He isn't asking for much, really. Shit, he just wants to play the guitar. MS is robbing Dave D'Angelico - a.k.a. Texas Son - of the use of his legs, and he ambles along slowly and precariously with two canes. He plays on stage sitting down. The dexterity in his hands comes and goes. He has good days and bad. Neurological afflictions are an illusive bitch, yet D'Angelico rolls with it. And the cat can still play.

As I listened to him play Saturday night I got to thinking about the whole artistic process, and those who have it in them and need to get it out, and those who need it and devour it. Music seems to be the only art that can satisfy its fans with the process - its performance - and not just its final product. I'm in a similar situation; it's in me and it's gotta come out. The need to discover, express, exorcise, create, challenge, and entertain is terminal. And when neurological anomalies began to try and tug the guitar out of my hands, D'Angelico was the first one there for me with support and encouragement. And though I soothe the creative beast within through writing and photography, I'm not always in love with the process; I don't give a shit about my computer or my cameras unless they don't work. But I love my guitar. And I love watching those who love theirs as well.

So there I sat in a tiny joint in Charlotte on a crisp Saturday night. Billiard balls clicked and clacked, beer flowed, and a couple of ladies danced to D'Angelico's blues in front of the stage as if they were trying to unscrew the top half of their bodies from the bottom. Through his penchant for reverb and delay, the soul of the artist came on like a ghost. It gave me chills. I went home that night, picked up my guitar, and tried to play. I'll never put it down. Dave, you better not either, my brother.