According to my teenage son, I ought to have already read the pages, in the parenting instruction manual that arrived, in tandem, through the birth canal with him, that basses are necessarily an octave lower than are other fretted instruments.
“It’s not an ‘electric guitar,’ Mom, it’s a ‘bass,’” my tall teen exclaimed, ever exasperated, as he shut the door to his room. I thought briefly about the time he was not taller than my knee and about how he used to clutch me, on my limb, if a stranger so much as looked at him.
These days, my teen does not need my physical protection; he’s bigger than me and literally becoming increasingly skilled in killer martial arts. He does, however, need my continued reassurance that I am attempting to understand and to appreciate him and his world. Currently, that recognition means my being informed and enthusiastic about a certain stringed instrument.
Apparently, it behooves me to realize that his instrument’s body is larger than, and that its neck is longer than, that of “a mere guitar.” I should know that basses are necessarily an octave lower than are other fretted instruments in the family of things featuring soundboards, ribs, flat backs, and curved sides. Since I am not yet quick with those juicy bits of knowledge, my teen views me as impossibly incorrigible.
At least, while “slapping” and “popping” are new to my lexicon, I grasp “picking” and “plucking.” At least, I comprehend that my left-handed son needs a left-handed guitar. At least, I remembered to insist that my fellow buy head phones (into which to plug all of his sound) alongside his purchasing of amplifiers, so that we can continue to coexist.
Admittedly, I remain baffled concerning most of the rest of the paraphernalia that “automatically” comes with my child’s chosen instrument (I was an oboe player, why couldn’t he have selected something soulful, like bassoon or French horn).
My eyes (and ears) have never beholden, upfront and personal, footswitches or effects boxes. I’ve since researched plectrums (“picks” to us folk of a certain generation), straps, metronomes, and capos (fret ties; I told the kid to save money and to construct one out of a pencil and some rubber bands. He answered me with one of his “precious” faces), but continue to be confused about vibrato arms and purfling.
For now, my offspring keeps his kit in a gig bag, i.e. in a soft guitar case, and dreams about the day when he, too, will riff and to jive. At present he’s working on rudiments like notes and chords. “Fun stuff” like “call and response” and “walking (the) bass” will have to wait until he’s a bit more proficient.
