Somehow, during the Loud Music Festival, my bass went missing. Lost or stolen—who knows? It was one of those confusing and blurry load-outs from the Baystate. One bandmate had a bad back, and the others were off flirting or getting the last, last call for drinks. The shock of my beloved bass' absence sunk in early the next morning. I cried and I kicked, but my girlfriends scraped me up and took me off to the Whately Diner. We made "DESPERATELY SEEKING BASS" signs and drank coffee. We plastered the Festival with duct tape and pink Wanted posters.
For the rest of the weekend, I was the Festival UNICEF child. Everyone asked, with true compassion, "Hey, did you get your bass back?" and a couple of guys from a big-hair band offered to take up a collection. Everyone wanted to help. Some suggested search parties, and others offered loaners.
At 3 a.m. I received a phone call asking, "Are you the girl who lost her bass?" We arranged to meet in front of Sylvester's, and I traded $50 to get it back from some guy, troll-like but harmless. That was when I really got it about this music community. Kindness, generosity and compassion walks in rock and roll bad boy shoes…
