I’m thinking again of Gallagher’s strat. You can’t get that sweated scrubbed-out look from a custom shop, and you can’t cheat it down like some shabby-chic with a sanding-block. Just the road-house hours—in the clubs with the crowd and the guys with real chops. And drinking too much. Aye, there’s the rub: once you’ve slipped down the first the thirst never stops. Then that night in the ditch looking up at the stars when he thought it was lost: tossed out like a fly-tip of building-scrap and moonlight scaling the frets like frost.