beaucoup de caractere

This hazy summer, especially July, has been good to my placid motives.

In addition to a vintage Fender Strat, a set of Pearl red wine maple drums, and a pristine set of 1964 Ludwig Ringo drums, I’ve just realized that I’m sitting on an carillon-esque, turn-of-the-century A.B. Chase piano.

The perfect thing about it all? I can play them all and will not sell. I’m not going for dollars.

I’m going for talented offspring. Not Lindsey Lohans, not beauty queens or chest-caven, ear-flared swimming freaks.

I'm going for natural winners. The synergy of the swift cells concentrating upon the instantaneous consummation of absolute love.

The soundboard of this A.B. Chase piano is fucking alive. Resplendent wood that sings with the swear of a thumping heart, coursing veins and a sense of sonic surrounding. The strings, alas, are waiting for a twist.

Ever bust out When You Were Young or Mack the Knife or Won't Be Fooled Again in a hotel lobby? If a piano presented itself, could you perform in public? I fucking get off on it.

The photo is of the same year, make, model and wood. Perhaps his brother.