My beloved brother sent me this one. He plays the electric bass as well as this fellow plays the guitar. I… make end tables better than this guy. At least I hope I do.

I used to meet guys like this out in gin-joints every once in a while. If you were in Nashville, or Los Angeles, or New York, or Boston because Berklee College of Music is there, they’d be playing for short money in crummy nightspots. Wedding bands. Things like that. Danny Gatton in front of the dartboard reminded me of ten guys right off. Every once in a while I’d be playing in some pick-up band cobbled together at the last minute for some execrable function, and some guy would just start blazing away like that. You’d sheepishly wonder what the hell he was doing playing with you.

Then some drunk would walk up to you in the middle of whatever song you were playing, and demand that you stop, and play: “Green Grass and High Tides Forever,” or maybe “Radar Love,” because that was his wedding song, and you knew exactly what you were all doing in there: Making a living.
[Updated: Reader and commenter Bissage points out that Danny Gatton committed suicide a decade ago. A damn shame. Who knows what’s in another man’s heart?]