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Once upon a time, I thought I would tell the story of my guitars, but that would probably be meaningless to anybody but me. But maybe it would be interesting to talk about the beginning of what might constitute a collection I never set out to buy red guitars, or any colour, but for a while they seemed to dominate the house. Well, as much as a few guitars can dominate a house with a grand piano in the dining room.
The name came from my youngest daughter. Until she renamed it, it was just my bass. It happens to be my longest held possession. Officially it is a 1962 Gibson EB0 in cherry red. It is old enough to have lived through the era of instrument abuse as an art form. I consider myself to have rescued it from an abusive relationship. I had been saving for months to buy a fretless Fender Jazz bass when I came upon this tattered Gibson. In spite of having a room full of Fender posters, this Gibson called to me. I could imagine what it would look like without a broken neck and the burn scar. I didn't know enough to contemplate the practicalities, or the life expectancy of the guitar. I just knew that there weren't many choices in the small town I lived in and that it would be a long time before I could save enough to buy something new. I handed over all the cash I had and said I'd be back in 10 days with more money and carry it away - in the meantime don't TOUCH it. I don't have any idea how I cobbled together another month's pay in 10 days, other that a vague recollection of being amazed how many odd jobs you could hustle up if you were desperate. So the guitar went home and got some loving attention. It cleaned up pretty nicely, felt nice and sounded different than anything else - very deep and bassey. I decided to finish the massive speaker cabinet I had built in a matching colour. That went horribly wrong and I ended up with an orange cabinet that I gave away to some rock star hopeful who came to a garage sale 25 years later. The important thing was the bass didn't twang and the cabinet didn't rattle. As fate would have it, people started to be willing to pay me money to play. Before many months went by I'd recovered everything I'd spent. It was more satisfying than the average high school part time job. With that beginning, how could I ever part with it?
I started seeing PRS guitars in the early 90s when I was traveling for work. I spent at least one evening a week playing different guitars at whichever local music store had the best selection. I was mostly just keeping off the streets and killing time, but couldn't help from noticing things I liked and fantasizing about what I might get if I came into some extra money. I was still quite taken with the Les Paul Custom I'd bought a couple of years ago, so not really suffering for a quality instrument, but a part of me was thinking it might be nice to get a Strat some day and complete the holy triumvirate (I already had a Tele, but it was a distant second to the Les Paul if I was in an electric frame of mind). I kept playing Stratocasters, but none of them ever really spoke to me. I was quite in lust with a Parker Fly, but then I saw a PRS Dragon. Damn, what was that guy thinking? I visited it a number of times and burned a fair bit of cell phone time talking to my wife about buying it. She was supportive, but I was determined to pay off my mortgage as fast as I could, which meant turning over all raises and most of my bonus money to the bank. In hindsight, the fairly modest 4 figure price tag probably would have been one of the best investments I could have made. Fiscal prudence aside, I was clearly bitten. I no longer went to music stores; I hunted out the PRS dealer. In those days, most of the cities I went to had only one dealer. I tried the different styles, followed the changes each year, and made a list of which stores I liked enough to buy from. In the mid 90s I happened to be in the right time and circumstances to take a job that meant less travel and promised the opportunity for significant financial rewards. I was confident that I could earn the bonus money, but not quite so sure it would get paid. When it looked safe, I had to check the local PRS dealers. There were half a dozen within 100km, so I went to them all, some several times. The hands down winner was a little shop in Port Credit. It didn't have the biggest selection, but The Guitar Shop was a great little store and the owner, Brent Moss clearly cared about guitars and what guitar players wanted. I remember deliberating over the red flame custom 22 and a tortoise shell quilt for quite a while - and may have come close to wearing out my welcome. In the end the red flame custom 22 won out because it was essentially the dragon without the inlay: dragon look body, dragon pickups. I paid my money and took my prize. Over the next couple of years several of my team went to The Guitar Shop to pick up their PRS bonus. Proof that it is a disease that is unstoppable.
After buying the custom 22, I continued to watch what PRS was doing. I also continued to visit The Guitar Shop periodically. Once I happened to show up on the day he had received an early version of the hollow body that was to be shown at MIAC (A Canadian music industry show). He let me give it a try and it was definitely worth owning. It was a much more comfortable guitar than the Lucille I thought would be nice to own one day. It sounded far better than the nameless semi acoustic I had stolen from my father and had to play mostly 2 strings at a time because that was all that would stay in tune – and had long since been dissected. The hollow body was just loud enough acoustically that I could play it while everybody else was sleeping. And it was awfully pretty with that flame maple on both sides. I would have been happy to have a different colour, but this was the only one in the country, so red it would be. Brent checked what he had to check, I agreed that the guitar could go in the show and I would collect it after the show. He thought the guitar should have an adjustable stop tail, so that became part of the deal. I handed over a credit card to ensure the guitar would be mine. This was the first time I had ever purchased two instruments from the same store. I don’t really have a loyalty problem, but I am pretty fussy about who I do business with. On Friday I went to the show to visit the guitar, but apparently being the owner wasn’t sufficient credentials to gain admission. I could have picked up a business card at any music store and gained admission, but I decided uncharacteristically not to buck the system and went to work instead. When I picked up the guitar, Brent took a last admiring look at it and noted “That’s two”. And the flood gates cracked open, though it was a few years before I felt compelled to buy another guitar. But that’s another story that began in the paint room on a private tour of the new PRS factory where a spectacular guitar was hanging – and of course it was red.
I would have sworn that I didn’t really like dark coloured acoustics. To me they just look old and tired. Tops in spruce, cedar or Koa just look right. But one day I was looking for something a bit mellower, a bit softer sounding. I had played a couple of Koa 12 frets and they lent themselves to a calmer tone than a typical steel string guitar. I was curious how much of that was due to the wood and how much was due to the somewhat smaller body size. And how much was due to the altered format that put half of the string over the body, which physics would suggest would give the mid range harmonics a more prominent voice. Of course, maybe this was all just an excuse to play around with some guitars. While doing this ‘research’ I noticed that some really old guitars had this smaller 12 fret format. In particular, I started seeing some treasured Martin’s from the 20s or 30s that looked almost child size, but were in fact full scale, slightly shorter than a modern guitar but clearly made for an adult’s fingers. Interesting, but that is a couple of generations before my time, and I’ve never felt the need to go back in time. I’m quite happy to take advantage of advances. And I have no desire to pay a premium to acquire something from a past age. I’d rather buy something new and keep it. If I make a good choice and keep it, someday it will be that treasure from a past age, like that sweater that is too comfortable to get rid of, even if it is starting to get a bit tattered. Then one day not long ago, I walked into a room filled with acoustic guitars in a wide variety of styles and made from a number of different woods. I admired the look for a while, and did a bit of gentle finger picking on some of them. There were easily half a dozen that would have comfortably found a home in our music room. A conversation started about woods, and body sizes, and scale lengths. What makes things big and bold? What can be played softly without losing its voice? What has a unique character? And out from the middle of 5 kinds of spruce tops, backs made from various rosewoods through to Koa and Tasmanian blackwood stands guitar made completely of mahogany. It didn’t punch you in the face with its volume, but it could definitely be heard. The smallish body size (grand concert in Taylor terminology) with the 12 fret neck snuggled into your body like a small child. And the sound was quite sweet. And really, what colour could you make a mahogany guitar but red – just like my wife’s piano. |
