Band of Brothers (The Lyre of David)

My name is David and if there’s one thing I’ve known since I was young it’s if you’re going to be in a band with your brother, it’s best if your name isn’t David. It’ll be the death of one of you.

I tell you, there was nothing mechanical about his guitar playing. His shaft was a weaver’s rod. He knit tones and textures from his Stratocaster that made me weep with jealousy; he warped chords with tension and then interlaced them with single-run threads of other notes, drawing through them and inserting them over and under the original warp, tight-knotted notes that then sprawled like Middle Eastern rugs. He laid these out for the rest of us to walk on or lie on and, to the audience’s delight, he would pull the rug out from under us.