A Riff in Time

After a few years of wishing I could afford it, I finally bought it; a replica of Jimi Hendrix’s white Fender Stratocaster replete with three single-coil pick-ups, a whammy bar, and an inverted headstock. It was an 18th birthday present for myself. I scrambled to pull it out of the box once it was delivered and immediately plugged it in. I placed my dog’s headphones on over his ears, adjusted the dials on the amp, and turned it on.

The buzzing from the amp filled the room.

I pressed my fingers against the strings with my left hand. With my right hand, I gripped the pick and raised it above my head. 

I strummed.

It was the most beautiful sound I’d ever produced. Suddenly, a strange wind swirled ferociously around the room. As the distortion and reverb-filled note rang out, the swirling wind picked up speed until something strange happened.

Before my very eyes, a pulsating line appeared vertically in mid air. Bolts of electricity shot out from within it. It then formed into a rift that quickly grew into a large circle. Things that could be easily lifted, like papers and small articles of clothing, were sucked into the hole in reality. Within the rift I could see something forming. It was an image of some sort, but I could only see a blur of colors and movement. I could hear something melodic, but I couldn’t make out what it was.

I was startled by this occurrence unfolding before me. With urgency, I decided to mute the guitar. Almost as quickly as the rift appeared, it disappeared and the winds died down. I looked to my dog for any sort of explanation. Other than his tail wagging and his tongue hanging, there was nothing.

With trepidation, I pressed my fingers back into the steel strings, gripped my pick, and strummed the same note. The same occurrence took place: the wind, the rift, the bolts of electricity. This time, however, it was different.

I held the note longer. The image within became sharper, the sounds more audible. I heard music and cheers of a bygone era. As the image and the sounds grew more dull, I strummed again and maintained the note longer. The rift grew larger and the image sharpened. 

I peered inside.

The sawdust on the floor was kicked up in the dim lighting. It was hot and humid, and the club reeked of gin and sweat. The most beautiful sounds filled the room. A large upright bass belted the rhythm notes, the drums beat a steady tempo, and the guitar wailed sounds like I’d never heard.

The guitar player shredded on that guitar but there was no distortion. The sound was so crisp and clear. I stood mesmerized, watching his fingers work the fret board in such an intricate way. I’d always been more interested in Rock and Roll, but I’d never heard music like this before. I realized I must’ve opened a portal to somewhere…but where?

Just as I was getting into the music, I noticed the rift closing around me. I tried to retreat back into my room, but the cord tangled around my foot, causing me to lose my balance. I fell onto the floor of the dimly lit bar, landing on my side with a thud.

Glad I didn’t damage you, I thought as I looked down at the guitar in my hands. I quickly turned to climb back through the rift, but it had already shrunk significantly. I shoved my hands into the portal and tried to pry it back open, but the fabric of time, reality, what have you, was too strong. It had corrected itself and finally closed, cutting the cord that connected my guitar to the amp and tethered me to my reality. I strummed the same note, but the lack of an amplifier mixed with the music and ambiance of the club muted my guitar. I was trapped.

How will I get back home to my dog?! I thought to myself. I’ll be back for you, buddy. 

I scanned this strange world and saw a poster announcing that B. B. King would be playing at that bar in a few nights. While I wondered who that was, I was more taken aback by the date on the poster: September 15, 1945?! I thought to myself.

I noticed the amplifiers on the stage. I figured they could potentially give me the sound and energy needed to create another rift in the fabric of reality. I waited until the band finished their set and then apprehensively approached the guitarist.

“E-excuse me, sir,” I said timidly to the man who had immediately sat down at the table beside the stage, a glass of whiskey in one hand, a cigar in the other, following his set. His band mates and a few beautiful women surrounded him. He was a rock star.

“Nice guitar, kid,” he said in a raspy, southern voice. Clearly the years of smoking fat cigars were catching up with him.

“Thank you,” I replied shakily.

“Let me guess,” he began, “you want to play in between my sets, but you need my amp,”

“Yes, sir, but—”

“Take a seat,” he said, motioning for me to sit down across from him.

I did as he instructed. “Sir, I wouldn’t be asking if it wasn’t impor—”

“The name’s Diamondback Jack,” he introduced himself, interrupting my plea. 

“Henry,” I replied.

“Can you play the blues, Henry?” He leaned forward and in a somber tone said, “A black man can’t play no guitar on the Chitlin’ Circuit if he can’t play the blues.”

“I can’t,” I said, hanging my head in shame. “I just need to borrow your amp for a second so I can get back home.”

“What does playing the guitar have to do with you getting back home?”

“I’m from the year 2024. I strummed a note and opened a portal to this place and time,” I tried desperately to explain.

Diamondback and his entourage laughed hysterically at me. They commented that I must’ve smoked some good grass to believe I was from the year 2024.

“That’s one hell of a story, kid,” he said with a large grin on his face. 

“Please,” I begged, “I just want to get home to my dog.”

The mention of my dog sobered him up quickly. He finally let me use his amp. After I plugged my guitar in and strummed, nothing happened. I tried turning the volume on the guitar and the amp all the way up. I still couldn’t create a portal. I scanned the amp feverishly.

“What are you doing, kid?” Diamondback leaned over and asked.

“I’m looking for the distortion, reverb, and gain dials.”

“The what?”

It dawned on me: distortion, reverb, and gain weren’t in use or didn’t exist yet. Without the proper elements, I couldn’t get home.

If they don’t exist, I thought, then I’ll just have to create them myself.

***

Finally! 

After 28 years, I had everything I needed to return home.

Reverb had already been around since the ‘30s, but no one had thought to use it while recording a song. Bill Putnam received credit for using reverb on Peg o’ My Heart by the Harmonicats, but that was me. You’ll never hear my name, though. I’m black, he’s white, it was the 1940s; what do you expect? I knew, however, that reverb alone wasn’t enough.

I created distortion in 1951. People think Willie Kizart poked a hole in his amp for Jackie Brenston’s and Ike Turner’s Rocket 88; me again. I let him take credit, though. I just wanted my dog. But that plus the reverb still wasn’t enough. Gain was the key.

22 years later, I mastered gain. Yeah, Tony Iommi is hailed its innovator, but I was the one who showed him how to get that sound on the Sabbath Bloody Sabbath album. Again, credit meant nothing. Neither did fame. I’d made a ton of money and I just wanted to go home.

I plugged my guitar into the amp I’d been building for nearly 30 years. I dialed everything up to where it was on that fateful day back in 2024. Ahead in 2024? Who knows?

The buzzing from the amp filled the room.

I pressed my fingers against the strings with my left hand. With my right hand, I gripped the pick and raised it above my head. 

I strummed.

The portal opened. I could see my room. It was just as I’d left it, still a mess and filled with the buzz from the amp.

Now at this pivotal moment, I hesitated. Why? For the past 30 years I’d wanted nothing more than to go home. There was my opportunity. Why wasn’t I taking it? Well, look at my impact on music over the past 30 years. It made me wonder: how might I can impact music over the next 30 years?

But my dog!, I thought. Just then, he ran into the room and stared at me from beyond the threshold of spacetime, tail wagging and tongue hanging.

“Come here, boy,” I called out to him as I knelt down to embrace him. “I told you I’d come back for you, buddy,” I said as I knelt down to pet him. “Better late than never, right?”

Now that I had my best bud with me, I killed the power and sat my guitar down on the stand. The portal closed.

1973 doesn’t seem so bad.