Was just cogitating over some of my old harmonicas. Was gonna stick one in my haversack to play when out in the woods. Taught myself to play one over 50 years ago ( insert boomer joke here! 🤣)Found one I had still in the box that I had purchased back in the late 70’s. A Hohner # 365 in G. Still had a price tag on box of $8.50. 🤣🤣🤣. Looked up current price, $99 bucks!!

I suppose there isn’t much demand for them anymore.

Got two or three chronomatics that all need some form of repair. One was given to me by my old Company Gunny. He got it when they were shipping out to Lebanon in ‘56!!!! . Man. Gotta float a loan to get a new one of them l! 😁

Bob, we gave our musical grandson a harmonica

I don't think he likes it..



Good luck with all of you're s.

Do a Sam Olson, and post on Youtube.

Somebody posted me playing "Old Black ( can I say that?) Joe" one evening while we were at a Armijo Spgs doings. Can’t remember who!

I used to experience the wrath of the Gunny when he’d mention Lebanon. When I’d say " hey gunny! I was born in 56!" There would always be one of those poop details awaiting me somewhere! 🤣

Now Bob, I'm thinking of Yogi Berra blowing his top when Tom Treash was trying to play, Mary Had a Little Lamb on the team bus after a tough loss.

I suppose no one reads poetry anymore either. I’m a hopeless romantic boomer.

Ballads of a Cheechako

by
Robert W. Service
The Song of the Mouth-Organ

(With apologies to the singer of the "Song of the Banjo".)

I'm a homely little bit of tin and bone;
I'm beloved by the Legion of the Lost;
I haven't got a "vox humana" tone,
And a dime or two will satisfy my cost.
I don't attempt your high-falutin' flights;
I am more or less uncertain on the key;
But I tell you, boys, there's lots and lots of nights
When you've taken mighty comfort out of me.

I weigh an ounce or two, and I'm so small
You can pack me in the pocket of your vest;
And when at night so wearily you crawl
Into your bunk and stretch your limbs to rest,
You take me out and play me soft and low,
The simple songs that trouble your heartstrings;
The tunes you used to fancy long ago,
Before you made a rotten mess of things.

Then a dreamy look will come into your eyes,
And you break off in the middle of a note;
And then, with just the dreariest of sighs,
You drop me in the pocket of your coat.
But somehow I have bucked you up a bit;
And, as you turn around and face the wall,
You don't feel quite so spineless and unfit--
You're not so bad a fellow after all.

Do you recollect the bitter Arctic night;
Your camp beside the canyon on the trail;
Your tent a tiny square of orange light;
The moon above consumptive-like and pale;
Your supper cooked, your little stove aglow;
You tired, but snug and happy as a child?
Then 'twas "Turkey in the Straw" till your lips were nearly raw,
And you hurled your bold defiance at the Wild.

Do you recollect the flashing, lashing pain;
The gulf of humid blackness overhead;
The lightning making rapiers of the rain;
The cattle-horns like candles of the dead
You sitting on your bronco there alone,
In your slicker, saddle-sore and sick with cold?
Do you think the silent herd did not hear "The Mocking Bird",
Or relish "Silver Threads among the Gold"?

Do you recollect the wild Magellan coast;
The head-winds and the icy, roaring seas;
The nights you thought that everything was lost;
The days you toiled in water to your knees;
The frozen ratlines shrieking in the gale;
The hissing steeps and gulfs of livid foam:
When you cheered your messmates nine with "Ben Bolt" and "Clementine",
And "Dixie Land" and "Seeing Nellie Home"?

Let the jammy banjo voice the Younger Son,
Who waits for his remittance to arrive;
I represent the grimy, gritty one,
Who sweats his bones to keep himself alive;
Who's up against the real thing from his birth;
Whose heritage is hard and bitter toil;
I voice the weary, smeary ones of earth,
The helots of the sea and of the soil.

I'm the Steinway of strange mischief and mischance;
I'm the Stradivarius of blank defeat;
In the down-world, when the devil leads the dance,
I am simply and symbolically meet;
I'm the irrepressive spirit of mankind;
I'm the small boy playing knuckle down with Death;
At the end of all things known, where God's rubbish-heap is thrown,
I shrill impudent triumph at a breath.

I'm a humble little bit of tin and horn;
I'm a byword, I'm a plaything, I'm a jest;
The virtuoso looks on me with scorn;
But there's times when I am better than the best.
Ask the stoker and the sailor of the sea;
Ask the mucker and the hewer of the pine;
Ask the herder of the plain, ask the gleaner of the grain--
There's a lowly, loving kingdom--and it's mine.

What would likely help, you probably already did.
Expose him to some good harmonica music.
My Dad used to get his out once in a while and I loved hearing him play.
With encouragement and patience, Dad could have taught me. Like so many things, there were many other priorities and distractions.
That reminds me that I should do the same for church.
We used to have a pianist and uke.

Poets?

@ 1:35

Sittin' in jail, after a false arrest.

Cody Canada plays his guitar, a harmonica, and sings in his spare time when he is performing. That amazes me as I have no musical talent whatsoever.

Who doesn't love some mouth organ now and again.

VarmintGuy is an expert at the Piccolo. 😂😂

kaywoodie, I'll call your ballad and raise ya a bag of gold...

The Spell of the Yukon
BY ROBERT W. SERVICE
I wanted the gold, and I sought it;
I scrabbled and mucked like a slave.
Was it famine or scurvy—I fought it;
I hurled my youth into a grave.
I wanted the gold, and I got it— 
Came out with a fortune last fall,—
Yet somehow life’s not what I thought it,
And somehow the gold isn’t all.

No! There’s the land. (Have you seen it?)
It’s the cussedest land that I know,
From the big, dizzy mountains that screen it
To the deep, deathlike valleys below.
Some say God was tired when He made it;
Some say it’s a fine land to shun;
Maybe; but there’s some as would trade it
For no land on earth—and I’m one.

You come to get rich (damned good reason);
You feel like an exile at first;
You hate it like hell for a season,
And then you are worse than the worst.
It grips you like some kinds of sinning;
It twists you from foe to a friend;
It seems it’s been since the beginning;
It seems it will be to the end.

I’ve stood in some mighty-mouthed hollow
That’s plumb-full of hush to the brim;
I’ve watched the big, husky sun wallow
In crimson and gold, and grow dim,
Till the moon set the pearly peaks gleaming,
And the stars tumbled out, neck and crop;
And I’ve thought that I surely was dreaming,
With the peace o’ the world piled on top.

The summer—no sweeter was ever;
The sunshiny woods all athrill;
The grayling aleap in the river,
The bighorn asleep on the hill.
The strong life that never knows harness;
The wilds where the caribou call;
The freshness, the freedom, the farness—
O God! how I’m stuck on it all.

The winter! the brightness that blinds you,
The white land locked tight as a drum,
The cold fear that follows and finds you,
The silence that bludgeons you dumb.
The snows that are older than history,
The woods where the weird shadows slant;
The stillness, the moonlight, the mystery,
I’ve bade ’em good-by—but I can’t.

There’s a land where the mountains are nameless,
And the rivers all run God knows where;
There are lives that are erring and aimless,
And deaths that just hang by a hair;
There are hardships that nobody reckons;
There are valleys unpeopled and still;
There’s a land—oh, it beckons and beckons,
And I want to go back—and I will.

They’re making my money diminish;
I’m sick of the taste of champagne.
Thank God! when I’m skinned to a finish
I’ll pike to the Yukon again.
I’ll fight—and you bet it’s no sham-fight;
It’s hell!—but I’ve been there before;
And it’s better than this by a damsite—
So me for the Yukon once more.

There’s gold, and it’s haunting and haunting;
It’s luring me on as of old;
Yet it isn’t the gold that I’m wanting
So much as just finding the gold.
It’s the great, big, broad land ’way up yonder,
It’s the forests where silence has lease;
It’s the beauty that thrills me with wonder,
It’s the stillness that fills me with peace.

I also like The Shooting of Dan McGrew by RS

I play a bit of harmonica as well... been collecting since about 77 and have several that my grandfather and grandmother use to play...

I have never played one but have always been intrigued by friends of mine who would show up to the bar ( The old Lariat Saloon, or the old Foghorn,(Grumpy's) or the Little Bear and start jamming with any band on stage at the time. Pretty impressive!

So, where does a Marine Band fit in?

$66 bucks now!!!!

I know them places Troublesome! 😉

Bootsfishing!

That’s another goodun’!!!!

Yowser! We bought Jake one, I remember retrofiring it from the pig nursery pit, and sanitizing it!

Pork ribs are going on 5 1/2 hours now. Snacking sausages and boudins be ready in a bit.

Mostly had Marine Band and Blues Harp Hohners, but once had a collection that had belonged to a friend's dad. 4 in 1, several tremolos and some others. All got stolen when my apt. was broken into back in the early 70s. Dad toted a ten holer of some sort in WWII. Used to serenade me at bedtime now and then, when I was a little feller.

Great memories Dube!!

Face it Bob, you're the next Sonny Terry.........

Two of my best friends grew up with the late Norton Buffalo, and I had the pleasure of taking him bass fishing,and going to some of his concerts. Picture of him and my buddy playing at our Memorial Day party and BBQ before his passing. RIP Norton.

I've been kicking around the idea of getting one for a while now. If you were to get one, what key would you all recommend to start with? I was thinking "C" would be a good place to start. Recommendations?

I usually bought C and G’s

I cannot play blues. Just old stuff.

Holy fugg and scheidt me britches.

I think I quite screwing around trying to learn to play when they went up to $15.

Damn, I'm old!

I was going to suggest him. I saw him numerous times back then.

Sorry guys!

Survivor Man carries a Harmonica.
Says it’s good for raising moral around a campfire in survival situations.

This thread reminded me of my GrandDad, Bob. He could play the heck out of one of those old Marine Band Hohner Models. He’d alway play us “He’s in the jailhouse now” and “Little Brown Jug”. He could also play about any tune he heard.
Said his GrandDad taught him. His GrandDad had driven many herds of cattle up the Chisom & Goodnight Loving Trail.

Anyhow, he bought all of us grandsons one and tried to teach us how to play. I never could do anything but make noise with one, though I’m a pretty decent guitar player.

Good memories as a kid !

I did some work for him right before he got sick. GREAT guy. Seriously down to earth dude with a great, positive attitude and zero hang ups. I was rather bummed when I heard he died. True loss and I'll always be happy I took the time to bull schidt with him as I had almost no idea of his music career. A true gentleman and a fun hang.

Damn. I was thinking GrandDad bought mine for about $12 bucks. I remember him taking me to the music store when I was 7 or 8.

Yep.

THAT long ago.

As I recall, they were in the $8-$12 range for years and years.

Long ago I knew of him from his work with Steve Miller and others.

A relatively old one. Harp start about 2 minutes in, Miller on guitar first.

Them fellas can play too!

And Rod is one heck of a showman.

Hah!
Good buddy just got from Nashville and brought a harmonica back for my 7 YO.

Cant wait for the dulcet tones I’m sure he’s soon to fill the house with. 😳

Might be grateful he didn't bring the kid a trombone?

Luke went on to play with Canned Heat. I saw him in a small club in NorCal with his band the Locomotives. Passed away a few years ago, now playing with Roy and folks.

Here ya go! First class instruction on how it's done.


LMAO

Not bad for an old fooker:



And he did OK as a youngster too:

Doc Watson would conclude a gig doing a harmonica based solo of Dixie that could start a war.......always ended with a standing ovation.

Thank you