It’s a warm winter’s night in the Ozarks. It should be cold. But it isn’t. It’s right now, or in the future, or in your imagination. A relatively obscure bluegrass festival is happening. It doesn’t even have a name, really, except for one. “THE Bluegrass Festival.” This festival is by invitation only, even though there is an entrance fee. An entrance fee that will go to the locals, who were getting ready to change the name of their small town to, “Destitute.” You have to be somebody to be here at this bluegrass festival. Or you have to be nobody. It’s possible to sneak in, if you know the right people. Or if you are a local, and know the ins and outs of the hollers. But you don’t really need to sneak in, because if you show up at the gate, and have the right face, you’re in.
Yes, this is an invitational bluegrass festival, and it is well attended. Two thousand plus, not counting dogs. They come, for one big reason, because they know this is a one of a kind festival. And they know that this might be last time that they get to see and hear a special person. A special guitar player. A last performance. Possibly? Maybe? It’s midnight, and the full moon is peaking through the numerous splendid tall trees that seem to be everywhere. The last band has just ended, with its famous guitar player looking tired and warn. Tired and warn from the long set he has played with his luminary band members. Tired and warn from thousands of late nights just like this. At his age he should have been in bed and sleeping for hours. But he is not. He has not given in to time, at least not tonight, because he intermittently leads the life of a man many years younger than he is. As he slowly leaves the stage with his guitar in hand, his facial expression is puzzling. He stares fiercely at the old guitar in his aged hands, and if you could read faces, you would know that he has come to a major decision in his life.
“No, don’t sell me!” the old guitar yelled at its master. “After all, we’ve been through so much together.”
“Years and years on the road, through the good times and the bad, from the time when you were a fairly young man,” the wood and wire creature went on. “We both started out fair skinned and crack free, but look at us now. Mileage lines all over us, just count the ones on your face, and mine. Both of us sporting many scratches and dings,” the old dreadnaught, made of Brazilian rosewood and red spruce, noted. “We’ve seen and done so much together.”
For forty four years the man and the guitar traveled from small venues to larger and larger venues. From one state to many states. From one country to many countries. Countless live performances and studio recordings. Eventually catapulting the man and the guitar from obscurity to immortality.
“Think about it. You found me after many hands had embraced me, and then found new loves, and let me go. Some have loved me, and some have abused me. One guy shot me with a BB gun, but I forgave him. You can still see the scar. There have been others who have owned me before you. I can’t remember who they all were, and some I don’t want to remember. Some White guy, I mean to say a guy with the last name of White, owned me, and frankly he gave me my best reputation before you came along. That wasn’t too long before you rescued me from my last owner, just after Mr. White. This was a guy who never played me and kept me under a bed for nine years. It was dark inside that case. It was like being in prison. Solitary confinement you know. I could barely breathe. I thank my lucky stars that you have made a longer commitment to me than anybody else ever has. I don’t take that for granted.”
The guitar was born in 1935 in Pennsylvania. Some say it has a loud “voice”, others say it has a soft voice. But all agree that it has a balanced voice. The man was born in 1951 in Virginia. Not really that old by today’s standards, but his sweet bird of youth has flown away. The man and the guitar traveled many a crooked road before they met in a place distant from their birth places. California was destined to be the place for musical history to be made. The man acquired the guitar in 1975, and never let it go. Intentionally. One time the guitar faced death by drowning, when it was held under water by a flood. But it was rescued, and thanks to a guitar doctor who knew what he was doing, the old six string lives on.
And as the old man leaves the stage he is immediately surrounded by admirers. Some are old, some in between old and young, and some young. There are requests for autographs on personal guitars, autographs on photos, autographs on body parts, and many questions. The old man is obliging, and smiles the best he can. After the large crowd has dispersed, what’s left is a half dozen young folks, which the wee hours of the morning have not yet caught up with. The old man is familiar with most of them. They have followed his path to festivals, and they display the loyalty of youth who have been held in the grip of bluegrass music for some years, even at their young age. And the old man knows one of them especially well. He has known about the one who is standing here in front of him, upon whom a special gift has been bestowed. A special gift that most will never receive. Won’t even come close.
As the small group of youngsters give in to silence, they look at the old man, and the old man looks at them. He ponders the importance of the moment, the meaning of the moment, and begins talking in a soft and gravelly voice, looking directly and intently at his holy grail of guitars.
“Okay, I won’t sell you.” And then with old and gnarled hands he gives the legendary guitar to smooth and unsuspecting young hands. A fifteen year old young lady prodigy who cannot afford a decent guitar. And with a soft voice filled with resignation, the old man says, “Here. From now on this is yours.”
The overwhelmed and astonished girl then exclaims at the top of her voice, “Thank you Mr. Rice. Oh, thank you so much. I promise, I promise. I will never sell it!”
