The Right Hand of a Rock God

In a technologically advanced garage attached to their Newark, Delaware home, two step-brothers tuned high-speed guitars.

“So he could play the guitar behind his head, and with his teeth, but could he play with his right hand?” Haden Casser asked.

“He didn’t use his left to write, or eat, he just flipped his guitar, and used his left hand. Of course he could play with his right. He just chose not to do it predominantly,” Devin Tarver said.

“The truth is ironic.”

“I know. The rock-god could hold sway with a white Stratocaster,or Flying V in his left, and even set fire to it but he didn’t use his right,” Tarver explained.

“I’m going to use my right to play, even though I’m a southpaw, too,” Casser stated.

The cordless, Bluetooth, and WiFi guitar played the chords as it illuminated. The computers showed every note, and recorded the missed ones too. Each one vibrated like the supersonic waves of a jet. The power of the sound coming from the instrument shook the room, since sound bars and amplifiers were strung about the place. Then it stopped.

“The ambidexterity he displayed will forever go down in history; he’s legendary,” Casser continued.

“He played the guitar like he was making love to it; caressing the neck, and cradling the body like a woman.” It was majestic!”

“Some would say he was gimmicky but his skills dispelled that notion. Was he the best guitarist? That’s debatable,” Tarver pointed out.

“Is water wet? Of course he was the greatest! It’s not up for discussion,” Casser countered.

“Okay, he was a showman. His voice was not all that good though, and he predominantly used other artists’ stuff. Originality and innovation on the axe, but not much else,” Tarver said.

“You don’t hear yourself talk. He was excellence personified. He was the reason a generation of guitarists even picked up the instrument,” Casser argued.

“Yes, he was inspirational. I’ll give you that, but there were far more skilled and focused players. There were also those who didn’t die of a barbiturate overdose before they turned thirty,” Tarver observed.

“Now you blew the doors wide open. Do we have to get into a talk about the “27 Club”? Casser asked.

“No, I’m just saying he could have done much more with more time. Maybe he could have been great. Maybe.”

“He used to trip. Now I question if you have dropped acid in the last few hours,” Casser said wryly.

“I’m as sober as a surgeon, I can assure you.”

“Then I would walk back the statement. There’s no maybe in it. He is an American icon, and it’s racist to compare other artists by saying they were “the black fill-in-the-blank,” Casser replied.

“Yes, I can see where it could be insensitive and demeaning,” Tarver agreed.

The wah, wah, wah of the hi-tech guitar sent a shot of adrenaline through Casser.

“It’s possible he could have been the greatest. I know magazine polls often rank him as the best, but I just see it as a political attempt to get blacks interested in rock,” Tarver said.

“More irony. The artform blacks developed…..They need black people to set their sights on rock music? Name me ten all-black strictly rock bands, no funk infusion or rap-metal or ska or reggae or other genres either,” Casser said.

Tarver couldn’t come up with more than three.

“I told you. Blacks let whites move in and perfect the sound, with precision to the hilt. White bands, considered by some to be classic rock, inundate the mind with the idea of rock ‘n’ roll music. There were pioneers and architects, but like these actual figures, you hardly know what they did, or who their name was. Not with him. He left an indelible mark that will never be surpassed,” Casser laid claim.

“Won’t it though?” Tarver asked, strumming the guitar with efficiency.