Thoughtful Troubadour

One day a framed photograph of a bespectacled guy with a big goofy grin appeared in the little guitar shop where I loitered after school. The man in the photo held a guitar, recently purchased at that very shop, and the shop owner—a patient guy with floppy hair and an 1980s squirrel-tail moustache—posed beside him, beaming. I interpreted the picture, and its prominence on the front counter, as the shop owner’s evidence that music stores were sites of commerce, not just places in which to hang out and feign coolness. To personalize the matter further, I recognized the guitar in the picture as the one I had been eyeing for the better part of a year, the guitar I had been saving up to buy. A drummer friend who humoured these weekly visits to the guitar shop saw the picture too. “Who’s that?” he said. “Bruce Cockburn,” said shop owner. “Never heard of him,” said my friend. “That’s alright,” said the guitar guy, his patience wavering. “He hasn’t heard of you, either.”

I...