About A Bass

After a year’s hiatus, my ugly duckling of a Fender Precision bass has finally emerged as a (only slightly flawed) swan, and like everything, there’s a story behind it, probably more than you want to know.
I was putting a lot of wear and tear on my beloved Rickenbacker, and with The Kowalskis’ impending European (and hell, North American) tour, I needed something solid, an instrument I could bang on, but that would sound good and play well, something I could throw on a plane, toss in a van, leave onstage or even backstage after the gig and not worry, something truly road-worthy.
It was a windfall then, when my drummer Scott mentioned he had a lead on an early 80’s American-made Fender Precision bass in Boston, for $400 cash. I didn’t balk. An unbelievably good price, I paid for it immediately, sight unseen, and while I have never regretted it, I will describe my first look at it:
It was Christmas-time. Scott had left his Jersey City apartment for the holidays and I was about to drive from New York City to Indiana, but not without first picking up the bass he had recently collected on my behalf. He left his keys for me in a secret place, and after driving around Jersey City for an hour or so trying to remember where he lived, I let myself in and anxiously opened the case . . . well, it was indeed an American-made Fender Precision bass, but truly the ugliest guitar I had ever seen. Some fool had covered the entire body in sparkly black nail polish. I imagine the perpetrator in the cosmetics isle at the drug store, scooping up dozens of little glass jars of nail polish, thinking this would be brilliant. Well, it was not. It reflected like a fractured disco ball, but had a black matte pickguard. It was hideous. I finally exhaled and threw my new bass in the trunk of my rented car and thought – no, obsessed – about it the entire 700 miles.
Fortunately, a high school friend owns a very successful and well-equipped music store in my hometown. He gave up rock n roll, became “born again”, got married, had kids, but he was in biz. I had to overlook all the “inspirational” quasi-Christian “sayings”, most of which had something to do with the importance of commerce and material wealth (and thus probably not actual quotes of Jesus). I purchased a glossy black pickguard and immediately replaced the matte one: a small, yet instant, improvement! And my friend was twenty bucks richer.
The bass remained in this state for some time: Throughout the U.K., Netherlands, Belgium, Switzerland, Italy, Austria, then Germany . . . Despite my German heritage, the place creeped me out. There was nazi and anti-nazi graffiti everywhere, nothing but meat to eat (although Scott, a vegan, and myself, a mere vegetarian, did find a good Thai place in Stuttgart), nuclear towers that would suddenly appear on the rural landscape and crowds that were either rabidly aggressive or stoically silent. We quit early in one town as the audience just stood there and stared at us the entire set. After hastily retreating backstage for about 20 minutes, we emerged to pack up our gear. No one had left. They were all still standing there like the Night of the Living Dead, “demanding” more rock n roll. We shrugged, then appeased. In the end everyone went home happy, I think.
Also, in some small, forgotten German town, my bass cut out mid-set. I had no backup, so continued to “play” although remaining unheard. Apparently I sweat onstage so profusely that my pickups corroded and called it quits. We found some quaint, quiet little music store on the main street, the kind with old, carved cuckoo clocks on the walls, that probably never heard rock music before, and I frantically explained, while waving my bass in the proprietor’s face, “Das ist kaput! Ist kaput!” He graciously sold me two (of three) pickups from a Jazz bass set, EMG “Select” pickups, made in Korea. I hated ‘em, but the tour could continue in much the same way after Scott’s severely sprained ankle was reset in a German hospital.
This was actually cool – after they had x-rayed, built a high-tech removable cast/brace (with which he was able to continue drumming), pain meds, etc., we took out our American wallets (the dollar was strong then). They laughed politely and explained, half-embarrassed (probably for us), in English, “Oh no, you misunderstand. The people here have a national health care. We take care of each other.” This, among many other things in Europe, was a revelation.
We eventually returned to the states. I did the West Coast with the Precision bass. The band broke up, but continued to limp along with a revolving door of personnel, myself included from time to time.
Probably the last show the P-bass was seen onstage was in Boston, its old hometown. I forgot to mention that when Scott made the arrangement I was instructed by him, “Whatever you do, NEVER play this bass in Boston.” I didn’t ask why. I remembered that conversation halfway to Boston.
After our show, a middle-aged rocker came up to me, grabbed me by the scruff of my neck and said, “Hey, I know that bass!” I stood frozen. “Yeah . . . hahaha . . . but you play it well, my friend. It’s far better in your hands than in mine.” He patted me on the back. “Great show!” And that was that.
After Boston, I put it away, happy to be playing my Rick in New York.
The P-bass sat on a stand, collecting dust. It looked tired. Beat.
Then, I almost lost my Rick when the truss rod blew, which, warping the neck, made it unplayable. Rickenbacker, the company now run by the great-grandson, refused to sell replacement parts for their instruments predating 1980. This is probably because even they know that the company has turned out nothing but crap since that time. After much searching I found a great luthier outside of Savannah, Georgia, which miraculously custom-manufactures truss rods.
During this time I was forced to play the increasingly ugly P-bass. The nail polish was starting to chip and flake off. It looked like a cheap whore.
Finally, the Rick as good as new, I disassembled and set about refinishing the glittered mess. I did a little research, bought sandpaper in half a dozen grades, Dupont Olympic White auto paint, hand sprayers, lacquer, lacquer thinner, auto rubbing compound, polish, borrowed an electric buffer, gathered a lot of advice from friends, and went to work. Very slowly. It took a year, in fits and starts, doing the dirty work in the garage, during several visits to my parents. I stumbled on a photo of a 1966 P-bass online, which I used as my muse. I found (and my Mom bought!) the vintage faux tortoise shell pickguard, and my guitar tech, Richie (who also helped rescue the Rick), replaced the pickups with the proper Fender ones.
It wasn’t without its flaws. I had never attempted painting wood with auto paint (as Fender always has), or spraying varnish, or wet sanding . . . the buffer worked some miracles, saving the overall finish, except when the disc slipped while rounding a curve, wearing a small patch down to the wood. Back at his little East Village shop, I was nearly apologetic to Richie. “Next time will be better,” I said and asked him not to inspect my work too closely. He held it up to the light anyway and true to form said, “Eh, not so bad . . . adds character!”

© christopher peifer