Pulp Fichigan
I first met Rock Bottom at a remote camping spot along the Pine River. He was wailing on a Gibson Les Paul through a Fender Amp Can. The distortion button was pressed and ragged notes drifted in a wide arc across the delta disturbing the blackbirds and waking the owls. I was looking for fishing access to the river and pulled into his camp by chance. He didn’t look up when I pulled in. He kept sliding a chunk of carriage bolt up the neck and chording some open strings. Open D tuning if I recall. I stood next to him for a while looking over the embankment. I could see the river sparkling through the scrub trees out in the distance.
There was an extra camp chair but I didn’t sit down. No Invite. Finally, I reached into my pocket and dropped a dime bag at his feet. He hit that low D string and dragged it down from the tenth fret. “No pipe,” I said. “I do have Zig Zags.” He twisted the fingers on his chording hand to indicate start rolling. Then he scaled up to a C note and bent it up a note before dropping down to some open chord stuff.
We passed the dube back and forth a couple times, still no conversation. After a good toke he pointed at the tent. Inside there was a chipboard guitar case that was falling apart. “Top Shelf” was stenciled in white on top. Welcome stickers from cities held the case together like duct tape. The guitar had nice action and was well-worn across the fretboard. An old Epiphone. Not bad tone. I sat down in the empty chair and I knew I was up. Play something or go away.
He had some killer blues chops but that weren’t my thing. As far as songs I didn’t know crap in the key of D. I thought something dark was appropriate so I started chording Down by the River by Neil Young. He slapped on a capo and suddenly there was meaning to the song. When I belted out the chorus he played some harmony notes that could have been channeling a black woman wailing in church. Goosebumps went up my spine. If you know anything about Neil Young on electric, there are no rules. Sometimes there’s a fragment that takes you home, sometimes you scratch your head, sometimes you think he’s a genius. This wasn’t Neil Young’s rendition, this was Rock Bottom’s. He went up and down the neck like suckers in a river. Knew just where to rest.
We finished off the song and did some A-minor Bob Dylan stuff. He found the pocket right away and we ended up jamming for an hour or so. His girlfriend, Top Shelf, her stage name, showed up and I had the feeling it was time to leave. She didn’t say anything but there was something in her look. We polished off the dube, I put her guitar away, and drove off to another spot on the river. I never did fish. After that it seemed like fishing just wasn’t going to cut it.
Fichigan 