It’s hanging on the wall. The Fender Jazz Bass my father gave me over 40 years ago. It’s a beautiful instrument, capable of such depths of tone and feeling. It has its quirks. The strings are set a bit too high. It takes forever to reach the lowest notes. But the reward for reaching is worth it. Deep, resonating tones that fill your insides and takes you to a place of discovery. Most of the time it just hangs there, growing older with time. Showing, not singing. Lingering, not living. I recently picked it up. It played well, but there was a string at one fret that buzzed. I kept…