Discolored from rain on the tarmac near Detroit—TSA left the snaps half undone—and now it looks bruised—the old jumbo twelve string—called it “the cannon”—it’s loud and deep—feels alive in my hands—a sound I’ve developed to express the american red brick honky tonk beauty I’ve been feeling since 1970 or so—the twelve string is a spiritual  instrument—I said it for laughs but it’s got a lot of truth to it—the thinner octave strings suggest a parallel dimension—the realm that follows and corresponds to this one—the plonk and jangle–boom and chime quicksilver brightness—

The deep notes with their higher twins—cut through the air–through depression, despair and boredom—objectivity and abjectivity—the twelve string brings extra arms in the fight for light—harder to bend—but more rewarding—still pliant—people say “oh, it’s samey I wouldn’t want it on every song” and I don’t either but it helps me make the most of a simple phrase—always the ghost—the top-end reminder of the spiritual—twelve gates to the city—my protector—a wall of sound?—blues on the twelve—Hendrix—Leadbelly—Keith Richards—it’s heroic—John Hammond Jr. at McCabe’s that night on a guitar just like this one—maple—blonde—tuned way down to C—to see—needs to be treated with blessings, gratitude and respect.