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Sunday, February 17, 2013
I love old musical instruments, and have a few. Not Stradivarius old, but older than I am.
I buy them because they sound good, and in some cases they’re cheaper than new ones. But I love them because they’ve lived.
They’ve made music in orchestras and dance bands and bedrooms and basements and bars. They’ve been caressed and maybe cussed at. They have histories. They show their age.
My oldest instruments — the 1954 clarinet, the 1939 upright bass — were likely owned once by people no longer on Earth. So in playing them, I commune with the dead. We share something profound, regardless of our skills.
Someday, someone else will likely play my instruments and know something about me, though they won’t even know my name.
Because old instruments absorb their owners and move on. They outlive us.
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