Day 19: Wednesday, October 18th 2017.

It’s one for the money, two for the show, three to get ready, now go cat go, as today we lurch from one ideology to another in double-quick time. You’d be hard pressed to find a more marked contrast between the buttoned-up, shrouded world of the Amish and the ripped jeans, in yer face world of Rock ‘n’ Roll but today we turn the volume all the way up to 11, head off on Route 77, (close), and make the pilgrimage to Cleveland and the Rock ‘n’ Roll Hall of Fame.

You have been warned…….!

Electric and guitar are two words that must, for the Amish, embody all that’s evil and corrupt in the ‘modern’ world’ (ie post 17 century) so I wonder what some of them would make of this emporium to hedonism; a 60 mile car ride away, a million metaphorical miles in a buggy. I guess we all belong to one tribe or another?

The exterior of the building is suitably ROCK! Giant, bright red letters proclaim you have arrived and scream out, LONG LIVE ROCK! It’s futile to resist the urge to have a photo taken wearing my Ray-Bans and making the obligatory peace sign. It’s just a thing.

Being someone who has music instead of blood coursing through their veins I can’t wait to get inside. I’m not a rocker by any stretch of the imagination but I’ll hoover up anything to do with music, I just hope there’s more to look at than acres of spandex and gold-studded, flying Vs (it’s getting geeky already).

There is indeed.

As you walk into the hallowed, cathedral-like entrance hall your gaze is directed upwards as if entering the sistine chapel. Modern-day relics hang from wires in the ceiling: Trabant cars used by U2 on their ‘Zoo’ tour, a giant hot dog the band Phish used to perform in whilst suspended above the stage, and a silver aeroplane (looks a bit Pink Floyd-ish?)

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The whole place had only just re-opened this year after a huge makeover so it feels incredibly shiny and new, unlike a lot of the old guitars on show, kept in glass cabinets away from sticky fingers. Looking at all the guitars: John Lennon’s Rickenbacker, Jimi Hendrix’ Duo-Sonic, Les Paul’s ‘Log’, etc etc, ad infinitum, it feels to me how I guess it must feel to a devout catholic staring at the bones of Our Lady of Somewhere or Other inside a reliquary in some ornate cathedral; a direct connection to someone or something that speaks directly to you. Someone or something that you just ‘get’ without a need for explanation. Which is probably why I’m finding it very difficult to describe this thing accurately in words. Some feelings are just too complicated.

So we wander around for three hours, drinking it all in. Looking at these instruments (mainly guitars) I feel exactly the same excitement as when I  held the first guitar I owned, an old acoustic with strings so high on the fingerboard I used to cry with frustration and pain when the strings buzzed and rattled because my fingers couldn’t hold down the chords properly. My next guitar, a cherry-red Watkins Rapier 22 (really wanted the 33 of course) was an electric, bought around 1966 on HP from Bell’s catalogue, the internet of its day.

It took FOREVER to arrive. I would hurry home from school every day and scan the house for a guitar-shaped parcel and when it did eventually arrive the smell, the feel, the weight, the colour, the just absolute aura of it was overwhelming. It was very nearly alive! (I remember my Dad had to make the last few payments to prevent it being returned).

So, you get the picture?

And for those who have an interest……..

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And the sight of Ringo’s original Ludwig drum kit, unmistakable in its bowling ball stripes, scratched and battered after years on the road, was thrilling. Ringo was often thought of as not a ‘cool’ or ‘kickass’ drummer; John Lennon was famously misquoted as saying; “Ringo isn’t the best drummer in the world. He isn’t even the best drummer in the Beatles”; a long line of jokes made at the expense of drummers. But Ringo was, as Jim Keltner, session player for most of the Beatles at one time or another, said, a ‘song’ drummer, someone who listened to the song and played to it. He was the perfect drummer. For the Beatles. And that was all that mattered.

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But apart from the hardware on show the exhibits that touched me the most, other than the battered piece of airframe that had, literally, tragically, Otis Redding’s name on, were the original, handwritten lyrics; embryonic masterpieces, pored over, crossed out, re-written. Scraps of paper, shavings of lead, smears of ink that when fused together would set fire to a million hearts all over the world, from Nowheresville, Arizona to Mablethorpe, England. From the tumbling lyrics of Subterranean Homesick Blues to the equally profound A whop bop-a-lu a whop bam boo. Noel Coward (who once apparently had a conversation with my great, great-uncle, Sibelius, thinking he was speaking to Delius) observed that it’s “strange how potent cheap music is.” Powerful alchemy indeed.

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So just a relatively flying visit this time but an unplanned one, which made it all the more special.

It feels like we’ve now turned a corner in our journey; we’ve driven south from Boston, west from Rhode Island, north from Virginia and now we’re almost in Canada and about to set off east for Vermont in the Fall; a seasonal end to our American odyssey. But not just yet, Vermont is quite a hike, so we’re going to stop off in Buffalo NY and take in Niagara Falls. Might as well eh?

The journey took longer than expected, satnav doesn’t always come up with the goods. But there’s no such thing as getting lost when you’re on a road trip, it’s just another opportunity. Unless you’re tired and hungry and just want to get there.

We eventually arrive at our Buffalo AirBnB; the description said it was a savings project for the young couple who were looking to buy their first home, so we knew it wouldn’t be grand, but it sounded cute anyway and for a good cause too. The house was on Niagara Falls Boulevard, sounded handy, but I guess there are quite a few Niagara-related locations in Buffalo? Charlene the host welcomed us in and introduced us to Marie, the cat, who didn’t need a hug from anyone in order to feel secure; that’s cats for you. Marie was obviously the boss of the house and we received strict instructions on which doors to keep closed. Marie had recently gone awol for a few days and Charlene had been in a head spin so we were paranoid about security. Marie had moved house with Charlene and was now accompanying her and her partner on the start of their adult life together: ‘re-purposing’ furniture, learning to cook, learning about each other. It reminded my of the start of our journey together 43 years ago; young, clueless hippies with tie-dyed innocence, no furniture, no fear, a copy of Food for Free and a baby. How the hell we lasted this long is anyone’s guess. Maybe, like the Beatles, it’s just a question of right place, right people, right time, practice, alchemy, more practice, luck. This home is in stark, wonderful contast to our AirBnB in Canton with it’s lifelong stories, top of the range appliances and granite work surfaces anchoring it firmly to the ground. Here there is improvisation, lots of ‘found’, and given, artifacts, the familar smell of aromatic cooking, eco-warrior books on the bookshelf, plans and hope in the air. It’s nice to take a very small bit-part in their story.

Hungry again! Charlene suggested we eat at a 1950’s vintage diner in town so we took her advice and walked up the cobbled road to main street. The Lake Effect Diner looked great; a long, shiny, chrome classic with art deco interior complete and pastel-coloured bar stools.

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Unfortunately the standard of service fell way short of shiny. Our waitress wasn’t even trying to sound interested in what we wanted to order, she barely made eye-contact and it seemed as if she couldn’t wait to finish work. Very unusual for America. Sadly, not at all unusual for England. But the food was good and the people-watching was ok for a quiet Wednesday night. A stroll back to Marie’s (making sure security is tight) and an early night.