As I stepped out...

... this morning with my hobo pack on my back I nearly kept going. Nice idea but reality dragged me back home. I've certainly got the itch to 'throw my feet'.

Shack party

Up til the 1970s the A6 was the main north-south route on the west into Scotland. On the highest point of this road there is a tiny little brick hut that was owned by British telecom. Surplus to requirement in the modern digital world this hut was auctioned off and an acquaintance of mine bought it with the express purpose of putting gigs on every full moon. It's much bigger inside than it appears and upstairs (yes, there are 2 floors) in the music room I could just about stand my bass up but had to crouch to play it. We played an hour of the finest hobo music known to man, got drunk and had a great if very snug gig. We met David at the top after he had just celebrated his halfway point on the Lands End to John O'Groats unicycle trip. It's not every day you unicycle to the top of a mountain pass on a thousand mile trip and get invited to a party in the only building as far as the eye can see.

Part of the Process

Part of the Process by Morcheeba was playing on the radio as I got in at 1am.
I'd just returned home from a refreshingly different night playing my new cigar box guitar through my old pignose amp while drinking Old Jake alcoholic Ginger beer (nice). All I could hear surging round my head as I was playing was the rich and fat slide sound on the album Big Calm. That sound must be hard wired into me after listening to it over and over for years and now I have an instrument that makes that noise.
I'd messed around on it since Monday but wasn't really getting anywhere so I've no idea why I would take it to a jam but take it I did. Alongside the other instruments it rapidly found it's place in the mix. Sometimes right at the front, sometimes towards the back and sometimes totally out of it. It amazes me that I can't play slide guitar for shit but bolt a 3 string neck to a cigar box with a pickup on it and I get inspired to throw myself at it. The broken bottle slide was a freebie that made the purchase viable of course. Fair play to Chickenbone John for taking these lesser worthy items and transforming them into objects of fascination and value to the likes of me.
All my mates knew I'd buy one before I did. I'd even forgotten that they would be at the annual guitar show. I walked in with a stinking hangover having gone to an after-gig party with a madman. We played funk til late after a good, full-on rockin gig. I peeled myself away as he started telling me how much he loved me- however innocent it was I wasn't up for a bromance so I drank all his raki and split.
The moment I saw the cigar box guitars I knew I was off to find some scarce cash and make one mine. I left almost immediately afterwards and found myself walking home along the railway siding. I felt like a proper hobo having spent what little funds I have left on an oddball instrument. I had somehow managed to justify it to myself so I was pretty sure my girlfriend would see the sense in it. Not so... but she's coming round.