July 17, 2004

10:38 a.m.

Stringville

Guitar is all put back together, except I should have had him adjust the neck a little, because the action's really too low now. Couldn't raise him on the phone again.

Froc and I have a longish and strange history. He was best friends with my deceased and mentally ill ex-boyfriend who passed in 1997. When Ex and I met, he was living with Froc a couple of towns away from me. He (ex) used to be in computer programming but hated the corporate world, so after a nasty divorce he quit work to go on an extended "writing retreat." He and Froc would stand in the kitchen with endless cups of very strong coffee, rocking back and forth with one foot in front of the other, angsting over their lives. In fact, this was such a longtime habit of Froc's that we all dubbed it the "Froc Rock." He's incredibly tall, thin, and has this unbelievably Italian face, long-nosed, slightly bucktoothed, and his long, lank hair always looks like he washed it four days ago. He has no idea how to dress. It's like he just landed and stepped off the spacecraft and hasn't figured out precisely how to behave with the rest of us.

Having said all that, he's a wonderful luthier and a stunning jazz guitarist. My bandmate, Chris, plays a Froc electric guitar.

Towards the end of Ex and me, after the shit hit the fan and he'd gotten abusive and we'd broken up and he started drinking uncontrollably and getting paranoid, he became convinced that Froc and I were having an affair. It wasn't so; I hardly ever spoke with Froc. It was just one of many tragic symptoms that preceded his suicide.

That was eight years ago; I see Froc once in a blue moon now, either to have something done to a guitar, or he might show up unexpectedly at a gig. I always feel a mixture of endearment and repulsion at being in his house. His son lives with him now, the one who just recently didn't graduate from high school, and the house has that musty lived-in smell like sheets that have never been changed and space that has never been scrubbed, ever. You can't not love Froc; he's wonderfully bizarre, and will talk way over your head about something and then suddenly say something so humorous, simple and sweet, it'll bring him right back to earth. But I just want him to shampoo the rugs or something.

Anyway, it turns out that he's developed bursitis, tendonitis, and arthritis in various places down his right arm and hand, so he had to lay off playing since February. He said he went through a terrible depression -- exacerbated by his dysfunctional son who failed high school -- and drank a lot. It became a quest to find the purest tequila, the one that wouldn't induce a headache after drinking a lot of it. I asked him what he did for himself in these situations -- did he have a strategy, did he just wait it out, or simply self-medicate? He said a little of each, but that he felt he no longer had the resources to just deal with life's vagaries any more. The tequila was fun for a while, but then not playing made him realize that his passion for the guitar kept him from dealing with a lot of these other issues, so that in a way he was fortunate to have been out of commission. It made him look at things he'd buried and start working on them. Now he's playing a little, with a new posture (sitting, more like a really traditional classical position with the guitar neck almost upright so his shoulder isn't raised) and taking on his students again, a little bit at a time.

It's always an interesting conversation, and one gets used to the smell of the house after a while. And he's careful with the guitars. I can't stand a luthier who treats a fine instrument like a piece of wood.

So my bonnie babe is back in commission -- this guitar is 24 years old (I got it when it was eight), and it's the most wonderful instrument I've had the privilege to play. It's a bit beaten up now; the finish is a polyester something which sounds great and is hard as glass, but over time if it degrades (from sweat or whatever), it's impossible to repair. So cosmetically it's no longer pristine -- but for a small body, it sounds like a concert hall.

I haven't played it since last winter, because we endorse Avalons and I wanted to break in my new one (Puck). It doesn't sound as good as the Franklin, though, and I couldn't stand the thought of my best buddy sitting unused in the case. So I'll tour sparingly with it, and I'll get Froc to raise the action soon. I wanted it mainly for tomorrow. It'll be interesting to see how Puck's sound develops over the years, because they do change.