![]() It’s gross how beautiful this guitar was. (Set gentle in that precious board were mother-of-pearl inlays milky like the creamy stuff of godly loins. (So far as words could do her justice, she had the world’s most endangered rosewood for the fretboard, stuff you had to jump into the Amazon bush for and probably come out shooting.) ![]() And it was built by none other than Pete Kisanouvich of Kisanouvich Guitars, which, if you haven't heard about, you might not know enough about guitars to appreciate this story.) (What kind of guitar was it, you say? It was custom-built for Shuck's friend Doc's newly popular bluegrass festival and donated in conjunction with Gruhn Guitars, a world-class establishment in Nashville. Don’t go on thinking you’re better than this guitar.) (And don’t get this wrong maybe the guitar wanted something. He was going to cheat the Jam the River bluegrass festival’s raffle, for a guitar. Shuck had two sacks: one filled with counterfeit ballots, and the other empty for the real ones. ![]() The picking tent cast a pleasant ring and buzz, the night’s breeze carried ripples over the river. The tent was warm and quiet, the festival stages dark. Everybody told him so, though “everyone” meant only his guilty conscience and the imaginary Jiminy Cricket voices of his semi-girlfriend Maggie and best friend Doc and his dog Biscuit, all in his head saying: “Jesus Christ, don’t do it!” The ballots felt like feathers-light, fragile, too ethereal for touching-and Shuck’s hands fumbled slick with sweat.
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