wooden rectangular box-like structures with white shiny ivory keys speckled with small black lines, then another, and another, with some kind of wall between each one. . .
And it went on and on. . . . longer than the great wall of China. . .
And there. . seated at each piano. . . was a piano player on a round stool. . .working away very hard. . . with no time to waste on anything else. . . not a minute to spare. . .not a beat to miss. . .
Each one totally absorbed in his task, his opus, his symphony. . .all looking as they were playing one certain tune. . . for one certain audience. . .
Never, never did they get up and look over the sides of their individual pianos. . .they had no time to. . . they couldn't stop. . .they were aware of nothing but themselves. . . and the individual pieces they were playing. . .
BUT! What they were playing weren't individual pieces at all!! They weren't playing individual pieces at all! They were all playing one great song!
Then revelation struck me, and I realized that 'Beethoven's ninth', and 'Chopin's sonatinas', and the 'works of Haden' didn't exist at all!!
It's a farce! A big fraud! They lied to us!
There's only one song that all the piano players in the world are playing, that's their job, to forever all-together around-the-clock non-stop night-shift to day-shift forever-and-ever play one song non-stop.
The song that I heard them playing that day, and that they always play, and have always played since the invention of the piano itself, and which they are playing right now is -
BUT!!! Exactly at the moment of which I am to write down the name of the great
song that issues forth from this piano a rumble comes from deep within the earth
and the earth starts to shake and my vision through the field glasses begins to
blur and I
fall right into the song itself and unwillingly become
another pianist on the great piano of life playing the great song of life and,
and. . .
That must be the name of the song!
(TO BE CONTINUED)