I did something earlier this evening I haven’t done in many months: pull my faithful Fender Precision Bass, that has served me well since getting it as a high school graduation present lo those all too many years ago, out of its case. Once tuned, I began to play. Clumsily and haltingly, which given how woefully out of practice I am came as no surprise, but play nonetheless.
As the minutes wore on and the comfort level grew, I started running through assorted songs. Veil Of Ashes, a few Lost Dogs tunes. Old habits set in, fortunately good ones. The mental metronome every bass player worth their salt always keeps, since in most circumstances the bassist leads the beat while the drummer is straight on it and everyone else follows, started clicking. Leading with my middle finger on my right hand as I plucked the notes as opposed to the index finger became part of the rhythm. By the time I was finished, while I was still rustier than Fred in the movie Cars there were signs it wasn’t a lost cause. I could still play. At least a little.
I mentioned in the NASCAR blog back in January of 2006 how I was going to have surgery to alleviate ulnar nerve entrapment in my left arm and also severe carpal tunnel (the doctor who tested it, and who had decades of experience in the field, said it was one of the worst cases she’d ever seen) in my left hand. The nerve entrapment was hereditary; the carpal tunnel wasn’t. Nor was it a result of the massive amounts of typing I’ve done over the years, since at the time my right hand tested fine and being that I am right handed it would be the first one to give out. I’m pretty sure I’ve developed it in that hand since then, but that’s beside the point. It came from years and years of playing and playing, working the wrist hard to try and compensate for the lack of strength in my hand due to the nerve entrapment. Starting about seven years before the surgery I had gradually cut back on my playing, and in the two or three years before the surgery I had completely given up playing because what little strength I had in my left hand had gone away completely and I no longer had sufficient hand strength to press the strings down to the fret. Granted, by then I had shelved music as my primary form of expression in favor of writing, in part because I was finding it easier but also because I had admitted to myself I was never going to make it as a musical artist. But I still had songs in my head I wanted to play for at least myself. Being physically unable to do so was bitter reality.
Perhaps somewhat curious is how after the surgery which was successful I have seldom touched any of my guitars or my bass, the latter especially odd in that I have long been a much better bass player than guitar player (long story short: more properly schooled in the instrument). Whether it’s due to being far more into writing, not wishing to remind myself of all my youthful dreams that could never come true, or some combination of these two is a matter of debate. This I do know: this evening, my faithful companion felt very good to me. It was good to play music again. I plan to do it more. Not at the expense of writing; certainly not until the book is done. But I will play more.
