Firstly, they’re just lovely things; the woodiness is often wonderfully attractive to behold and to feel. And the shapes, being both deliberately sexual forms and fitting so well against the body, are kinda lush. It’s easy to fall for, or just really enjoy the feel, never mind the sound of a guitar.
I’m neither a techie nor an anorak and I don’t have money to ‘collect’ or even consider buying guitars that catch my eye. In fact, I deliberately don’t go looking, mostly, so as not to waste energy or tempt fatal expenditure. I can’t and don’t buy axe magazines and only occasionally meander into music shops, although this is partly a function of geography: there ain’t many geetar stores in rural West Wales. I’m also probably in that strum-prone sector of humanity that recognises its limitations: so may not even play anything in a shop, cos That Bloke Over There looks tasty. Feeble-but-true, then; relative poverty and relative shyness are factors. I do love music shops – and probably especially, yaknow.
Guitars are great. I have three, one of which is my bro’s, on long-term loan. That one’s a Spanish/classical job, characteristically sourced from a charity shop. No maker’s name, (not that this would necessarily mean anything), and very plain-looking but sounds really good. Woody and full. I’m a rhythm guitar chord-merchant but sometimes get a decent flow going. A recent return to regular playing has also meant that the softer strings are well-received – lay-offs do mean that acoustics or electrics bite a little.
Historically I’ve been on my Ibanez acoustic but right now the classical feels and sounds encouraging, even if I’m banging out Cure, Radiohead or Talking Heads(!) (It may surprise none of you that I’m using a soft plectrum, mostly, whilst committing this sin against high culture). I can fake some simple flamenco – or could – but (or because) mostly I’m a strummer, not a picker. I’m working on improving the left hand fingering-thing – the riffs, the ‘choons’ – but a) have never wanted to learn to read music and b) thrashing or embellishing chords or just finding a groove is perfectly satisfying. Oh and c) I have a developing Dupruyten’s Contracture in my left little finger, which is definitely starting to impact on twiddles.
I bought my acoustic as an angry know-nothing teenager, in a music shop in Grimsby. It cost £90, a reasonable wedge in about 1978 and, luxury-of-luxuries, it came with a hard case – now lost. Mum bought the guitar because ‘Dad wanted you to have one’. (He had died, tragically, some months before, of a cardiac arrest, aged 44). So there’s unavoidably heavy sentiment around this baby, but I can set that aside to clinically report that this guitar is genuinely excellent; I completely fluked it, having had a fairly cursory play, and genuinely knowing nothing about either makes or quality. It felt like a real weapon, significantly better than all kinds of Fenders or Epiphones or Tanglewoods that I have test-driven, since. I fluked it: it’s beautiful, having that extra ring or energy or soul that top instruments have.
Hilaro-fact: I did get Bert Weedon’s ‘Play in a Day’ with the guitar, before trying to get hold of (or learn) the preferred punkystuff.
Am suddenly struck with a senior moment regarding whether I bought my electric *before* the Ibanez, or not. No: I think I was given a catalogue electric guitar first – Christmas; the one I took on a pushbike to France – then bought the acoustic.
Either way I was in the business of learning Jam/Clash/Pistols/Buzzcocks/A Certain Ratio, maybe. The phase of Bill Nelson worship had passed: this was indeed the Modern World. Even on the acoustic I was knocking out the spittle: maybe a lurch here or there into anthems or ‘great sound’ – ‘You Can’t Be Too Strong’ Graham Parker. The electric was a toy, mind, and that did need sorting.
Manchester was 120 miles or so away but I got it my head that I would surely find an axe that felt like me there, so I went. Solo: bus, I think. Had no clear picture of what £120 would get me (in about 1979) but as it still felt possible at that moment to launch the greatest band in the history of the universe – rivals to Weller/Bunnymen/Costello and even Pil[1] in terms of wildness and fearlessness and relevance and ambition – it would need to be right.
I didn’t know Manchester and I certainly didn’t have the dosh for taxis to flit smartly around the gaff. Long time ago but I think I only found two or three music shops of any interest. What I probably wanted (Telecaster? Gretsch?) was beyond reach. I should have shrugged my shoulders, blamed the capitalist pigs and gone home. But no. I bought a sunburst Antoria Les Paul copy. It’s alright: it looks kinda smart and the bloke from the Undertones had something similar – although no doubt a full-on Gibson. Despite buying a second-hand Vox AC30 – ver-ry Jam and ver-ry Edgy Postpunk Superwallop – I’ve hardly played the fekker for forty years.
The guitar is goodish. My mate Jay (who could actually play) borrowed it and ‘loved the sustain’. Flash git that he was, he’d bought a new Fender strat and, to be fair, had *very generously* done a two-week swap with me: he thought the Antoria was okay. It was. But it never felt like me, not even when it sounded outrageous – when the Vox was attacking the world order via my passable Joy Division riffs. It’s parked by my bed, as I write. I had it serviced. It can sound half-decent but somehow I’ve never quite liked it; even with new Super Slinkies or Ernie Ball’s. Not me – too Supergroupie or would-be-muso.
Now the more I think on this, the more seminal it becomes. In the sense that however mad the next sentence sounds, it could be true, or contain stuff that’s stacked with possibility/regret/weird, wild delusion. If I had found a fabulous, sexy, spirit-animal of a geetar that day, I wouldn’t be here. I would be dead – indie-famous and then dead. If The (Only) Lads hadn’t buggered off to university – or if, less likely, I had found a coupla soulbro’s or sisses who* really bought in*, I might have been at the heart of a punky, spunky, dark and edgy, upful and monstrously-spirited rock and roll band. I would have launched at it and let it consume me. I would have been ‘inspirational’ and a pain in the arse. The drugs and exhaustion would have killed me.
Instead I’m oldish and I’ve had a different ride. Longer. Better. Wunnerful kids and fulfilling work. Giant gaps – years! – where the music that was everything receded. Where I never lost the spirit of ‘Poptones’ or ‘Hit the North’ but different blessings were the ones.
I stopped playing the guitar and wow, the circle turned. I have time. Is this me time? Maybe. Where’s my money at? How long can I indulge this? Don’t know. Don’t know.
Whatever; I’ll grab a weapon and strum, and maybe find some words.
[1] Yeh, o-kaay, they may have come later.
bowlingatvincent 