"Swindle, Humbled”

c. 2019 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(3-19)

Friday.

For most people, the arrival of this day carries a mood of celebration. Cause to embrace a weekend about to bloom with liberty and possibilities. But for this writer, lost in early retirement, the effect has been muted by circumstance. Reduced to a faint echo of voices long gone silent.

I pondered this shift, yesterday. During the winter, I had rummaged through old cassette tapes in my green footlocker. Revisiting projects from days in New York State. During the late 1970’s I had been smitten with Punk Rock in general, and the Sex Pistols, specifically. Excited and anxious, I took the surname of ‘Swindle’ as a tribute to the trash-classic film that immortalized the chaos of their adventure. I wanted to kick up my own rebellion, like crude axeman Steve Jones, thrashing his Les Paul guitar. But at the time, I could only afford a $14.00, Japanese relic from our local pawn shop. My compositions were not so catchy, or timeless. Still, the ‘Swindle’ kept me eager to try.

“People said we couldn’t play

They called us foul-mouthed yobs

But the only notes that really count

Are the ones that come in wads

They all drowned when the air turned blue

‘Cause we didn’t give a toss

Filthy lucre ain’t nothing new

But we all got cash from chaos...”

Later, while pursuing career goals, I was able to afford a real Gibson guitar. A black Les Paul model, sleek and stylish. And, heavy to play. One that would fit well in any Pistols performance, Cook & Jones side project, or incarnation of their later group, called ‘The Professionals.’ But the instrument gathered dust as I worked long hours. With my time divided between professional writing and retail management, moments to pluck away were few. Finally, after being sidelined by health issues in 2016, I returned to the quest for Punk experimentation. Opening the old footlocker unlocked a wealth of memories, captured on cassette tape.

It was time to chord-slam my way to forgotten glory!

I dug out my Les Paul, with broken strings interrupting the daydream. The resulting pause matched my own awkward struggle to scatter the dust and cobwebs of 40 years gone. Eventually, I ordered a replacement set on eBay. Then, a friendly Friday arrived.

Perched on the edge of my bed, I took out the guitar and began to add new strings. Squinting for a clearer view of the tailpiece, because my eyesight had grown less sharp over time. Then, I wound the tuners backwards. It had been years since my last session. I huffed for breath like a has-been geezer about to take the stage. My fingers fell across the fretboard and… suddenly, there came a din of atonal clatter. The Les Paul was far out of tune.

“EMI said you’re out of hand

And they gave us the boot

But they couldn’t sack us just like that

Without giving us the loot

Thank you kindly, A&M

They said we were out of bounds

But that ain’t bad for two weeks work

And 75,000 pounds...”

I took out my iPhone for guidance. The Garage Band app provided a virtual guitar set to standard specs. I matched each string to its e-companion. Filled with hope, I fretted the first chord of Mr. Jones’ glorious theme, ‘The Great Rock & Roll Swindle.’

Then, I fumbled, fretted and flopped. And cursed out loud. “What???”

In 1979, I played nearly every day, despite not having a quality twanger for my teenage exhibitions. Now, the album sides had been reversed. Armed with a product of Orville Gibson’s brood, I sat in a spotlight of quiet, personal humiliation.

I could barely play. My chops were shit. Chord by chord, I struggled through the song.

“The time is right to do it now

The greatest Rock & Roll Swindle

The time is right to do it now!

The time is right to f*** it up

The greatest Rock & Roll Swindle

The time is right to do it now!

Rock & Roll Swindle

Rock & Roll Swindle

Rock & Roll Swindle

Rock & Roll!”

My Black Lab was stretched out, facing the closet. Seemingly unimpressed with my performance. I balanced the Les Paul on my leg, strumming and re-tuning for a second try at the anthem. But my hands were already cramping.

I was out of breath.

Days of anticipation had brought me to an unwelcome epiphany. I preferred the feel of a Fender guitar, like the others in my collection. A middle-aged paunch had grown in the way of my star-stance when playing. A nuisance from getting fat. And arthritis only made my lack of skill more obvious.

Still, a glow of satisfaction warmed my face. The offering had been given.

In recent posts on Instagram, I noted that Steve Jones was now playing a Fender Stratocaster. Something I never witnessed when following his career through the 70’s and 80’s. As the host of ‘Jonesy’s Jukebox’ he had become visibly weathered, wobbly and worn, just like the rest of us from that bygone era.

I reckoned he would give absolution for my sin of guitar failure. With a blessing for future noodling of a melodic nature. But before I could continue with a bit of overdue practice, one purpose took hold.

I had to write the story.

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