It’s a question mark a treble clef slung over your shoulder, a miniature mystery that you labour to play. Those frets are only half the width of a standard guitar, how do you fit your fingers in there?- It’s almost as if your fingers are a prisoner- trying to escape down a long tunnel like a prisoner of war. Those sharp spiky strings rub against your sides as you try to get to the other end of the tune.

It s almost as if it’s been sent off to pixie-land; down sized and played for their benefit- but we’ve got to relearn all over again how to use it. Finger pressure is immense, this is a free weights machine for your fingers, you’ll need to do plenty of exercises, be very precise, like under water ballet or synchronised swimming, got to get all those legs kicking at the same time, make those fingers arrive precisely. 

Fingers running up and down those railroad tracks of strings, bright new and shining, they seem to stretch down to infinity if you look along them and you want to lick them to truly see if they are made of homey or champagne because that’s the sound that comes humming out of this tiny impossibility; the sound of a pack of angry bees, the sound of breaking champagne glasses, cutting through a mix in its high falsetto voice, plinkety plinkety plinkety plink. I will get my hands around this pretzel and bite down on it for all it’s worth – I’ll make it do my will, and send sounds to chill the hottest listener, intersperse a row of words with those rapid fire blurs of sound, somewhere in the background….