Once there was a man who haunted the back roads of the south seeking out the most primitive musicians he could find. He loved to record ancient toothless persons howling out the frayed memory of songs that had their origin in Scotland or Africa or both places together. Sometimes a song would raise the hairs on the back of his neck, but few others shared his enthusiasm.
People would say things like ``Wow!'' or ``Interesting,'' when he played his recordings, then they'd put on a Techno-Reggae CD and change the subject.
It was in Murfreesboro Tennessee that he first heard of Old One String. In a bar down by the rail yards a kid with white blond hair pulled back in a pony tail told him of a man who got wild music from a home made one stringed instrument.
``He'd break your heart,'' the blond kid said. But the man never never caught up with Old One String until years later.
It was raining hard in Memphis and cold into the bargain. Earlier in the evening he'd been checking out a club in an area that made even him a little uneasy.
Sensing that his credit cards and possibly his life were the objects of predatory interest to certain persons, he made a speedy exit out the back and got himself all turned around - in short he was lost.
The street was dark and appeared empty, but in a doorway two figures huddled away from the rain. One called out to him.
``How are you? Got any change?'' He seemed too drunk to be dangerous.
``No I don't. Do you?''
``Not a penny. But you look like you got change.''
``Wish I had,'' he put his hands in his pockets, ``say, here's a nickel and two pennies...''
``What are you doing in this bad area? You a white man aren't you?''
``Collecting music.''
``Collecting music?''
``Yea.''
``Want to hear good music? Me and my friend here do music good. He turned to the recumbent bundle in the doorway.
``We good, ain't we Lerace?'' No answer.
``Lerace play and I sing. We're good.''
Lerace sat up. He pulled a two by four out of his sleeping bag.
``My baby,'' he said.
The single string was wire unwound from a broom handle. The bridge was a whiskey bottle.
Lerace and his friend sat in the filthy doorway half out of the rain and they put on a concert of the darkest blues. The man opened his tape recorder and recorded until the battery died. He thought he'd found the holy grail. Then Lerace fell asleep or went into a trance.
``I could record you!'' the man said. ``I could make you famous!'' He gave the drunk the address of a studio and a twenty dollar bill.
``Meet me there tomorrow. We'll work something out. Whenever you show up is fine. I'll be there.''
He waited all day. He waited until rainy midnight. He never heard of them again.