I have a bass that I bought a few years ago straight from Harvey Brooks. Harvey played with everyone it seemed. From Buddy Miles’ band Electric Flag to Bob Dylan on his iconic “Highway 61 Revisited” album which yielded the song Like a Rolling Stone. He played on Miles Davis’ groundbreaking “Bitches Brew”. Brooks even did session work and toured with the Doors. He was an in demand player who could bridge the gap from rock to blues to jazz–fusion.

The bass itself is kind of dirty. The dirt is all Harvey‘s. I’ve never cleaned it. Never will. It also happens to have Harvey’s autograph written in huge letters on the back. The only thing I’ve done to the bass is change the strings to flat wounds. It’s much easier on the fret board. Playing this bass makes me feel a small but direct link to these artists, and acts as inspiration. It links me, in some minute but meaningful way, to an interesting time in America’s musical history.

Recently I was playing in a club. Mounted on the wall in a glass case were two guitars. One was autographed by Pink Floyd and the other signed by Led Zeppelin. The guitars were both extremely cheap. They were “budget on a budget” brands. No one has ever played a note of joy on either guitar. Neither model is remotely associated with the bands that autographed them. For all practical purposes these guitars may as well be a toaster that doesn’t work, a car without a battery or a broken crescent wrench.

My bass on the other hand is a virtual talisman, ready to be imbued with all the spirit I can muster. Those guitars on the wall are pretty much just cocktail napkins.

As I was playing in that club I was reminded of a dilemma facing me as I was standing outside the gate to Ernest Hemingway’s house in Key West, Florida a few years earlier. What would I find inside the house? Would there be spirit or just a napkin?

I pretty much think Hemingway saved the world. Prior to Hemingway, writing was dense, demonstrative, and condescending. Every emotion and action was described in excruciating detail. Novels unfolded in language that was meant to be difficult. It was as if writers were trying to show off their vocabulary. This often seemed to be more important than the story itself. Hemingway let dialog and even silence outline what was actually happening. Hemingway’s writing was a jazz combo, with the reader as an active participant, interpreting and reacting with the characters and story in a palpable way.

So there I was at the gate of the Hemingway house. I stared at the sign that read, ‘Admission $12.00’. I’d been all over the internet looking for any information as to what Hemingway had written there. When did he live in the home? What did he do while he was there? My research revealed very little solid information. It was all pretty vague. It seemed he lived there for about ten years, starting in 1931.

The web site did however contain a lot of information about the sixty or so cats that live on the grounds. There were even pictures of some of them. There was information about a special fence that kept them from straying off the property. Lots of details about the cats were readily available including the fact that many of the cats were polydactyl. These six-toed cats were considered to be good luck to seaman. In fact it was a ship’s captain who brought the first cat to the compound. I found it interesting that a lot of the cats on the grounds were probably descendants of that original cat. But here’s the catch. The cats were brought to the house after Hemingway committed suicide in 1961, a full twenty years after Hemingway moved out of the house.

So the cats are the “hook” to get people into Hemingway’s house? They represent “the cocktail napkins” of America’s greatest literary giant. The cats to me were the cheap “Starcaster” guitars hanging on a wall with Hemingway’s autograph. If Harvey Brooks’ bass had never been played but autographed it would mean as much to me as a home full of cats in Key West that Hemingway never even knew existed. 　

I know Hemingway got up every morning and wrote a thousand words; that was his discipline, his ritual, his church. To see this space, the desk he sat at, the window he looked out of, the room he sat in, would be worth the $12 admission. I don’t even know what I’d pay for even one minute sitting at the desk by myself. That would be absolutely priceless. I just wasn’t sure I could put up with the other distractions to enjoy it. I like cats. That’s not the problem. I just think this shrine should be special.

That’s why I often refer to one of my favorite passages from “The Sun Also Rises”. “It’s a simple exchange of values.” You give them money, in exchange you receive admission to a cat infested mansion. Now if they had a stuffed dog in the house that might be another story.

That experience in Key West makes me think of my bass that was a part of so many important recordings. It doesn’t need a bunch of cats to imbibe the instrument with artificial meaning. It has the dirt, the grit and the soul already in place. Now that is priceless.