I’ve been looking for a decent broken in P Bass forever but being a pretty occasional bassist didn’t want to spend real money. Learning on an original ‘58 precision as a teenager made me extra picky so it was super tough. Then today I finally found this MIJ 86/87 “PB-62” for $250 and it is so dreamy!
It was covered in so much pawn shop grime and the original tort guard was broken at the jack, missing all its screws, and the whole thing was just glued on. It also had an old bass lines quarter pound pickup which might be fine for some but it’s huge mid scoop is the exact opposite of what I want from a Precision Bass and sounded so muddy through any dirt pedal.
So I spent the day getting this going:
- Clean, clean, clean - probably spent 2 hours getting grime off.
- New black guard - because I have too many sunburst/tort guitars.
- Dimarzio Model P - nice blend of vintage and modern P bass tone and it grinds so hard with some dirt.
- new wiring harness
- thumb rest and ashtray pickup cover because they rule.
- lighter strings for big bass bends
- quick and easy setup
- forget to take before shots. Believe me it was gross.
This thing rules so hard and it’s nice to have a “normal bass” for certain things that the Bass VI just can’t quite handle. I do miss pickup options and the strangle switch a bit. Should I throw a strangle toggle in there?
Hrafnkell’s place had once been an absolute mess, a true early-20s bachelor pad, a mess of food wrappers and dirty clothes and ashtrays trying to cover up the fact that this had once been his parents’ house and he hadn’t really coped that well with their deaths.
Since is accident and his sister’s interference in his work life, though, it had changed dramatically. Most of it was that he needed to keep it clean so he wouldn’t trip over things. The other reason was because now, his parents’ photographs might as well have been blank frames. It was still the same house, same decor, same furniture, but without having to see it, it wasn’t a constant reminder of their funerals.
It was sparse. He still had a computer but barely used it, disliking the screen reader, he couldn’t use the books anymore, even TV wasn’t very good. He mostly listened to books on tape or blasted his music, which was what he was currently doing. Sitting on the couch, listening to the pop punk of his high school days, and chain smoking furiously, passing the cigarette from mouth to mouth.
He was surprised when the doorbell rang. No one really showed up anymore. Probably his sister, or maybe the UPS guy with a surprise package. “I’m coming, I’m coming,” he muttered, standing up and groping his way to the front door, the cigarette dangling from the giant mouth that slashed across his chest. He didn’t bother putting on a shirt. Whoever it was was probably a local, and all the people in his small town already knew what he was.
i found a white dog hair, nearly 3 inches long exactly, sitting in my ashtray. we don’t own a dog, we havent had anyone over in weeks, my ashtray is normally covered by a spherical candle so it couldnt have floated in unless it was uncovered (ie i was smoking), and the only dog that lives nearby is a shorthair chihuahua. what the hell. what the hell