What about the tuba? Yes, oh yes, what about the tuba? Relegated to OomPah bands, county fairs, and Swiss modern music festivals, the guffaw-producing megaphonesque, basso profundo piece of brass has got to be steamed right about now. Like Cain. Like Salieri. Like Carrot Top. A head-full of resentment, misplaced rage, and a belly full of booze might make Saturday night a little bit more manageable but it won’t earn you that which you might most seek: the love of the people.
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“And when you see me play my guitar and you see what my fingers can do, then you’ll wish you were the one, I was doing it to.” —Gene Simmons


And if you’re waiting for the tuba verse to come rolling along in Kiss’ paean to instrument lust, well you just might be waiting longer than we have time to wait for you. And so it is that our love affair with the GUITAR reveals both its naked face and our desire to drive that magic stick through the soft rushes of our collective hunger TO desire. Because if you can tell me you never wanted to be a Guitar God, because if you can tell us that the tuba is sexy without qualification, well, we just ain’t going to believe you.

And neither are they: the pantheons of those demiurges who have made the guitar make sense to the masses. Not the players, but the producers. Like ANDY JOHNS, JOE BARRESI, GLEN BALLARD, and a passel of others both forward and backward: RICK HARTE, BOB WESTON, J MASCIS, and JOSH HOMME from QUEENS OF THE STONE AGE. We have got the proverbial IT ALL. In this issue no less.

So while we know instinctively that without the tuba, marching bands just sort of cease to exist, we also know that the tuba never got anybody laid. Something that could almost never be said about this issue’s featured star: The Guitar.

String it up, strap it on, play it like you mean it.