1974 Veleno Original, serial number 90. Photo: Michael Wright.
Electric guitars have their roots in resonator guitars made with metal bodies and aluminum resonator plates – the first commercially successful electric guitars were Ro-Pat-In’s Electro “frying pan” lap steels, made out of aluminum.
And Wandré Pioli, the Italian luthier had used aluminum for his necks in the late 1950s and ’60s. But even though John Veleno’s aluminum guitars were not the first (or only) guitars to be made of aluminum, there’s no denying that when he named his principle guitar design the Original, his description was right on! Velenos hold a special place in guitar lore as being unique originals.
John Veleno was born in 1934 and began playing guitar in a combo in Massachusetts in ’58. He eventually became a guitar teacher, though his day job trained him as a machinist. In ’63, he relocated to St. Petersburg, Florida, where he got a job carving aluminum electrical boxes for the aerospace industry. Long story short, Veleno carved a guitar-shaped mailbox out of aluminum to promote his guitar teaching sideline. A co-worker saw it and suggested he make a real guitar. Hmmm.
Veleno set about making his first aluminum guitar in 1966-’67, but when he showed it to various players, it went over more like a lead balloon. The idea for the Original came about in the late 1960s, though it didn’t fully materialize until the ’70s. In 1970, Veleno was introduced to some guys who made costumes for rock stars, and they suggested he could sell guitars by going backstage at sound checks. Veleno first went to a James Gang gig, where he sat backstage, polishing his guitar. And though he and the axe garnered the attention of the people who mattered, no sale came about as a result. Nonetheless, this became Veleno’s primary sales technique, and he next took his guitar to a Jorge Santana concert. Jorge saw it, loved it, and used it at the gig. After the show, Santana made suggestions for improvement, all of which were used in subsequent Veleno guitars. The prototype had a bird-shaped six-in-line head, which Santana didn’t like, so John changed it to the now-famous V shape. Still, though, Santana wasn’t buying.
Veleno’s first sale came shortly thereafter, as he polished the guitar at a T-Rex sound check. Mark Bolen walked over and fell in love with the guitar. Before the night was over, he’d bought one for himself and one as a gift for Eric Clapton (who Veleno had never heard of!).
The very first Velenos were made out of 7075 aluminum, but it tended to rapidly discolor, so he switched to 6061, which he then chrome-plated. The first four or five were actually cast aluminum, but Veleno quickly changed to the more familiar carving process. Chrome plating was used on the majority of Velenos, though John offered them in gold plate, polished aluminum, and anodized blue, red, green, gold, ebony, and super black. Very few of the colored guitars were made, but when one does show up, it tends to be gold or black. You could get either a chrome- or black-finished fingerboard. The first few fingerboards had 21 frets before they all became 22-fret. You could also get a chrome- or black-finished neck, which was cast out of Almag 35. Hardware varied; Veleno occasionally made his own bridges, but he’d just as likely use one from Gibson or, preferably, Guild. All Velenos were equipped with a pair of humbuckers. The earliest sported DeArmonds, but he quickly switched to either Gibson or Guild humbuckers depending on availability. Some later examples had DiMarzios.
Veleno guitars sold for $600, and this ’74 Original is typical with its black-anodized neck and few spots where the chrome plating has bubbled (which is fairly common for chromed guitars). Electronics include a three-way select, plus one mini-toggle for coil tapping and another to reverse phase, plus one knob for volume and one for tone. The Guild pickups generally have a neutral response that makes this guitar tonally well-balanced. If you prefer the overdrive qualities of a Gibson or DiMarzio, you’d want a Veleno with those units.
However, expect to be looking for a long time! Veleno’s approach to sales was skewed toward professional players, so they never reached a mass audience. And since they were essentially hand-made in Veleno’s home, that was just as well. Among Veleno’s first Original owners were Gregg Allman, Sonny Bono, Johnny Winter, Pete Haycock, Alvin Lee, Ronnie Montrose, Martin Barre, Ace Frehley, Dave Peverett, and Mark Farner. Veleno quit building guitars in 1976 or ’77, and at the most, 195 were made. All Velenos have a hand-engraved consecutive serial number on a little plate that tells you where in the sequence it falls.
Toward the end, Veleno produced several other models, but finding one of those will be even harder. After meeting B.B. King, who expressed an interest in being able to carry a guitar on the plane, Veleno designed the Traveler, a short-scale travel guitar. He only built about 10, though his son later assembled another 20 or so. He built one bass, and a pair of ankh-shaped guitars for Todd Rundgren that were seen with him on the cover of Guitar Player. These latter models rarely come up for sale, so their value in dollars is nearly impossible to calculate. Originals come to market in flurries and have recently traded in the range of $10,000 to $12,000. In 2003, John Veleno announced plans to again begin building the Veleno Original, as well as the company’s Ankh model.
This article originally appeared in VG‘s August 2006 issue. All copyrights are by the author and Vintage Guitar magazine. Unauthorized replication or use is strictly prohibited.
As a solo artist, Murry Hammond is a blend of Leonard Cohen and Jimmie Rogers. The acoustic-based songs on this album aren’t as lively as his work with his former band, Old 97s, but they’re far from lifeless. Rather, they’re more contemplative and suited to Hammond’s lonesome cowboy voice.
Even though he kicks things off with a sentimental ballad like “What Are they Doing In Heaven Today,” neither it nor his haunting version of the Carter Family’s “I Never Will Marry” are remotely depressing. The harmonium on “Marry” and Hammond’s forlorn yodel exemplify the solitary tone and nature of the album. At his best, he is reminiscent of Gordon Lightfoot in his ability to bring the sepia-toned color of his stories into focus and make music that is provocative and breathtakingly beautiful. Despite its instrumentation (acoustic guitars, banjos and standup bass), Hammond’s music is more old-time folky than bluegrass, and despite Old 97s’ Texas connections, it’s more evocative of small upper-Michigan towns and Adirondack villages and Minnesota mining camps. In “Satan, Your Kingdom Must Come Down” and “As You Roll Across The Trestle,” Hammond touches on the type of elegantly simple gospel heard in simple, unadorned country churches with plain pine pews and hardworking plainspoken congregants. Not surprising, since he sings that music in his own church. Don’t let that put you off anymore than might the Carters’ “Will The Circle Be Unbroken?” Hammond isn’t proselytizing; he’s celebrating the music that moves him and the music – secular and otherwise – will likely do the same for you.
This article originally appeared in VG‘s Dec. ’08 issue. All copyrights are by the author and Vintage Guitar magazine. Unauthorized replication or use is strictly prohibited.
1919 Martin 000-30. Photo: Kelsey Vaughn. Instrument courtesy George Gruhn.
When a guitar maker introduces an innovative new feature at the same time an appealing, existing feature is being discontinued, the result can be a rare configuration of specifications. Although Martin introduced the 15″-wide 000-size body in 1902 and made the last Style 30 model in 1921, the two groups overlapped on only one guitar – this 000-30 from 1919.
Style 30 is a relatively rare Martin offering, and is not easy to identify because its primary distinguishing characteristic is an abalone soundhole ring, which is also found on the Style 27 guitars of 1857-1907 as well as the more obscure Style 34 of the 1850s-1907 and the exceedingly rare Style 33 of the 1800s. For identification, the 27 has brass tuners, the 30 has silver-plated tuners and an ebony bridge, the 34 has pearl tuner buttons and an ivory bridge. Style 27, whose style number seems out of place in a position below the non-pearl Style 28, was last made in 1907. Style 30 was introduced in 1899 and quickly became the sole remaining representative of the 30-series guitars from the 1800s.
Exactly why Martin discontinued Style 30 is a bit of a mystery. The more expensive Style 42, with its abalone-trimmed top, had been around since 1858 and would prosper into the 1940s. The ultra-fancy Style 45, introduced (first as a special Style 42) in 1902, would also make it to the 1940s and was reinstated in 1968.
The Style 30 seemed to be thoughtfully designed. Its abalone soundhole ring and multicolored wood marquetry around the top border offered an elegant middle ground between the herringbone-bordered Style 28 models and the pearl-bordered 42s, in price as well as aesthetics. With a price range in 1900 of $50 to $60, depending on body size, Style 30 was above the Style 28 models, which listed at $40 to $50, and below the Style 42 models, which listed at $70 to $80.
At the advent of Martin serial numbers in 1898, Style 30 seemed to hold a solid position in the Martin line. It was made in six different body sizes, ranging from the small Size 5 (only three were made in this size) to the largest size at the time, the 14 1/8″-wide 00. For the first decade of the 20th century, production of Style 30 models in various sizes kept up with the Style 42 models, but through the 1910s, production of Style 30s began to decline. When the last one was made in 1921, the total production of Style 30 Martins – counting this 000-30 – had reached 356 for the period 1898-1921. The totals are: model 5-30 – 3 guitars; model 2 ½-30 – 5; model 2-30 – 7; model 1-30 – 78; model 0-30 – 162; 00-30 – 100; 000-30 – 1. To compare the 00-30 production of 100 to other Martin 00-size models, Martin produced 313 00-28s during the same period and 162 00-42s.
In the meantime, Martin had introduced an even slower-moving item – the 15″-wide 000 size. Although 000-size Martins are revered today as a quintessential design, they were not well-received by guitarists of the pre-World War I period. The 000 was the biggest Martin available at the time, although Martin had already supplied some larger dreadnought-size guitars to the Ditson company as early as 1916. Martins, and most other guitars of the era (with the notable exception of Gibsons), were still designed for gut strings and a repertoire of classical music. Martin’s X-pattern top bracing, combined with what was at that time an oversized, 15″-wide guitar, was just too much for gut strings to drive. Significantly, in the context of gut strings and large bodies, those early Ditson dreadnoughts were not X-braced. They were fan-braced in the style of the Spanish-made classical guitars.
Although the late Martin historian Mike Longworth wrote in his book Martin Guitars: A History that the first 000-size Martins had a 24.9″ scale, all that we have seen are 25.4″. It is possible that Martin increased the scale length by a half-inch on the 000s in order to provide a little extra string tension to drive the larger body. The full voice of the X-braced 000 wouldn’t be heard, of course, until the changeover to steel strings.
In 1919, with 000 Martins barely surviving – only 80 had been made from 1902-’18 – and Style 30s about to die out, the two entities came together in this one special guitar. In addition to this guitar’s one-of-a-kind status, it marks several important historical changes in the Martin line. Until this time, Martin had used a cedar neck with a grafted-on headstock. This guitar is one of the earliest to have a modern one-piece neck and headstock, with a mahogany neck. (Interestingly, Martin has recently begun using cedar necks on some guitars again.) The look of the grafted-on headstock survives in the diamond-shaped volute, not only on this guitar, but on current high-end Martins. Also, this guitar is one of the first to have celluloid binding with an ivory grain (a.k.a. “ivoroid”), which replaced the genuine elephant ivory bindings found on earlier Martins.
Anyone familiar with older Martins will know that 1919 is too early for a pickguard. A pickguard was not standard on any Martin model until the introduction of the OMs in 1929. The pickguard on the 000-30 is obviously not in the teardrop shape that Martin began using across the line in the 1930s. However, since the 000-30 was probably a custom-ordered guitar, and since many other makers of the era did install pickguards on their guitars, it is possible that the pickguard could be original, or it could have been installed not too many years after the guitar was made. In any case, it seems to be from the same era as the guitar. The tuners are silver-plated with mother-of-pearl buttons, and while they are not original to this guitar, they are actually older than the guitar, dating to the turn of the 20th century.
Although gut strings were still the standard for Martins when this guitar was made, it handles steel strings with no problem, and performs with all the complexities of tone that have made 12-fret 000s so coveted. It holds a special place in Martin history, not only as a one-of-a-kind guitar but as a historically important instrument that represents the end of one style of ornamentation and the dawn of several features that are still found on Martin guitars.
This article originally appeared in VG‘s November 2006 issue. All copyrights are by the author and Vintage Guitar magazine. Unauthorized replication or use is strictly prohibited.
The term “musician’s musician” gets bandied about a lot, but in the case of the late Jesse Ed Davis, “guitar hero’s guitar hero” might be more accurate. His tasty slide on Taj Mahal’s rendition of “Statesboro Blues” provided the blueprint for the Allman Brothers’ later version; he recorded with three of the four Beatles and was in the house band for George Harrison’s Concert For Bangla Desh; when Eric Clapton wrote “Hello Old Friend” he deferred to Davis to supply the lyrical slide; and when a budding blues man named Pete Anderson heard Jesse Ed’s country licks on Taj’s souped-up take of “Six Days On The Road,” it set the course for his fruitful association with Dwight Yoakam.
After playing on Taj Mahal’s first three classic albums, Davis amassed a resume of sessions that included Albert and B.B. King, Harry Nilsson, Gene Clark, Leonard Cohen, Neil Diamond, Arlo Guthrie, and Rod Stewart, as well as standout solos on Bob Dylan’s “Watching The River Flow” and Jackson Browne’s “Doctor My Eyes.” Of the latter, guitarist David Grissom says, “The solos were a huge influence on me – such expressive playing and beautiful, pure tone. I love the way he built the solos and the way the band played with him.”
In the early ’70s, Davis released three solo albums, Jesse Davis, Ululu, and Keep Me Comin’ – all now collectors items, with heavyweights like Leon Russell, Dr. John, Eric Clapton, and Gram Parsons returning the favor and accompanying him. The first two albums, recently issued on a single CD by Wounded Bird Records, offer even more evidence of Davis’ incredible versatility.
A full-blooded Kiowa Indian, Davis played in country star Conway Twitty’s band in his native Oklahoma before moving to Los Angeles and quickly picking up session work with fellow Oklahomans, backing Gary Lewis. J.J. Cale recalls, “All the guys I played with were from Tulsa, but Ed was from Oklahoma City. A singer named Jimmy [a.k.a. “Junior”] Markham started using Ed, and he became part of our clan. He was so good, people started using him. We were all just playing nightclubs in North Hollywood or West L.A. for $10 and all the beer you could drink. He had his white Telecaster, and he was one of the first guys to cop onto the slide guitar, like ‘Statesboro Blues.’”
When Taj Mahal’s band, the Rising Sons, broke up in ’67, producer/engineer Gordon Shyrock introduced the singer to an aggregation of Okies jamming at the Topanga Corral. With Rising Son Ry Cooder, Taj brought Davis, drummer Chuck Blackwell, and bassist Gary Gilmore into the studio to complete his self-titled debut. When Cooder departed for a solo career a year later, the quartet stayed in place and recorded Natch’l Blues.
“That was the one that really got me,” says Los Lobos’ David Hidalgo. “When he played, it was always understated; you always wanted more.” Blackwell concurs: “That was the first time I ever heard a guitar player play like that. He played with real touch. He didn’t just bang it every time; sometimes he’d turn it up loud, and then he’d play real soft. Then if he sustained or punched, he could play a little harder – instead of full-out hard all the time. He controlled his dynamics with his touch, and he had a crying, haunting deal I just never heard. For melodic blues, he’s my favorite.”
Davis’ main setup was his white Tele through a tweed 4×10″ Bassman with JBLs, although he’d sometimes use a Vibro Champ in the studio. As Mahal pointed out in his VG interview (October ’04), Jesse was one of the first guitarists to experiment with a Leslie. “He used it a little bit on Natch’l Blues and a little more on Giant Step. But he was not one for a lot of effects; he created most of the effects between his hands – like the volume knob with his little finger. He picked with a flatpick and two fingers.”
Of the Leslie sound, Hidalgo points out, “Jesse touched a lot of people. George Harrison had come to the U.S. and was hanging out with people like the Band and Jesse Ed, and then you see ‘Let It Be,’ and George is playing slide on a Tele through a Leslie. There was a connection there. Mike Halby, who I did Houndog with, knew Leon Russell and all the Okies, and he said that when Jesse would practice, all he would play was George Harrison solos.”
One of Davis’ most unusual gigs was when he became “the sixth Face” on tour. Faces keyboardist Ian McLagan explains, “In August, 1975, the Faces began rehearsals for what would become our last tour. Ronnie Wood had just come off a long Stones tour and, because Rod didn’t think he could handle being the sole guitarist again after playing with Keith [Richards], he took it on himself to hire another guitarist. Unfortunately for Rod, he brought in Jesse Ed Davis, who was not just a brilliant guitarist, but a character and a raver like Ronnie and me, and we warmed to him immediately. I knew his guitar playing from Taj Mahal’s albums and his slide guitar on John Lennon’s version of ‘Stand By Me.’ But having met this Native American, I discovered a gentle man who had a sly, rascally side that particularly appealed to Ronnie and me.
“Onstage, Jesse was brilliant at finding space amid the Faces thrashing and pumping to place his subtle guitar slides and licks,” Mac continues. “And backstage he was the perfect conspiratorial character to hang with – very amusing and easy going, and always up to something mischievous.”
In the late ’80s, Davis wrote and played the music for the poetry of Indian activist John Trudell; their band was called Graffiti Man. In February of ’87, the Graffiti band was playing L.A.’s Palomino club, and, thanks to some of Jesse’s old associates, it turned into one of the most star-studded jams in rock history, with Taj, Harrison, Dylan, and John Fogerty joining in.
After battling drug and alcohol problems most of his career, Davis died of an apparent overdose 16 months later, at age 43.
In 2002, he was inducted into the Oklahoma Jazz Hall of Fame, permanently ensconced alongside guitar legends such as Barney Kessel, Lowell Fulson, Charlie Christian, and Elvin Bishop. The surviving three-fourths of the Natch’l Blues band (Taj, Blackwell, and Gilmore) reunited to perform at the ceremony.
As Gilmore sums up his friend and bandmate, “He was a fun-loving person, who loved to play music. That really was his life. He was great to play with in the band. He would come up with a lot of the arrangements, along with Taj, and the way he played was simple but with a lot of feeling. He didn’t overdo anything; his solos were more simple and soulful – the way I like to hear it.”
This article originally appeared in VG‘s August 2005 issue. All copyrights are by the author and Vintage Guitar magazine. Unauthorized replication or use is strictly prohibited.
Brent Rowan is a 29-year veteran of the recording industry who has worked with legendary country artists including George Jones, Glen Campbell, Chet Atkins, and George Strait, as well as current country superstars like Tim McGraw, Kenny Chesney, and Brooks & Dunn. Pretty impressive, but what you would expect from a top session guitarist in Nashville. But also on his list of credits are names you might not expect, like Etta James, Amy Grant, Bob Seger, Roy Orbison, Lynyrd Skynyrd, Brian Wilson, and even Led Zeppelin frontman Robert Plant. With his reputation for playing the right part, with the right feel and tone, it’s no wonder he gets so many diverse calls.
Born in Texas, Rowan grew up in the suburbs of Houston. Raised in a strict Pentecostal household, his upbringing meant he was not allowed to listen to the rock music that inspired other musicians of his generation. But there were advantages to growing up in the Assemblies of God Church, where electric guitars and drums were commonplace. And while his pre-pubescent counterparts were banging away in their garages, Rowan was plugging in and rocking out every Sunday night. He not only learned how to play in the context of a group, but about how music can affect people.
At 17, Rowan graduated from high school and moved to the outskirts of Chattanooga, Tennessee, to play in a touring gospel group. There, he got a taste of the road and the studio. After watching session guys play all day and sleep in their own beds (instead of a tour bus), he moved to Nashville.
Through fortuitous encounters, he soon scored a gig with country artist John Conlee, and in 1980 played guitar on the #1 hit “Friday Night Blues.” Soon after, he was turning Nashville on its ear. While house drums and amps were then the mainstay, Rowan bucked the system by insisting on bringing his own amp. When this became common practice by the mid ’80s, he introduced Nashville producers to the stereo “rack” sound that was all the rage in Los Angeles studios.
Rowan spent the ’80s recording with the top country acts including Alabama, Hank Williams Jr., Reba McEntire, and Keith Whitley. His dominance as a session guitarist was exemplified by playing on six of the top eight country singles on the July ’86 charts.
The ’90s continued to find him playing with top artists such as Clint Black, John Michael Montgomery, Little Texas, and Tanya Tucker. A personal highlight of the decade was participating in the acclaimed Nashville Network show “The American Music Shop.” As part of an all-star band, he backed artists ranging from Gatemouth Brown and Bruce Hornsby to Albert Lee and Larry Carlton.
In 2000, Rowan released the critically acclaimed acoustic instrumental album Bare Essentials. By that time, he was not only a player of renown, but an artist in his own right. And soon, the pieces came together to add yet another title to his resumé – record producer. After eschewing the role for years, Rowan made the plunge with Joe Nichols’ 2002 album, Man With A Memory, which spawned three Grammy nominations and two #1 singles. With Nichols’ success, Rowan became not only an in-demand session guitarist, but producer. And today, in his third decade as session guitarist, his playing is still heard at the top of the charts.
Rowan recently spoke to VG about growing up in Texas, playing in the studio, the keys to his longevity, and his impressive collection of vintage instruments.
How did you start playing the guitar?
My parents gave me an acoustic when I was 9. I’d already been playing piano and harmonica. The day the piano was delivered, I picked out the melody to “Jesus Loves Me” in the first couple of minutes. When I was 7, my grandmother gave all of us kids harmonicas; by the end of the day, most had lost theirs, but I was playing songs. When I got the acoustic, my parents said if I learned to play it, they would get me an electric guitar for Christmas. By September, I’d decided that was what I wanted, and learned to play it well enough that they bought me one. I was raised with a very traditional Pentecostal background, and those church bands in South Texas were rockin’. You really learned the value of connecting with people on an emotional level through music. The music was talking to people’s hearts; it wasn’t trying to wow them. I tell people it’s the closest thing I could have had to the black church experience.
I had very different influences from my friends who were playing the guitar. I wasn’t allowed to listen to people like Clapton and Hendrix. And I wouldn’t change a thing. It meant I worked with a whole different set of influences. You find what you can and work with it. I play different from a lot of other players because the power of the guitar came second to the power of music. I wasn’t listening to guitar players learning their licks. I was ingrained with “you can make people happy with this” or you can touch people on a deep emotional level that they might not know why they’re being touched. I started playing at the same age most people did, but came from a different place. I didn’t have a guitar hero, but I played music to help people relate to my Hero.
If you weren’t listening to other guitar players, how were you learning how to play?
I had one or two Chet Atkins records, but his style didn’t really fit into the music I was playing. I was learning from other guitar players in the church orchestra. I had no obvious heroes.
Having not listened to other players, who would you have compared yourself to among contemporaries?
Probably Clapton. When I was playing on sessions, people would comment on a riff being like something he would’ve played. I think it goes back to people like Muddy Waters, this emotional spiritualness where the guitar is just a vehicle to transmit emotion. I think that’s where the commonality is. I remember making potato art in grade school; everyone did moons and stars, but I made a guitar. The teacher asked about my choice, and I said, “That’s what I’m going to do when I grow up.” There was always a voice inside, guiding me. The thought that any of this would not work out never occurred to me. I look back now and think you would have to be crazy to move here and expect to make it. I didn’t know that Nashville didn’t need another guitar player! Sometimes ignorance can be a good thing. I felt like I was put on this planet to communicate to people through music. The guitar just happens to be the tool I use.
What was your first guitar?
It was a Kingston. My first electric was a Spacemaster with an Alamo amp. I still have both. They were both made in the U.S., which was a big deal to my parents. Most of the Montgomery Ward stuff was being made in Japan by then. They bought them at H&H Music, in Houston. I’ll always remember getting them and learning my first song – “I’ll Have A Blue Christmas Without You,” by Ernest Tubb. My parents had the 45 and I would play along, then go and play with the church orchestra. That Kingston acoustic had the strings so far off the neck it’s a miracle I learned to play.
When did you start listening to non-church music?
At 17, I graduated high school and moved to a suburb of Chattanooga to go on the road with a gospel group. I was around other musicians whom did not share my background. I’d never been to a movie – I was 20 years old the first time I saw a movie. I was quite sheltered. I was able to listen to some country music growing up, though. I was familiar with Charlie Pride and Johnny Cash. I loved those records; the guitar parts really took you on a journey. There wasn’t a lot of virtuoso flash, but it created a mood. The first rock album I bought was the Eagles’ Greatest Hits, and Linda Ronstadt’s Hasten Down The Wind. Again, I was attracted to emotional content – I loved those players; Bernie Leadon, Glenn, Waddy Wachtel, and Andrew Gold. I really liked Andrew’s playing because it was very orchestrated and arranged. Like the solo on “When Will I Be Loved”; to my taste it doesn’t get better than that. I also remember hearing stuff like Olivia Newton John – John Farrar played, produced, and wrote much of her material. He was another influence.
Tom Anderson-built guitar used a lot on Julie Roberts’ ’04 self-titled debut album, which Rowan produced. Photos: Rusty Russell
1960 Gibson ES-335. Heard on the Mark Chesnutt hit “Too Cold At Home.”
A PRS Custom 22 used heavily on Montgomery Gentry Some People Change album.
What was your next guitar after the Spacemaster?
My next guitar was a 1971 Gibson ES-335 in walnut that my mom and dad bought me, along with a Fender Twin Reverb. That shows you the wisdom of parents, because I wanted a Jaguar with a Kustom amp. He insisted on getting a Gibson guitar and a Fender amp. I played that Spacemaster for five or six years, though, and was proud to have it. I didn’t know you couldn’t play music on it. The Spacemaster had a 3/4-size neck. I didn’t know my hands might outgrow it, or even that you weren’t supposed to change strings until one breaks.
How long did you play with the gospel group?
About three years, then I moved to Nashville. When I moved there, I knew two people – the guy who I shared a house with, and Dave Huntsinger, a keyboardist with the gospel group The Rambos. The day after I got to Nashville, Dave called me to play with the Rambos. I did that for a while, and that’s where I was around non-church guys and got exposed to groups like The Eagles. These are the same guys that took me to my first movie, Dirty Harry. I couldn’t believe how big the screen was, and I was freaked out by the blood and such.
What was your first pedal?
It was an Electro-Harmonix volume booster, then an E-H Small Stone phazer and a script-logo Dyna Comp. At this point, I became aware of guitar magazines and started reading about other players, and what they were using. I loved reading about guys like Larry Carlton and Tommy Tedesco. I just tried to expand my horizons. Also, whenever I would find a guitar player I liked, I’d find out their influences and listen to them, try to chase it back. I always loved the guys who played from the heart even if they might not have had the most finesse.
How did you start doing sessions?
When I lived in Chattanooga, we’d go to Nashville to make albums. I didn’t get to play on the records, but the bandleader would hire me to work on other projects he was producing. He started using me on acoustic guitar on the sessions. Through this, I saw that the session guys were playing 12 hours a day and sleeping in their own beds every night. I never really loved live playing; it seemed like 23 hours of waiting to play one hour. We had to set up the merchandise table, set up the P.A., all to play one hour. On the session, I saw all these guys playing multiple sessions in the day, then sleeping in the same bed every night. I decided that’s what I wanted to do.
After a hiatus, the Rambos decided to tour again, but I opted against it. I had already figured out how to make my living conditions work and was ready to starve to do it.
What year was that?
1978 or ’79. So I stayed in town. One of the smartest things I did was to go around with my demo tape, and offer to play. I’d tell people I knew they probably had someone that they normally used, but if they were not available, I’d love a shot, and offer to play for free. I told them to only pay me if they liked what I did. I think people were impressed with that. They either thought I knew what I was doing or was really crazy. People were usually willing to bet on me. Looking back, it looks really smart. That’s advice I would give to anyone. Find what you love, and do it for free until someone is willing to pay you. No one ever asked me to play for free, but I got calls because I was willing to take all the risk.
One of the first guys to use me was Terry Choate, at Tree Publishing, and an engineer named Les Ladd. Bud Logan wanted to bring in new blood and Les recommended me. So I got to play on John Conlee’s “Friday Night Blues,” doing a three-part harmony solo. Bud loved it, and I ended up playing on every Conlee record Bud produced. That was my entrance. People heard what I did, said, “That’s different,” and I got more calls. Many times I’d play on demos at Tree and the producer would call. More than once, other players would be asked to mimic what I played on the demo. Other times the player wouldn’t be able to do it, and I would be called in to re-create the part. It was not about the part being complicated, it was just a feel thing.
And how do you learn to be a true session player?
My goal, if they were to pull up stuff that I played on 100 years from now, is that you’d hear my guitar part and have a sense of what the lyric is. I want to communicate the same emotion the singer does. Rule number one is “It’s not about you. You are part of a team.” That’s the biggest thing. If I help other people reach their dreams, I usually help myself reach mine.
Who were the top session guys when you came to town?
Reggie Young was doing a lot of the work, and Pete Bordonalli was doing a lot of the rock-type stuff.
What equipment were you using on those early sessions?
The 335, a black-box Echoplex, MXR Distortion+, Dyna Comp, and a volume pedal. I’d read that Larry Carlton was using a lot of that stuff. I also had a Electro-Harmonix Small Stone flanger and an Electric Mistress. I started learning about racks, and was one of the first guys to go that route. I was one of the guys to help ruin the sound (laughs)!
Were you carrying around the Twin?
No, I read about Paul Rivera and had him mod a Deluxe like he was doing at that time for the L.A. session cats. I had that and a brown-tolex Princeton. I used to carry all my stuff around in a Ford Pinto. I think “Friday Night Blues” was done with one of those amps, the 335, and a Dyna Comp.
When did you help bring the rack era to Nashville?
I always wanted to be different. That can lead to success, or it can lead to tragedy. In the early 1980s, everyone was using the same house drum kits and amps at studios. I began to bring my own amp, just to provide a different sound than what everyone else was using. The rack thing started for me with mounting an Echoplex, and some pedals in a rack all connected to a patch bay. That way, I could plug into just what I needed for each song, and keep a more pure sound. I also put in a loop for my volume pedal, so it would always be before my echo unit. After that, I got a Valley People compressor/EQ and noise gate, along with a Lexicon reverb unit, and began to plug in direct. This was in an era when producers in Nashville were trying to get as pristine a sound as possible. So we began to plug in direct, and pretty much quit using amps for a while. A good example of this sound would be the T. Graham Brown album Don’t Go To Strangers. Other players started going direct after that also, so I changed again. I found out about Bob Bradshaw, who made the first system where you could hit one button and change multiple parameters.
How did you get the idea for that first rack with the patch bay?
I think part of it was I was single at the time, and just lived and breathed it, and was always looking for a better way of doing things. It made sense to me to just use effects I needed, because that’s the way studios worked. In a studio, they don’t have a mic plugged into every compressor – they patch it only through the unit that they are going to use. I was working three or four sessions per day and didn’t have the time to set up a bunch of pedals, then pack up for the next session. I was just thinking of a better way to have many choices without degrading my tone.
Tell us about the first Bradshaw rack you had him build.
It was funny; I was using a lot of the units that he was incorporating into his racks. He asked if I’d heard about some of the racks he put together for the L.A. guys. He was surprised that I was already using most of the stuff he recommended. One unit was the Dyno-My-Piano Tri-Stereo Chorus. I bought one when I heard one used on electric piano, and found out he was using them on guitar, as I was. I had him make a drawer for some pedals, because I still wanted to be able to use a Dyna-Comp on the front end if I wanted to. He said he wasn’t doing that at the time, and tried to get me to drop the pedals for rack compressors and stuff. But I insisted, and Bob ended up making that an option on his racks. I loved having all the options.
1963 Fender Jazzmaster Rowan uses for “in-between” Fender and Gretsch sounds. Photos: Rusty Russell
1960 Fender Stratocaster with a ’58 neck used on Bob Seger’s Face the Promise.
1952 Fender Telecaster heard on Kathy Mattea’s “Walk The Way The Wind Blows” and Rowan’s early John Conlee work.
What was next in the evolution of your guitar tones?
Everyone started to use racks, and digital recording became the new thing. That early version of Pro-Tools was very brittle-sounding, so I began to carry my own mic preamps. The rooms I was working had SSL boards, and I detested the sound of them on guitar, so I’d bring a set of Neve 1272s. I would also bring a matched pair of Shure SM-57s. Then I could just hand the engineer a pair of XLR cables and sound more like I wanted to. That helped me differentiate myself from the other players in town. Another thing I did at the time was to give them two amp signals, and two direct signals. That would just give the producer more options.
On the session today [for Josh Turner], you had two setups…
I have both an amp and pedal rig, and a stereo rack setup. Some producers still like that rack/stereo spread sound, and there are some songs that really do call for it. Most producers have weaned themselves, but a few still insist on it. For the most part now, I’ve gone back to pedals. I only plug into the pedals that I am using for that song because the sampling rate has gone up so much that it makes a big difference. To my ears, there is a big difference between going through a pedal in bypass mode and taking it out of the chain altogether. It also increases the lag time between hitting the string and feeling it. I no longer use a pedalboard. I have a case full of pedals, and pull out just what I need.
Tell us about some of your amps.
I’ve got a Marshall JTM 45 and a plexi JMP 50, a Dr. Z Carmen Ghia, a very early Bogner head, an Egnater, a Bogner Fish preamp, and a Marshall 100-watt I use with a 4×12 cab for more rockin’ stuff. Some of the first stuff I did with my first true stereo Bradshaw rack was Tim McGraw’s “Don’t Take The Girl.” That was one of the tracks that also had some direct sound mixed in. You don’t get that much chime on top of the fundamental without going direct.
Your amps include a mid-’60s Vox AC30…
I bought it from Billy Sanford, who used it while he was playing with Roy Orbison in the ’60s. I was working with Billy, and I asked him if he had any stuff he was wanting to get rid of. He mentioned an old Vox. When he pulled the amp out, he found a pair of drumsticks that had written on them “To Billy, From Ringo” on them. When Billy was playing with Roy in England, the Beatles opened shows for them.
What’s in your rack, effects-wise?
A Dytronics Dyno-My-Piano chorus, two Lexicon PCM 42s, PCM 70 for circular delays, TC Electronic 1210 Spatial Expander, Harmonizer H-2000, DBX-160, and a Hush unit. I keep all this stuff because I know someone will ask for it at some point. It’s funny, there was a time when you wouldn’t have been caught dead using a spring reverb, but things keep coming back around.
What kind of speaker cabs do you use with the rack setup?
A pair of Pacific Woodworks 1×12 cabs with EVM 12L speakers.
What about the 4×12 cabs?
I have two stocked with Celestion Vintage 30s and one that might have those old 18-watt speakers. I don’t know. All I do know is that it sounds good.
What amp are you using with the mono pedal/amp rig?
It’s the THD Flexi-50, which I really love. And I either use a THD 2×12 cabinet with two kinds of speakers, or a 4×12 with it. I like the Keeley compressor, modded Blues Driver, and Tube Screamer. I have a bunch of Menatone effects. I almost always use a Fulltone Tube Tape Echo, and I also like his OCD pedal. The Peterson Strobo-Tuner, an MXR Dyna-Comp, and almost every Boss pedal made. I use the Tremolo and the graphic EQ pedals a lot.
What do you use the Boss EQ pedal for?
If there’s a frequency that’s being over-treaded, I’ll cut it or boost frequencies that are not being covered as well. I also try to never compete with the vocal, so I’ll use the pedal accordingly.
What are some other often-used tools?
There’s a volume pedal. I got from Al Perkins, by Anapeg. It’s powered with a preamp and sucks the tone the least of all I have heard. I put all my pedals in front of the volume pedal, except for delay. That way I can control residual noise levels.
What other amps do you use?
I have some Victoria amps and a silverface Fender Deluxe that Kye Kennedy blackfaced for me. I love the sound of it. I try to create a sound for an artist, and then not use that same sound for other artists. This is the third Josh Turner record I’ve worked on, so I know where his voice sits, what has worked in the past, and the size of the band. Sometimes I use an old Bassman head with him.
What’s in your “Josh Turner rig?”
Some of the songs are heavy on the baritone, with low-strung guitars augmenting his voice, but never getting down to where he is, range-wise. Then there’s this crazy, whacked-out Tele guy that is part of his band, in my mind. This guy is part Brad Paisley and part James Burton. He appears on each album a couple times. With those parts, I try to walk a fine line playing parts that will make people think “Is he kidding, or is he not.” Frank Rogers, Josh’s producer, loves that, and he produces Brad also, so he borderlines on whether or not they’re kidding. Pure tones for Josh, not a lot of processing. On some songs I did use an E-H Holy Grail because I think verb before the mic can sound so heavenly.
In the studio you have all these toys to choose from, but if you were to play a concert with Josh and were limited in what you could carry, what would you take?
Guitar-wise I think I would take my ’60 slab-board Fender Telecaster, a Jerry Jones baritone, and a Jones six-string bass. Amp-wise, I’d use my Deluxe and take a volume pedal, delay, compressor, Boss EQ, Keeley Blues Driver or Tube Screamer, and a Tremolo. With those, I could cover all the tones on his records. The guy on the road can’t afford to change stuff around every single song like I can.
What’s the story with the slab-board Tele.
Steve Henning found it for me. He and his dad have Heart of Texas Music in Austin. I have a couple of older Teles, but was looking for a nice rosewood-board. This one came through, and they sent it to me. Michael Stevens flattened the radius of the fingerboard and put slightly bigger frets in it – made it a much better player. So many early-’60s Teles are hard to bend on because of the overly curved fingerboard.
What are some notable songs you used it on?
Joe Nichols’ “Brokenheartsville” and all the Tele stuff with Mark Chesnutt like “Going Through The Big D,” and “Bubba Shot The Jukebox.” I also used it for all the Tele stuff on Josh Turner’s records.
What’s it strung with?
D’Addario .010-.046.
Do you have a brand preference?
No. Sometimes a GHS Nickel Boomer will sound better on a guitar than another brand will, but a D’Addario or Ernie Ball might sound better on another guitar. I also use different gauges to make me play different.
What about the Olympic White 1960 Strat?
Somebody called me, wanting to sell a guitar. I didn’t need it at the time, but boy am I glad I bought it. It has a wonderful, Stevie-Ray-type of throaty tone. I love it. It has an original finish with a three-color sunburst underneath.
And some tracks you used it on?
On all of Blake Shelton’s Pure BS, which I produced and played on. Also, some Montgomery Gentry stuff I’ve played on.
And your ’58 Strat…
It’s a ’58 neck with a ’60 body. One of the later Burrito Brothers sold that to me more than 15 years ago. I used it a lot on Bob Seger’s Face the Promise album.
1960 Fender Stratocaster in original Olympic White with three-color sunburst underneath. “It has a wonderful, Stevie-Ray-type of throaty tone,” says Rowan. “I love it.” Photos: Rusty Russell.
1960 Fender Telecaster with flattened and re-fretted fingerboard.
1956 Fender Stratocaster refinished using an original can of Fiesta Red. Bought from Americana/progressive country songwriter Willis Alan Ramsey.
Double-bender instrument made by Nashville builder Joe Glaser. Heard on Lorrie Morgan’s “Sure Is Monday,” and “Daddy Never Was The Cadillac Kind,” by Confederate Railroad.
How would you compare the ’58 with the ’60?
The ’60 is throatier, while the maple neck has more “ding” to it. I think of maple as having “ding,” and rosewood as having “dong” tonal qualities.
You’ve also got a cool Fiesta Red Strat with EMG pickups.
It’s a ’56 that Joe Glaser refinished with what was supposed to be an original can of Fiesta Red he found. I bought it from songwriter Willis Alan Ramsey about 20 years ago. I have the original pickups set aside.
Why the EMGs?
I have two vintage Strats with noisy pickups, so it’s nice to have one that’s quiet. Also, I heard an old Ronnie Milsap song that I had played a Strat with EMGs, and liked the sound. We re-cut Mark Knopfler’s “Prairie Wedding” with Kenny Rogers, and I used that guitar. It really nailed the sound. The EMGs have a little more sustain. I also used that guitar on Tim McGraw’s “Down On The Farm.”
What about the Jazzmaster?
It’s a ’63. I picked it up at a music store in Colorado. I love the Gretsch sound, but I wanted something in-between Fender sound and Gretsch. That guitar does it. I put big flatwounds on it.
Tell us about the white Tom Anderson…
That’s a great go-to instrument and amazing all-around guitar. I used it a lot on the Julie Roberts album I produced.
The ’52 Telecaster.
I’ve had that the longest. I used it on Kathy Mattea’s “Walk The Way The Wind Blows” and some of the early John Conlee albums.
What about the PRS with the black middle pickup?
He just made that for me. I’ve known Paul for about 20 years; he, Tom Anderson, and James Tyler all make fantastic guitars. Paul sent it to me, and it sounds older, and more musical than most new guitars. On youtube.com, you can check out that guitar on a PRS demonstration I did with Gary Grainger. Most new guitars just sound new. This one sounds like an old guitar. I used it a bunch on the newest Montgomery Gentry album.
The Jerry Jones Sitar.
I use that once every three or four years. Sometimes I double parts with it to add a clavanova effect. I used it on the recent Joe Nichols single “It Ain’t No Crime.”
The Glaser Bender guitar.
It was one of the first double-bender instruments that he made. I loved the sound of the Eagles “Peaceful Easy Feeling.” I used it on Lorrie Morgan’s “Sure Is Monday,” and “Daddy Never Was The Cadillac Kind,” by Confederate Railroad.
What about this incredible Cherry dot-neck Gibson ES-335?
It’s a 1960 that I bought that from Corner Music years ago. I used that on “Too Cold At Home,” by Mark Chesnutt.
The Tyler.
That’s one that James made for himself. I played it, he let me borrow it, and I sent him a check instead of the guitar! I used it on the long outro on Mark Chesnutt’s “I’ll Think Of Something.” It was also on John Michael Montgomery’s “I Love The Way You Love Me,” and Joe Nichols’ “Man With A Memory.”
How essential is having a collection of guitars to session playing?
It’s not essential, but different guitars and amps make me play differently. It also helps me keep from having a “signature sound.”
In the early 1990s you performed on the “American Music Shop” on TNN. How did that come about?
Mark O’Connor called and asked if I would be in the band. We had Jerry Douglas, Harry Stinson, Matt Rollings, and Glenn Worf. It was a great band, and everyone from Bruce Hornsby to Gatemouth Brown to Tony Rice played on the show. I got to play Tony Rice’s guitar. One of the funniest things was having Larry Carlton on. We wanted to play songs like “Room 335,” but he wanted to do things like “Steel Guitar Rag.” Vince Gill was also part of the band, and we were both very much in awe of Larry. That show was a lot of fun. I hope someday it’ll be rebroadcast.
How did you get into producing records?
I never set out to do it. I’d thought about it, but decided that if I was going to do it, it was going to have to be great, because I can do good all day. Production takes a whole lot of time. My cartage guy kept giving me a tape of Joe Nichols. I met him, and he was five days from moving back to Arkansas. The first song we did was “The Impossible,” and it went to #1 and sold a million units. The next act I produced was Julie Roberts, and her album did really well, also. I look for artists who talk to my heart.
Do you play all the guitar parts on the albums you produce?
Pretty much, except I use Bryan Sutton or Mac McAnally on acoustic. On Blake Shelton’s record, I made Blake play acoustic, which really helped make it sound even more uniquely like his record. The latest single, “Home” is a huge hit, and it was really gratifying to Blake that he had such a part not only vocally, but musically.
Who do you most get into listening to right now?
Tom Petty and Mike Campbell. I have Wildflowers in one car and Highway Companion in the other. Those albums have all the tone, taste, and soul that you would ever need. I still love Andrew Gold’s playing. I’ll buy whatever Mark Knopfler does. And somebody who really surprises me is John Mayer. I love guys who play from the heart. Who cares how fast you can play? Does it come from the heart? That’s all that matters.
This article originally appeared in VG‘s December 2008 issue. All copyrights are by the author and Vintage Guitar magazine. Unauthorized replication or use is strictly prohibited. Brent Rowan & Gary Grainger in the PRS booth
1964 Gretsch 6126 Astro-Jet, serial number 64016. Photo: Michael Wright.
“Meet George Jetson! And his boy Elroy!”
The year was supposed to be 2062 AD, but it was really 1962 when the catchy theme song introducing the characters in the Hanna-Barbera television cartoon show was first heard by American kids. The white-collar sitcom equivalent of the blue-collar Flintstones, the Jetsons sported space-age hovercraft, a robotic maid, and a house clearly inspired by Edward Carlson’s Space Needle, built for the Seattle World’s Fair in 1961. But the Jetsons were still a typical middle-class family, with teenager problems, an annoying little kid, and of course, the family dog, Astro. The iconic cartoon ran for about six months before settling in to a lifetime of reruns. So it shouldn’t come as much of a surprise that when Gretsch guitars wanted to create a hip “space-age” image with a new, modern guitar design in 1964, it chose to name the model the Astro-Jet, inspired by the television show! Is it also a dog? Well, that’s a matter of perspective!
The Fred Gretsch Manufacturing Company was founded in Brooklyn in 1883 by Friedrich Gretsch, an immigrant from Mannheim, Germany. Upon his death in 1895, the company went to Fred Gretsch, Sr., who ran it until 1942 and during whose tenure appeared Gretsch’s first acoustic archtops and flat-tops. Fred, Sr. was succeeded by his sons, Bill and Fred, Jr., though Fred left, only to return to the helm after Bill’s passing in 1948. It was under Fred, Jr. that Gretsch entered the electric-guitar arena, producing some of the most highly respected hollowbody electrics of the 1950s.
Among the Gretsch Company’s assets in the ’50s was a young guitar player by the name of James Donart “Jimmie” Webster. Born in Van Wert, Ohio, on August 11, 1908, Webster reportedly was descended from both Daniel Webster and President John Quincy Adams! Clearly, he was from a musical family because his sister, Virginia, was a jazz pianist. Jimmie lived for a time in Toledo during the ’30s, where he met pickup pioneer Harry DeArmond, who performed and taught there. According to several sources, including longtime Gretsch employee, the late Duke Kramer, it was Harry who first showed Webster how to hammer-on, but it’s not known whether this very old technique was an already developed tapping system in DeArmond’s hands or used simply to demonstrate the sensitivity of his new pickups. In any case, Webster would thereafter be identified as the master of two-handed tapping.
Webster later moved to Long Island, New York, where he married (and played guitar for) female jazz band leader L’Ana. He served as a musician in Iceland in World War II, and after the war began a life-long association with Gretsch. In 1952, he published his landmark tapping guitar method.
At some point around this time, Webster began traveling as an ambassador for Gretsch, performing at clinics where he would demonstrate his two-handed tapping to scores of eager youngsters who would be converted to, or at least greatly influenced by, Webster. Equally influential was his use of a Gretsch White Falcon, which also converted multitudes to DeArmond-equipped Gretsch guitars (which was, of course, the whole point!). In late ’58, Webster went into the recording studio and cut 1959’s Webster’s Un’a-bridged, one of the classic tapping records (and definitely worth seeking out), for RCA. Jimmie’s ancestor, Daniel, is famously known for his Unabridged Dictionary… Certainly young Jimmie defined his form!
Back to Gretsch. In 1954, seeing Gibson’s success with the Les Paul model, Gretsch introduced it’s first line of “solidbodies,” the black Duo-Jet, Silver Jet, and Round-Up. These were, in reality, semi-hollowbodies and relatively up-market, finished (except for the walnut Round-Up) in drum plastic. These were followed by the red Fire-Jet. Gretsch had some success with these models. In ’61, Gibson switched to the new double-cutaway SG body style and Gretsch answered with its own Jet Stream double-cuts. 1961 also saw the debut of Gretsch’s first lower-end guitars, the truly solidbody, double-cutaway Corvettes, outfitted with DeArmond Hi-Lo ‘Tron pickups. The original slab-bodied Corvettes were given a remake the following year with more pointed horns and some body sculpting to compete more closely with the Gibson SG. Curiously, at this time, Gretsch began to source Jim Burns vibratos from Burns of London.
Around this time, Gretsch decided to go space-age. As often before, the company turned to stalwart spokesman Jimmie Webster for input. According to Duke Kramer, Webster’s charge was to create a guitar with that “Gretsch sound,” but one that didn’t look like a Gretsch. The result was the 1964 6126 Astro-Jet shown here. At least in terms of the objective, this guitar was a success. The sound is Gretsch and it sure doesn’t look much like one!
From a design standpoint, the Astro-Jet was a kind of Corvette on acid. The upper horn was thicker, and the four-and-two head was given a… well, you describe it! Typical of most Gretsch electrics, Astro-Jets were finished two-tone, with red fronts and a black back. For all the weirdness, these were actually pretty high-end guitars. The bodies were solid mahogany with set mahogany necks and bound ebony fingerboards with the “thumbprint” neo-classical design introduced in the late ’50s. They sported a pair of DeArmond Super ‘Tron twin-blade humbuckers controlled by individual volume knobs plus a master volume, three-way pickup select, three-way tone select (mid-bass, treble, heavy bass), and a three-way standby toggle (don’t ask me!). The vibrato was by Burns.
Unlike the Jetsons, the Astro-Jet did not take off or enjoy many reruns. Its only catalog appearance was in 1965. In ’67, Gretsch was bought by the Baldwin Piano and Organ company, which since 1965 had also owned Burns of London. Increasingly, Burns features began making their way onto Gretsch guitars. It’s not known how many Astro-Jets were ever produced, but the model only limped on until 1967 or possibly ’68, and there were probably not many. Ironically, what was meant to look futuristic when it debuted is now definitely “dated” as a highly desirable relic of the Swinging ’60s. One of stranger episodes in the Gretsch saga that now rates as quite collectible!
This article originally appeared in VG‘s May ’07 issue. All copyrights are by the author and Vintage Guitar magazine. Unauthorized replication or use is strictly prohibited.
Gibson F-5 mandolins signed by Lloyd Loar from mid 1922 to 1924 are considered the Holy Grail by most American mandolin players.
Within that group of grails, however, are a few that to bluegrass aficionados are the holiest of the holy.
These F-5s have a date of July 9, 1923, and were built with “side binding” – three-ply binding oriented so the black/white/black lines are visible from the sides of the instrument, rather than from the front.
The specific date and the odd ornamentation seem to be arbitrary requirements for elevation to holiest-of-holy status, but there is a simple explanation: those are the features of Bill Monroe’s F-5, the instrument with which Monroe made his name as the “Father of Bluegrass.”
When it was introduced in 1922, the F-5 represented the perfection of the carved-top, scroll-body mandolin. As most of the mandolin world knows, the carved-top mandolin was Orville Gibson’s invention and the foundation for the Gibson company, which was organized in 1902. The company’s top model for its first 20 years was the F-4, which featured a distinctive scroll on the upper bass bout as well as scrolls on either side of the headstock. Like virtually all mandolins of that time, it had an oval soundhole.
Among the many F-4 players in the early 1900s was a graduate of Oberlin Conservatory named Lloyd Loar. He also had an interest in the science of acoustics, and in 1920 Gibson hired him to design instruments, including a new line of mandolins. Loar, who also played viola, brought the concepts of f-holes and tone-bar bracing from the violin to the new Gibson Style 5 mandolin. He also designed a longer neck (though not a longer scale), which not only gave the player more access to the higher register, it moved the bridge closer to the middle of the body. That, combined with the f-holes, gave the F-5 a markedly different sound from the F-4. Just before Loar’s models were ready for market, Gibson introduced a height-adjustable bridge and an adjustable truss rod, and these innovations were incorporated into Loar’s Style 5 Master Models. All of the Style 5 mandolin-family instruments were personally inspected by Loar and had a dated label with his signature.
Despite the F-5’s improvements, no one would have predicted that it would achieve the legendary status it has today. First of all, the mandolin era was over. Musicians who played the popular music of the ’20s had switched from mandolin to tenor banjo. Gibson’s goal in hiring Loar had been to revive interest in the mandolin, but the F-5 had about the same chance of success in the Jazz Age of the 1920s as an improved acoustic archtop would have had in the ’60s. On top of that, not all mandolin players of the ’20s shared the opinion of today’s bluegrass crowd. Julius Bellson, longtime Gibson employee and historian, said he preferred the oval hole of the Gibson F-4 to the f-holes of the F-5. Walter Kaye Bauer, who was featured in one of the earliest photos of an artist with an F-5, liked f-hole mandolins but always maintained that Loar put the f-holes in the wrong place, that they should have been smaller and much closer to the neck.
At an initial price of $200, which was raised to $250 in 1923, the F-5 was expensive compared to the $150 Martin charged for its top guitar model, the 000-45. But the F-5 was still less expensive than many professional-grade tenor banjos. Commercially, it was only a marginal success, selling about as well as could be expected in a dwindling mandolin market. And in terms of achieving the company’s goal of reviving that market, the F-5 was a complete failure. Gibson’s financial troubles continued, and after a management shakeup, Loar bailed out at the end of 1924.
In the two-and-a-half-year span in which Loar signed labels, a number of variations of the F-5 appeared, as the peghead inlay went from flowerpot to fern, metal plating went from silver to gold, and some were fitted with a Virzi Tone Producer (an internal baffle). Perhaps the oddest change occurred in mid 1923, when some were made with what appeared from a front view to be single-ply body binding. Only when the mandolin was viewed from the side were the white-black-white lines visible.
Gibson continued to offer the F-5, even though the mandolin remained deep in the shadow of the tenor banjo and, by the early 1930s, the guitar. Apparently there was enough demand for mandolins in the early 1930s to warrant a pair of new Gibsons with the scroll-body and f-holes but with the shorter neck of the F-4. One musician who found this to be a good combination of features was a young Kentuckian who played country music with his brother. By the time the Monroe Brothers made their first recordings in 1936, Bill was playing his lighting-fast mandolin runs on a Gibson F-7, one of those short-neck, f-hole models. The brothers split and Bill made a smashing debut with his own band on the Grand Ole Opry in 1939. In ’43 – coincidentally, the same year Lloyd Loar died – Monroe was on tour in Florida when he came across a used F-5 in a barber shop. The date on the label – July 9, 1923 – and the presence of unusual “side binding” would have meant nothing to him. But the sound impressed him so much he bought it for $150, which at the time was about half the price of a new F-5.
The raw power and the cutting midrange tone of Monroe’s F-5 was perfect for his music, and as he became a revered icon, his mandolin became an integral part of his artistic persona. Bluegrass mandolinists who wanted to get to the essence of Monroe’s mandolin style simply had to have a mandolin like Monroe’s. But that was never easy. Estimating from the number of known Loar-signed F-5s documented by Darryl Wolfe in his F-5 Journal, there are somewhere in the neighborhood of 300 in existence. To put this in perspective with other Holy Grail instruments, that’s more than the 91 pre-war Martin D-45s, but far less than the estimated 1,500 sunburst Les Pauls from 1958-’60.
Even though the Loar-signed F-5 became widely recognized as the best mandolin of its type ever made, not all F-5s sounded like Monroe’s. So, as mandolin players sought to get closer to Monroe, the July 9 date took on a special significance. Fortunately for those on a quest for a July 9, that was Loar’s most prolific day for signing labels, and 50 or more F-5s have that date. To get even closer to Monroe’s mandolin, a July 9 had to have “side binding” – a purely cosmetic feature found on maybe 20 percent of the July 9 mandolins (the F-5 Journal has documented 10). Even within those strict parameters, there is yet another level of hierarchy; a side-bound July 9 with a serial number closer to Monroe’s #73987 is preferable to one with a more distant serial number.
In 2005, Monroe’s side-bound July 9 sold for over $1 million. Other side-bound July 9 examples don’t bring that kind of money, of course, but they are among the most highly revered vintage fretted instruments.
This article originally appeared in VG‘s October 2007 issue. All copyrights are by the author and Vintage Guitar magazine. Unauthorized replication or use is strictly prohibited.
Rock-and-roll pioneer Bo Diddley died of heart failure June 2 at his home in Florida. He was 79 years old.
Born Otha EllasBates in Mississippi in 1928, in the ’50s, Diddley adapted the blues and folk music of his native state and combined them with African rhythms to devise the trademark rhythmic-guitar beat that was later given his name. That rhythm laid the groundworkfor many rock and roll performers and songs including Buddy Holly and the Rolling Stones (“Not Fade Away”), Johnny Otis (“Willie and the Hand Jive”), the Strangeloves (“I Want Candy,” covered by ’80s new-wave band Bow Wow Wow), and U2 (“Desire”). There are myriad examples.
Look for a complete remembrance in the September issue of Vintage Guitar.
Bo Diddley Is A Conversationalist
“Retro, my ass,” opined an acquaintance of this writer. “This thing rocks!”
He was referring to the latest audio offering from the redoubtable Bo Diddley, whose unique music (not to mention unique, percussive musical beat) has been on the popular music scene for over 40 years. Diddley’s recent album, A Man Amongst Men, is a tour dé force produced by British veteran Mike Vernon, and the recording features guest appearances by Keith Richards, Ron Wood, Richie Sambora, the Shirelles, Johnny “Guitar” Watson, and Jimmie Vaughan, among others.
Then there are the unique guitars Bo Diddley has brandished throughout his career. In a recent conversation from his home in central Florida, the venerable veteran discussed his music and instruments, and one of his more eloquent opinions concerned the current rap entertainment phenomenon:
Vintage Guitar: You’re one of the few musicians, if not the only musician, who has a beat named after him, and one profile I read speculated it was something you picked up on in Mississippi and “refined” once you moved to Chicago. Bo Diddley That’s not what happened. I was a very small child when I left Mississippi, and I came up with that beat by beating and banging on a guitar when I was about 15 or 16 years old. I was trying to come up with something that I wanted to hear on drums.
What was your reaction when the “Bo Diddley beat” turned up on songs by other performers? I’m thinking of songs like “Not Fade Away” and “Willie and the Hand Jive.”
I didn’t like it at first, because I wasn’t educated in understanding the importance of other people copying your material. When I found out it was good for Bo Diddley, I said: “Hey, copy it of ’em!” (chuckles). I thought I could go to the bank with royalties, but that never happened.
One classic black and white video clip from the ’50s shows you on the right, and Jerome Green is on the left with his maracas; I think you’re singing “Bo Diddley.” That looks like a Harmony Stratotone you’re playing.
That’s a Gretsch Jet Firebird. I liked the color of that guitar, its shape, and the neck. I used to have a Harmony, but I don’t remember ever playing it onstage. Not long after that, Gretsch built that square guitar for me, and they ended up building three or four different styles I designed.
Of the guitars you’ve designed over the years, which style came first?
The square guitar. I made one when I was a teenager; its pickup was the part of a Victrola record player where the needle went in. I clamped it to the metal tailpiece to pick up the vibrations. I wasn’t able to buy electric guitars back then, so I built them, and they worked pretty good. Somebody stole the square guitar I built, but in 1958 Gretsch made me one with DeArmond pickups. They only made one authorized square guitar, but I’ve seen other unauthorized models out there. I’m not sure how that happened; maybe it had something to do with the times when the Gretsch company was closed up.
I thought my manager had copyrighted all my designs, but that wasn’t the case. One teardrop-style I designed looked a lot like an Ovation model that came out a while back.
Then there’s the style your fans call the “Cadillac” guitar; you called it the “Jupiter Thunderbird.”
Gretsch made two of those for me, and then about 15 years ago, Tom Holmes, from Tennessee, made some. He’s a fantastic builder, and he makes fantastic pickups, too.
I’m still designing instruments. I designed one called the “Drumstick;” I built one for my daughter, and I have two here. You play it like a drum, and I’m looking at trying to get it on the market. There are times when I get tired of listening to the same old instrument sounds, and what I’ve been designing sounds different. I’m still coming up with ideas. When you quit thinking, it’s all over!
The square guitar you’ve been seen with recently has an “Unleaded Fuel Only” sticker and humbucking pickups.
That was made by Kid Guitars, in Japan. I have another square guitar that was built by Roadrunner Guitars in France; it’s a beautiful instrument.
Do you primarily use the square guitars at concerts these days?
Sometimes I’ll take something else out there, just to freak people out (chuckles). Somebody in the audiences will ask where the square guitar is, and sometimes I feel like saying “What did you come here to see, the guitar or me?”
There was some backstage dialogue heard on the soundtrack to the 1972 concert movie, Let The Good Times Roll; it sounded like the members of a doo-wop group who were worried about having to follow you onstage. One of them opined: “Bo Diddley gonna kill us!” Details?
That was the Crests. They’re my buddies, and we used to have fun like that. One group would go onstage and do such a great job that other groups on the same show would be saying things like “That ain’t fair” when the one onstage would come off. But we never really did try to outdo one another; we all just tried to put on a good show and give the audience their money’s worth…and that’s still the case for me.
You’ve also been seen on TV in more than one venture. There was the George Thorogood “Bad to the Bone” video.
Willie Mosconi was in that as well; he played “Mr. Big,” with the pretty girl, and I blew his money (laughs). George has been a good friend of mine for a long time. He and his band are fantastic entertainers.
I thought Thorogood showed some class by bringing you and Albert Collins onstage at Live Aid.
That was great. Live Aid was good, if the people we were doing it for got all of the aid, and I’ve had some very funky thoughts about that.
What about the TV ads with Bo Jackson?
It was really great that Nike gave me that kind of exposure. We had a good time doing that, but Bo Jackson can’t play guitar (laughs).
Your new album, A Man Amongst Men, has some songs on it that are straight blues tunes instead of R & B or rock. The album’s producer, Mike Vernon, had produced British blues bands like Fleetwood Mac and Savoy Brown back in the ’60s. Did that have anything to do with the mix of the material?
Not really. I’ve known Mike for many years, but this was the first time we’d worked together. I’ve got a repertoire of all kinds of songs; R & B songs, blues songs, funny songs, and sometimes I write songs in the studio. I think the blend of songs on this album turned out pretty good.
You see, I have to come up with the right songs on a record, and onstage as well, and after 40 years, I’ve learned how to work an audience and make people happy; I know how to handle a stage.
Are you saying that in concert, there can be a difference between a “musician” and an “entertainer that plays music?”
You have to be a showman, and that’s what I try to be on the stage, and even when I record. There’s a song on the new album called Bo Diddley is Crazy, and it’s just a basic, fun song that makes people jump. That’s what I’m talking about.
Another song on A Man Amongst Men that ought to get folks’ attention is “Kids Don’t Do It,” which has some rap on it.
That’s my grandson, Philosopher G. He’s a rapper, but he’s also an elementary school teacher. “Kids Don’t Do It” is positive rap, not dirt. One writer who heard it thought the song was lame, and I don’t understand why someone would think that, because the song is saying the right things that kids need to hear: don’t bring guns to school, stay away from drugs and gangs, get an education. I asked that writer what he thought I should say to the kids, and he couldn’t answer me, so that told me something right there.
And I can’t get this song played on the air, and that’s something I don’t understand: why the disc jockeys wouldn’t play a positive song like this, but they’ll play a lot of garbage for the kids.
Do you think rap is “music,” or perhaps “entertainment with a beat?”
It’s not music, and the young people that are doing it need to understand that. It’s a bunch of rhythm patterns with a guy who’s talking the lyrics instead of singing them. A lot of those performers can’t sing, and they’re making all kinds of money talking about carrying guns and shooting people. I knew a change was in the wind when that song called “I Shot the Sheriff” became a hit; I said: “Uh-oh, the doors are fixin’ to open for some crap to come out.”
Now they’ve got all these songs about looking under womens’ clothes. I don’t like that crap because my mama’s a woman, you know? I think it’s in bad taste and disrespectful. There’s a line in “Kid Don’t Do It” that says “Where did the respect go?”
And that line is repeated over and over, apparently for emphasis.
BD: That’s exactly how it’s supposed to be, and I can’t get that song played. Why? Not all rap is bad, but I don’t like the dirty stuff.
I have a studio, and I let other people use it, but I tell them when they first get here that regardless of what they think of me, if I find out they’re bringing any drugs in, I’m going to call the police. Scott “Scooter” Smith and I will try to help if someone’s doing something that has got decent lyrics or a positive message, but I feel as strongly about dirty lyrics as I do about some dude coming into my place drunk, or who’s been smokin’ roots or sniffin’ dummy dust.
I think that’s the first time I’ve heard the term “dummy dust” applied to the subject.
That’s because it ain’t nothin’ but dust, and ain’t nothin’ but a dummy uses it! That’s just the way I am about such things. The record companies should look take a hard look at what they’re doing, and the messages that are being sent; they need to stop thinking about the almighty dollar.
I understand that the numerous guest stars on A Man Amongst Men got in touch with you when they heard you were making an album; you didn’t have to contact them first, for the most part.
That’s right, but we lost Johnny Watson a while back. My album was the last thing he played on. He was a wonderful entertainer. I had fun playing with everyone; I’ve known the Shirelles for years, and they still sound good.
Have you done any touring to promote the album?
I did a few things overseas, and I’m thinking about doing something at home. There’s a lot of people in the younger generation who don’t know who Bo Diddley is. I want to work at home, where I started and where I created the message.
I can identify with country singers like Charlie Pride and Waylon Jennings; they can’t get their records played either, because we ain’t wearin’ tight pants no more (laughs)!
Think you’ll ever retire?
Oh yeah, eventually. I ain’t gonna stay out there until I need somebody to carry me onstage. I want to enjoy life and go at my own pace; go when I want to go and stay home when I want to stay home. I’ll still play a few gigs, but I’m not going onstage in a wheelchair. That’s not smart for any performer; I don’t care how much you love playing, you’ve got to have a little time for yourself. I’ve been going this for 40 years, so I think people can understand why someone like me would feel like that.
It’s obvious Bo Diddley’s conversational abilities (and his opinions) are as straightforward as his music. In the glut of hype and B.S. that seems to be predominant in the popular music scene these days, such plain talk should be appreciated by music fans, and it’s all the more gratifying that such pronouncements are those of a guitar mentor who’s been rockin’ on for over four decades. This Bo really knows.
This article originally appeared in VG‘s June 1997 issue. All copyrights are by the author and Vintage Guitar magazine. Unauthorized replication or use is strictly prohibited. Bo Diddley in 1966
Ca. 1875 J. Howard Foote Parlor guitar, SN 654. Photo: Michael Wright.
P.T. Barnum probably didn’t coin the classic modern truism “There’s a sucker born every minute,” even though it does fit well with the Barnum legacy! Most of us know Barnum because of his traveling circus, The Greatest Show on Earth, later the Barnum & Bailey Circus, but that was really almost an afterthought from the end of his life. Far fewer of us know that he was perhaps the greatest promotion man who ever lived, and that he arguably had more impact on the development of popular American culture as it emerged in the 19th century than any other single person. But what has he got to do with this guitar?
Phineas Taylor Barnum was born in Bethel (now Fairfield), Connecticut. His father died when he was very young and he set about making his fortune variously as a grocer, lottery agent, newspaperman, and exhibitor of “curiosities,” early famous examples being Joyce Heth, the “161-year-old slave,” and the “Fiji Mermaid,” a clever fusion of a fish with the head and torso of a female orangutan! By 1841, he was prosperous enough to purchase New York’s American Museum, in Lower Manhattan, which would become his life’s great work.
American museums had begun in Philadelphia with Peale’s Museum (Barnum later purchased the collection), a combination of Linnaean classification of natural history, paintings, artifacts, and amusing oddities to entertain the public. Barnum’s American Museum expanded on these themes, interspersing scientific wonders (he was a major supporter of the excavation of dinosaurs!) with miniature models of cities, mummies, live animals (like giraffes), America’s first aquarium (including whales!), and exotic people, including fat ladies, giants, trapeze artists, Eng and Chang (the first “Siamese” twins), and General Tom Thumb. Various exhibits and members of his museum family regularly toured America and Europe.
The American Museum also had a theater, and Barnum employed a company with some of the best actors in America. At a low point in American thespianism, he invented the first “family” oriented theater, barring liquor and whores and only presenting plays suitable for the little lady and the kids.
P.T. Barnum was also one of the early American music promoters, his most stunning achievement being to convince the most famous female singer of the century, the “Swedish Nightingale” Jenny Lind, to tour America in 1850. She swept the nation off its feet, a la The Beatles 113 years later! Perhaps you see where we’re heading…
Rewind to the late 18th century, when the practice of white folks performing skits in burnt cork “blackface” began to appear, mainly a highly racist art form that ridiculed slaves. In the late 1820s comedian Thomas Dartmouth Rice observed a comical black man doing a dance routine and enshrined it in the song “Jump Jim Crow,” performing it in blackface with great success on New York stages for years, including at Barnum’s American Museum. American Minstrelsy was born.
Circa 1840, a musical group called the Tyrolese Minstrel Family toured America singing middle European folk songs. This gave unemployed actors Dan Emmett (composer of “Dixie”), Frank Bower, Frank Pelham, and Billy Whitlock the idea to do an American version. They formed the Virginia Minstrels, performing in blackface with banjos at Barnum’s museum in New York in 1843. Barnum put them under contract and they had a successful run, after which he sent them on a European tour. In the spring of 1846, among the musicians taking Barnum’s stage was a young man called Bini “the Amazing Guitarist.”
Little is known of Joseph E. Bini’s origins or career. By the 1830s, at the height of Mauro Giuliani’s popularity in England, it was not uncommon for European guitar “virtuosi” to visit and settle in the New World. We do know that, in addition to performing, he built guitars, including the one shown here made for J. Howard Foote. He lived in Mount Vernon, New York, north of the city. In 1867, Bini was granted a patent for a novel bracing system that was basically a hybrid X- and fan-bracing pattern. According to the patent, it was intended to distribute the treble frequencies more evenly over the guitar. According to Michael Holmes’ list of American manufacturers (see mugwumps.com), Bini may have built guitars until 1901 or later.
John Howard Foote is equally mysterious. He apparently was a musical instrument importer and retailer with shops in New York and Chicago. He was known for selling violins (made in Mittenwald, Germany), horns, Matchless banjos (made in New York by Buckbee), and guitars, including this one made by Bini. Again according to Holmes, Foote’s business was around from 1835 to 1904.
This Foote/Bini guitar is a handsome little beast that features “Bini’s Improvement,” his elaborate bracing system. Like most 19th-century guitars, it has a solid spruce top with colored wood marquetry. The body is solid Brazilian rosewood, the nice V boat-neck is mahogany. The fingerboard is ebony with pearl diamond and snowflake inlays. The tuners are modern replacements, the original soft brass having warped irreparably (replacement nut, saddle, and pins, too). This is currently strung with a set of gut strings (nylon basses). It’s not certain when this guitar was made, but it was probably after Bini’s patent, so probably 1870 or later.
So, does Bini’s Improvement work? Well, it is a nice idea, very ahead of its time, but with gut strings, it’s no better than a ladder-braced guitar, and indeed, many are better-sounding. It’s possible that silk and steels, which became popular after 1880, might sing nicely, but using them could be risky for the top and neck.
Still, this is a nice example of a 19th-century guitar that serves to bring two more names of that era – Joseph Bini and Howard Foote – to our attention. Or perhaps three, because without P.T. Barnum’s active promotion of American music in general and Bini the Amazing Guitarist, in particular, who knows if these creations would ever have been born for suckers like us to enjoy?
This article originally appeared in VG‘s Dec. ’05 issue. All copyrights are by the author and Vintage Guitar magazine. Unauthorized replication or use is strictly prohibited.
The eleventh instrument made by Paul Reed Smith, from 1977. Photo by Whitney Lane.
Rick Kennell, bassist for ’70s prog-rockers Happy the Man, was one of the very first players to jump aboard the Paul Reed Smith bandwagon.
After learning to play bass on short-scale Fender Mustangs and Gibson EB-0s, in HTM Kennell used two full-scale models – a ’71 Fender Jazz and an early-’70s Rickenbacker 4001 – but because his hands were small for the instrument, both presented ergonomic issues.
About the time Happy the Man was preparing to record its first album, Paul Reed Smith had started building instruments in his shop in Annapolis, Maryland. Kennell was referred to him by members of another Washington D.C. area band called Artful Dodger. When he first visited Smith’s shop, Kennell admired a fretless bass made for Stan Sheldon, who was then playing in Peter Frampton’s band. Kennell decided to order a bass with a medium scale, and the instrument – just the seventh made by Smith – arrived with a natural-finished mahogany body outfitted with a Bartolini Hi-A Beast pickup near the neck and a Rickenbacker pickup in the bridge position.
“The Rick pickup was totally my idea,” Kennell recounted. “I wanted the crunch I got from my old Rick, and that was the best way I knew to achieve it.”
The bass was delivered to Kennell in September of ’76 while he was at A&M Studios in Hollywood, where Happy the Man was recording its first album. It arrived after basic tracks had been recorded with the Rick 4001, though Kennell did overdub one song using the Smith instrument. Unfortunately, its neck warped and in early ’77 it went back to Smith for repair and Kennell was loaned another bass. The original proved irreparable, and rather than wait for Smith to build another, Kennell held on to the replacement. “I felt bad because he needed to sell it to pay rent,” Kennell said.
The basses were virtually identical except that the replacement, which was Smith’s eleventh overall instrument, had just one Hi-A pickup. “The original was much lighter both in the color of the mahogany and its weight, and it had a much thinner neck – much flatter, more like a Rickenbacker shape. I think Paul was enamored with the way number seven came out and built number 11 as its twin, but shaped the neck more to his liking – it was much rounder.”
“Number 11” has a set neck and exemplifies the meticulous handcrafted elegance of early PRS instruments. Its neck and body are Honduras mahogany, the fretboard is Brazilian rosewood, and there’s a maple strip down the center of the back of the neck. The bird-shaped inlays on the fretboard and eagle inlay on the headstock are mother-of-pearl. Dot markers on the side of the fretboard are sterling silver. One of the more interesting details is the neck binding, which is made from the fretboard’s own wood! Kennell said Smith would, “…shave a sliver of rosewood from the length of each side of the fingerboard, mount the frets, then glue the strips back in so you couldn’t see the [tangs]. It is incredible craftsmanship, and has held up very well.”
The tuners on number 11 are by Schaller, and the strings anchor in a Leo Quan Badass bridge/tailpiece.
Again, number 11 began as a single-pickup instrument. But after Kennell and Smith reconciled over Kennell’s refusal to return number 11, Smith installed the Rickenbacker pickup that had been in number 7.
“Paul used to come to Happy the Man shows,” the bassist recalled. “A couple months after he installed the Rick pickup, he asked if he could rewind it, as he wasn’t satisfied with the sound. I said ‘Sure,’ so he rewound it to give a little less ‘clack’ and more upper mids.”
Controls on this bass include a volume knob and a nine-position rotary tone switch. The pickup switching system is unique; the three-position mini-toggle between the two knobs is an on/off switch for the Rickenbacker pickup only, while the Hi-A can be cut by pulling up on the Volume control.
On the second album by Happy the Man, Crafty Hands, Kennell used number 11 exclusively. The band broke up after that album, and Kennell says he played it on subsequent demos and live material.
Happy the Man regrouped in 2000 and in ’04 released The Muse Awakens, on which Kennell played two custom-made Keith Roscoe medium-scale basses with piezo pickups. He also owns a medium-scale Fender Stu Hamm signature bass and a short-scale Rob Allen Mouse he uses for songwriting. For sentimental and monetary reasons, number 11 no longer leaves his house.
Now more than 30 years old, this instrument was a harbinger of the finely crafted instruments that would ultimately make Paul Reed Smith one of today’s most recognized guitar makers.
This article originally appeared in VG‘s July 2008 issue. All copyrights are by the author and Vintage Guitar magazine. Unauthorized replication or use is strictly prohibited.
