My aspirations for main purposes in owning a home revolve around two major themes, the limits of space and volume, both sonic and spacial interchangeably. As I watch that Vince Gill video, I have no idea what type of squalor and or grandeur his house may embody, but that guitar room is some sort of dream sequence.
As a young guitar player, if you asked me to imagine the future and where I’d be living, “Guitar Room” was always part of it. The first thing I usually reference is the montage at John Entwistle’s house where he goes down the stairs with a guitar case (with a record breaking [watch the video on Youtube to see what I mean…] Thompson submachine gun inside) and there are guitars everywhere.
As a Californian, it stirs up my fear of earthquakes. I hope my house is in tune.
I’d like a music store version of the show Survivor. Lock a few musicians in a store and see what happens. Lateness would decrease, but not as much as you’d expect…
I’d make a guitar string hammock for a bed. Nylon strings, of course.
Music stores contain a seemingly infinite amount of potential — energy, creativity, emotion, you name it. Like an art supply store, but a different flavor of pretentiousness. Instead of the snarky paintbrush aficionado, there’s the drumstick guy, brand sycophant or the amplifier guy. Same essence, different clothing.
Music stores are usually poorly organized, an interesting nuance to something so arrangement driven. Temperamental objects and people crammed into a small room.
A silent cacophony at night. Dog pound chaos by day.
I want to live in that. I imagine it in the middle of nowhere, in my head it’s usually a 5000 acre Nebraska field so I can play as loudly as I want and not worry about neighbors calling the cops.
Almost forgot about tornadoes.