Tell me baby

It was 1996, and I was hanging out before the show with Walter Hyatt in the kitchen of the Lansdowne Folk Club. He was showing me his gig guitar — an old archtop Stella he’d bought for a few bucks and had completely rebuilt. It was a great old guitar that played like a dream and rang like a bell. And I am so completely fucked up that when he died in a plane crash a few weeks later, my first thought was of that beautiful old guitar at the bottom of the Everglades.

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