02.08.07 kulturnatib

Back to basics

Twenty years ago, I bought a classical guitar. This was not my first guitar though it could very well be my last. The first one I bought was a folk acoustic guitar in the pattern of the Martin Dreadnought, which, at that time, with folk singing enjoying the popularity that videoke does today, this guitar type was fairly common though the Dreadnought in particular was not, at least locally.

This guitar did not survive the transpacific crossing I subjected it to not long after I bought it. But, it was not because of weather difference, though the maker was quiet interested to find out as this was his first guitar to be subjected to such a test.

It was, unexpectedly, a more pedestrian force; human frailty. Somebody tried to steal it. Forcible entry was written all over the locks and the stays of its hard case. Finding that it was stringless – I was advised to remove the strings to increase its chances in the airplane's unpressurized cargo hatch – the theft wasn't consummated, though, I guess, in the hurry to return it in the case the rib or side got damaged.

The airline paid up for the damage without fuss, save one requirement: That I have a guitar maker or a luthier certify my claim. I found one who, in the course of making the certification, said the guitar was very well made and would have very possibly done well even in winter. Music, surely, to the original maker's ear, though I'm not sure I told him.

As subsequent circumstances turned out to be less than what I expected or was led to believe, the money claim came in handy. I even had enough left over to buy guitar number two. It was another folk acoustic though a bit smaller and far cheaper by the standards of the original Dreadnought.

When it was time for me to return, I sold that guitar knowing that with the money I could buy another and better hand-crafted guitar locally.

I did. But, not right away. In the meantime, my interest had veered from folk to the classical guitar, a more mature instrument, I thought and, eventually, to this guitar that is still with me twenty years later and showing its age. Not just in the darkening of the varnish, the scratches in the table or face and back, but in its fuller, more nuanced and mature tone, which is the hallmark of all good wooden instruments.

So, with instrument in hand, some lessons in tow, I got married. It did not last. I lost the marriage, but kept the guitar.

Twenty years later, I have remarried.

At the wedding reception we had a duet play. Martin on the flute and William on the guitar. Both are my friends, though I've known Martin longer. They were the perfect combination for an intimate gathering of close friends.

A week later, I saw William. Without hesitation and with a decisiveness that surprised me, I approached him and said, – blurted out really because at that time it seemed like a spur of the moment kind of thing though, looking back, I realize that I had been thinking about this – “I want you to teach me classical guitar.”

“What do you want to learn?”

“Tarrega's Recuerdos del Alhambra.”

“Ah, that's rather challenging, I don't think I have played that piece in its entirety, besides I have now taken up jazz guitar, but, if you're really determined and can set aside time to practice daily, I can help you.”

I was late for the first class. Some hangover Sinulog street dancing blocked traffic near Babag, Lapu-lapu City where William lives. He led me to their house. The living room was strewn with musical instruments. I felt at home already.

During a break, William takes out a music sheet and starts playing. It was the Recuerdos del Alhambra. He doesn't finish. Sorry, he apologizes, no practice. No, I thought, don't be. I will finish it for you. I will finish it, but it will not end.

Not this time around.