What made you start playing?

[ubone]

Here's my story..



He cocked a loaded .357 magnum and then jammed the muzzle of the barrel into my right temple and snarled. 'You play that bass Bwahh! Or I'll splatter paint these walls grey and bloody red!!' With trembling hands I plucked my first three eight notes of an open e, and then fretted the a on the e string and plucked two eights again. The action on the cheap bass was at least 3/4 inch high off the fretboard, and the old rusted, dead strings sounded like a sick yak with extreme flatulence, I was nauseated, and had to fight the urge to vomit. The frenchman with bad teeth and a nose bigger than mine slapped the back of my head with his left hand as he held the pistol to my head. "Play the NEXT NOTE You stinking Yankee PIG!!!!" He screeched at me, his breath smelling of foul stinky cheese and snails..
What the hell is this idiot talking about? I thought to myself. I'm not a cop.. I'm just a stupid punk Southern California hippie kid with zits.. And why is there a sick Yak with extreme flatulence in this tiny stone walled cell? Don't they have any idea how bad this all really stinks? And how and why did I come to be imprisoned in this North Korean hellhole run by French Harmonica players with large butts and bad complexions?

"PLAY THE NEXT NOTE!!" He screamed again Slapping the back of my head. The Yak let loose another volley of bad gas as I fretted the b on the e string poorly and plucked another three eighth notes… Suddenly, the door to the cell burst open and there stood something I could never in my wildest dreams, have imagined something this hideous actually existed.. There, standing in the doorway, dressed like a cheap Viet-Namese hooker with extremely bad taste in slut wear, pancake make up applied so thick it cracked like the parched Tejas badlands in august. Blue mascara and glossy red lipstick seemingly applied by monkey's on crack! The horror of the vision made me lose control of my bowels and I soiled myself. The Yak puked in response.
"Play the Last Note and then repeat it all again till I pass out!" J. Edgar growled out to me. Then he turned to the mad Frenchman holding the pistol to my head and said. "Beat him severly about the head and shoulders if he shows any sign of quitting!"
The cheaply dressed Cambodian wanna be Transvestite mumbled, then in smooth, deliberate motion. Raised a gallon jug of an unmentionable brand of very cheap red wine that was very popular with budding wino's such as myself, in the 60's and 70's, and gulped down a quick quart. The cheap vino, dripping down his jowls from the corners of his poorly lip rouged mouth. What the hell is J. EDGAR HOOVER doing here? I asked myself, and now I'll ask you Dear readers If you could tell me why J. Edgar Hoover, dressed like an American Politician attending a Uber TOP SECRET 'Let's be what we want to really be for the evening, and oh by the way could you place this peacock feather up my ***'. lavishly expensive, tax payer funded party, with some pretense about being a private fundraiser for a medical resolution to the problem of flatulent Yaks. Because I really need to know.

Any way.. After what seemed liked ages being forced to play the same lick over and over again with pistol muzzle pressing into my temple, the now sloppy drunk J. Edgar in cheap drag passed out, and I was left alone in the smelly dark, dank rock walled cell, to gag the remains of the night away.
After a week of this daily torture, I began to become addicted to the cheap bass and my ham fisted, out of tune playing. Like a junkie in dire need of a fix, I would shake uncontrollably, sweat and grease coating my flesh until I could once again pick up the damnable instrument and attempt rather lamely to play Louie Louie for the millionth time badly… I had no concept of new strings, a decent setup and intonation was at that time. All I new was being addicted to the instrument and the ridiculously bad sounds I was able to derive from it…

Then, suddenly, and without any warning, my cell was invaded with stinky cheese Frenchmen dressed like al-Qaeda terrorists. They grabbed and bound me with rope made of goat hide, and covered my head with an old burlap bag. They beat me as they forced me out of my cell of misery and stench and put me in what I can only assume was a 1964 dodge van that hadn't been invented yet. That or a Ford Pinto, take your pick.. We drove what seemed like a lifetime, for some reason in a counter clockwise circle, until we came to a screeching halt upon which the kicked me out of the vehicle and sped away never to be seen again… As I lay on the concrete in the midmorning sun, emaciated, soiled, ADDICTED!! I suddenly realized I was near the entrance to cacophony heaven. There I was dear reader, at the entrance to Guitar Center!! (which by the way, didn't exist yet, but since we're fabricating here…)

My life has been a downwards spiral of trying to play Louie Louie correctly ever since. That's my story and I'm sticking to it..

[VitalSigns]

Originally Posted by ubone

Here's my story..

He cocked a loaded .357 magnum and then jammed the muzzle of the barrel into my right temple and snarled. 'You play that bass Bwahh! Or I'll splatter paint these walls grey and bloody red!!' With trembling hands I plucked my first three eight notes of an open e, and then fretted the a on the e string and plucked two eights again. The action on the cheap bass was at least 3/4 inch high off the fretboard, and the old rusted, dead strings sounded like a sick yak with extreme flatulence, I was nauseated, and had to fight the urge to vomit. The frenchman with bad teeth and a nose bigger than mine slapped the back of my head with his left hand as he held the pistol to my head. "Play the NEXT NOTE You stinking Yankee PIG!!!!" He screeched at me, his breath smelling of foul stinky cheese and snails..
What the hell is this idiot talking about? I thought to myself. I'm not a cop.. I'm just a stupid punk Southern California hippie kid with zits.. And why is there a sick Yak with extreme flatulence in this tiny stone walled cell? Don't they have any idea how bad this all really stinks? And how and why did I come to be imprisoned in this North Korean hellhole run by French Harmonica players with large butts and bad complexions?

"PLAY THE NEXT NOTE!!" He screamed again Slapping the back of my head. The Yak let loose another volley of bad gas as I fretted the b on the e string poorly and plucked another three eighth notes… Suddenly, the door to the cell burst open and there stood something I could never in my wildest dreams, have imagined something this hideous actually existed.. There, standing in the doorway, dressed like a cheap Viet-Namese hooker with extremely bad taste in slut wear, pancake make up applied so thick it cracked like the parched Tejas badlands in august. Blue mascara and glossy red lipstick seemingly applied by monkey's on crack! The horror of the vision made me lose control of my bowels and I soiled myself. The Yak puked in response.
"Play the Last Note and then repeat it all again till I pass out!" J. Edgar growled out to me. Then he turned to the mad Frenchman holding the pistol to my head and said. "Beat him severly about the head and shoulders if he shows any sign of quitting!"
The cheaply dressed Cambodian wanna be Transvestite mumbled, then in smooth, deliberate motion. Raised a gallon jug of an unmentionable brand of very cheap red wine that was very popular with budding wino's such as myself, in the 60's and 70's, and gulped down a quick quart. The cheap vino, dripping down his jowls from the corners of his poorly lip rouged mouth. What the hell is J. EDGAR HOOVER doing here? I asked myself, and now I'll ask you Dear readers If you could tell me why J. Edgar Hoover, dressed like an American Politician attending a Uber TOP SECRET 'Let's be what we want to really be for the evening, and oh by the way could you place this peacock feather up my ***'. lavishly expensive, tax payer funded party, with some pretense about being a private fundraiser for a medical resolution to the problem of flatulent Yaks. Because I really need to know.

Any way.. After what seemed liked ages being forced to play the same lick over and over again with pistol muzzle pressing into my temple, the now sloppy drunk J. Edgar in cheap drag passed out, and I was left alone in the smelly dark, dank rock walled cell, to gag the remains of the night away.
After a week of this daily torture, I began to become addicted to the cheap bass and my ham fisted, out of tune playing. Like a junkie in dire need of a fix, I would shake uncontrollably, sweat and grease coating my flesh until I could once again pick up the damnable instrument and attempt rather lamely to play Louie Louie for the millionth time badly… I had no concept of new strings, a decent setup and intonation was at that time. All I new was being addicted to the instrument and the ridiculously bad sounds I was able to derive from it…

Then, suddenly, and without any warning, my cell was invaded with stinky cheese Frenchmen dressed like al-Qaeda terrorists. They grabbed and bound me with rope made of goat hide, and covered my head with an old burlap bag. They beat me as they forced me out of my cell of misery and stench and put me in what I can only assume was a 1964 dodge van that hadn't been invented yet. That or a Ford Pinto, take your pick.. We drove what seemed like a lifetime, for some reason in a counter clockwise circle, until we came to a screeching halt upon which the kicked me out of the vehicle and sped away never to be seen again… As I lay on the concrete in the midmorning sun, emaciated, soiled, ADDICTED!! I suddenly realized I was near the entrance to cacophony heaven. There I was dear reader, at the entrance to Guitar Center!! (which by the way, didn't exist yet, but since we're fabricating here…)

My life has been a downwards spiral of trying to play Louie Louie correctly ever since. That's my story and I'm sticking to it..

You high, bro?

[Winemule]

Started on violin at age 8. Sucked.

Took up trumpet (because my father had one) at age 10. Sucked, but not quite as much.

Got a cheap acoustic guitar on my 12th birthday. Learned to play first position chords. Sucked.

At age 15, my friends started a band, and needed a bass player. Didn't seem to matter that I sucked.

At age 18, I saw Steve Swallow playing electric bass with Gary Burton. Realized it was time to stop dicking around and learn to play.

At age 22 I saw Mitch Ryder's "Detroit," and Ron Cooke's bass sound just blew me away.

Decades later, I'm still humping my gear and getting home at 3 am\; if I could figure out a different way to live I probably would, but there you go.

[Pacman]

Originally Posted by VitalSigns

You high, bro?

Like that's never happened to you.

[ubone]

Fffffffwwwwwwwwwwwwwwuuuuuuuuuuuueeeeeeeeeeeeeeepp !
"cough" "cough" What?? Got any bean dip for those chips??

[Timmah]

Originally Posted by ubone

Here's my story..

He cocked a loaded .357 magnum and then jammed the muzzle of the barrel into my right temple and snarled. 'You play that bass Bwahh! Or I'll splatter paint these walls grey and bloody red!!' With trembling hands I plucked my first three eight notes of an open e, and then fretted the a on the e string and plucked two eights again. The action on the cheap bass was at least 3/4 inch high off the fretboard, and the old rusted, dead strings sounded like a sick yak with extreme flatulence, I was nauseated, and had to fight the urge to vomit. The frenchman with bad teeth and a nose bigger than mine slapped the back of my head with his left hand as he held the pistol to my head. "Play the NEXT NOTE You stinking Yankee PIG!!!!" He screeched at me, his breath smelling of foul stinky cheese and snails..
What the hell is this idiot talking about? I thought to myself. I'm not a cop.. I'm just a stupid punk Southern California hippie kid with zits.. And why is there a sick Yak with extreme flatulence in this tiny stone walled cell? Don't they have any idea how bad this all really stinks? And how and why did I come to be imprisoned in this North Korean hellhole run by French Harmonica players with large butts and bad complexions?

"PLAY THE NEXT NOTE!!" He screamed again Slapping the back of my head. The Yak let loose another volley of bad gas as I fretted the b on the e string poorly and plucked another three eighth notes… Suddenly, the door to the cell burst open and there stood something I could never in my wildest dreams, have imagined something this hideous actually existed.. There, standing in the doorway, dressed like a cheap Viet-Namese hooker with extremely bad taste in slut wear, pancake make up applied so thick it cracked like the parched Tejas badlands in august. Blue mascara and glossy red lipstick seemingly applied by monkey's on crack! The horror of the vision made me lose control of my bowels and I soiled myself. The Yak puked in response.
"Play the Last Note and then repeat it all again till I pass out!" J. Edgar growled out to me. Then he turned to the mad Frenchman holding the pistol to my head and said. "Beat him severly about the head and shoulders if he shows any sign of quitting!"
The cheaply dressed Cambodian wanna be Transvestite mumbled, then in smooth, deliberate motion. Raised a gallon jug of an unmentionable brand of very cheap red wine that was very popular with budding wino's such as myself, in the 60's and 70's, and gulped down a quick quart. The cheap vino, dripping down his jowls from the corners of his poorly lip rouged mouth. What the hell is J. EDGAR HOOVER doing here? I asked myself, and now I'll ask you Dear readers If you could tell me why J. Edgar Hoover, dressed like an American Politician attending a Uber TOP SECRET 'Let's be what we want to really be for the evening, and oh by the way could you place this peacock feather up my ***'. lavishly expensive, tax payer funded party, with some pretense about being a private fundraiser for a medical resolution to the problem of flatulent Yaks. Because I really need to know.

Any way.. After what seemed liked ages being forced to play the same lick over and over again with pistol muzzle pressing into my temple, the now sloppy drunk J. Edgar in cheap drag passed out, and I was left alone in the smelly dark, dank rock walled cell, to gag the remains of the night away.
After a week of this daily torture, I began to become addicted to the cheap bass and my ham fisted, out of tune playing. Like a junkie in dire need of a fix, I would shake uncontrollably, sweat and grease coating my flesh until I could once again pick up the damnable instrument and attempt rather lamely to play Louie Louie for the millionth time badly… I had no concept of new strings, a decent setup and intonation was at that time. All I new was being addicted to the instrument and the ridiculously bad sounds I was able to derive from it…

Then, suddenly, and without any warning, my cell was invaded with stinky cheese Frenchmen dressed like al-Qaeda terrorists. They grabbed and bound me with rope made of goat hide, and covered my head with an old burlap bag. They beat me as they forced me out of my cell of misery and stench and put me in what I can only assume was a 1964 dodge van that hadn't been invented yet. That or a Ford Pinto, take your pick.. We drove what seemed like a lifetime, for some reason in a counter clockwise circle, until we came to a screeching halt upon which the kicked me out of the vehicle and sped away never to be seen again… As I lay on the concrete in the midmorning sun, emaciated, soiled, ADDICTED!! I suddenly realized I was near the entrance to cacophony heaven. There I was dear reader, at the entrance to Guitar Center!! (which by the way, didn't exist yet, but since we're fabricating here…)

My life has been a downwards spiral of trying to play Louie Louie correctly ever since. That's my story and I'm sticking to it..

No comprende. Not even a little.

[bluewine]

Originally Posted by delta7fred

Makes perfect sense to me Blue, but I am past 60!

With me it was when I saw The Beach Boys on TV. I made my first bass in woodwork class in 1967 and haven't stopped playing since.

Me either, as long as I have my health, can drive, load in and out, I have no intentions on stopping.

I'll be 60 in 2 months.

Blue

[gidbass]

Love of music and lack of bass players made me start playing bass...

[Johnny Crab]

Neighborhood band needed a bass player as they had guitars, drums, and lead singer.
I had to learn some Rolling Stones songs and R&B tunes first to "try out". This was in 1965. The following year I remember learning Gloria. My Dad was nice enough to scrape the family finances and afford me a bad Japan-made P-clone(in 1965, Japan did NOT make great basses) and a Gregory Bass 60A tube amp.

NOTE: My Mom and sister both played pipe organ at church so the bass pedals became my favorite parts.

[ubone]

When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro.

[jonnyatk]

nice nice, got some epic stories... ubone
should write a book

[Darren Low]

A friend offered to teach, so why not?

[Smit_Dogg]

Back in 2002, Bass was the only position left in a band i wanted to join that included some talented musicians. Id been been playing guitar sporadically for around 12 yrs. So i reluctantly bought a cheapo bass and amp and got cracking. I found bass to be a very natural instrument for me and within 6months , i was probably at the same standard on bass as i was on guitar in 12yrs!! I've barely touched a 6 string guitar since i started bass..

[svt1233]

Originally Posted by VitalSigns

You high, bro?

You not?

Originally Posted by ubone

Here's my story..



He cocked a loaded .357 magnum and then jammed the muzzle of the barrel into my right temple and snarled. 'You play that bass Bwahh! Or I'll splatter paint these walls grey and bloody red!!' With trembling hands I plucked my first three eight notes of an open e, and then fretted the a on the e string and plucked two eights again.

Raymond K. Hessel?


Well for me it all started when I tried teaching myself guitar because one of my buddies was self taught and amazing at it so I figured if he could do it so could I. Was never spectacular at it. My friend who I really looked up to at the time (was about 4 years older than I) invited me over to jam, he had a shecter bass. I picked it up and it was like magic, I knew immediately that I wanted to play bass and then bought my first yamaha one week later....

[Joker2807]

I saw John Entwistle play his bass solo on "live at Leeds" ... that was it

[Denny Coon]

My dad played guitar. I had two friends that played, a drummer and a guy learning guitar. He really learned fast and just blew me away. ( this was when we were all in 3rd grade). We got a bass player that got in trouble and grounded all the time so when he couldnt come to practice I would play bass. I became addicted to that rumbling house shaking frequency and have stuck with it. Now i will be 43 yrs old in FEB and I'm still playin with the same two guys.. Life is crazy, enjoy it!!!!!!

[AuntieBeeb]

Originally Posted by ubone

Here's my story..



He cocked a loaded .357 magnum..

This is truly sublime and wins the thread hands down.

[Arthur Strand]

I began on B flat Cornet when I was 9 in 1957. I lapsed because of exams but kept an interest in Music. When a band situation arose there was no bass man. I ended up somehow on bass. Many years later, I expanded my interests to anything with a fretboard that could be emulated on a guitar. I still kept the bass after a 10 year solid career in club-bands including countless one-nighters, a dozen month long residencies, several tours around U.K. & Germany, deps and sessions. I still play bass on my own recordings. Added 2 more basses to my inventory in recent years.

[Trayster2]

I grew up playing music, but I played a French Horn. I couldn't play rock & roll! Many years later, I wanted to fulfill a lifelong dream...to play bass with a group of other musicians.

No matter what your age, start a bucket list and get it done! I'm having a blast.

PS- John Entwistle & John Paul Jones are why I fell in love with the bass.

[Swipter]

Playing tuba in high school got me interested. That was a long time ago.