Guitar Strap
Plainview, 1970
Paul Kantner—singer, songwriter, and rhythm guitarist for Jefferson Airplane (and, later, Jefferson Starship)—died on January 28th, 2016. He was 75.
As a teenager, I listened to and sang along with their albums incessantly. After Bathing at Baxter’s and Crown of Creation were gospel to me.*
But it wasn’t really Kantner, or even the vampish Grace Slick, who fascinated me. I was captivated by Jack Casady, the bands’ bassist, who later became half of Hot Tuna. For a number of years I noodled with the bass, and was able to fake dumbed-down versions of the traditional standards at which he and guitarist Jorma Kaukonan excelled. In 1971, emboldened by youth, my friend Bob and I stared a band called Clamdaddy. We played shamelessly at tiny coffee houses as audience members poked each other and wondered, sometimes out loud, what we were doing on the stage—on any stage.
I sold my maple-necked Fender Precision bass when I moved to California in 1974, and that was that. But when Kantner died, I started listening to the Airplane again. Within days I’d bought a used bass on Craigslist and a rumble amp on Amazon. I started taking weekly lessons. This time, by God, I was actually going to learn how to play.
Two years and about 70 lessons later, I know enough to be deeply embarrassed by the musical arrogance of my teens. But I still love the bass, and I’ll stick with it—not to emulate the great Jack Casady, but because music is a language worth learning, and the bass is a relatively forgiving place to begin.
My new Squire bass is red, with a thin black leather strap. My original Fender was white, and looked good with this braided strap. Please give it a good home. You can have the name Clamdaddy as well.
* While working for the weekly Independent in Santa Cruz in 1977, I got to interview Kantner and Grace Slick (they were married at the time) at their gothic mansion on Fulton Street in San Francisco. They got me so stoned I nearly had to be carried out.