Bottom-End, Writings and Reviews from Music Producer Pete Strobl

My mom makes an insane apple strudel. She is the Eddie Van Halen of apple strudel. I can state with authority that, in the world of apple strudel baking, she stands alone at the crest of Mount Olympus. Over the years she has often been asked to share her recipe and she has answered that this would be impossible because there is none. She bakes “by ear” as it were and duplicating her techniques would be on a par with replicating Van Halen’s “Eruption” by reading the notes. What is a slice of mom’s apple strudel worth? Who knows…but if just anyone could make her strudel, the commercial value would surely be diminished.

Technological advances have now made it possible for anyone to produce music at ever higher levels of quality. The ingredients are available by mail order and step by step instructions for virtually any recipe can be found online. At long last the playing field has been made level and anyone can be a rock star. But if anyone can be a rock star what happens to the commercial value of music?

There have always been great musical artists who have labored in obscurity. By the same token (anyone who can explain just exactly what that phrase means will be sent a prize…I just think it sounds pretty good, don’t you?) there has always been a huge amount of very average music produced by very average musicians. As the cost of recording plummets, high quality recordings can now be made by virtually anyone. And, as the sonic quality of home recording approaches professional standards, the value of the term “professional” is losing stock rapidly.

Professionals are recognized by their peers as having a given level of knowledge, expertise and a higher standard of ability than that of the general population. Lawyers go to school and have to pass the bar exam before they are accepted by other lawyers as professionals. Doctors and auto mechanics are also expected to know more about medicine or internal combustion than their clients. But in the field of commercial music, the roles of musician, engineer and producer are fast becoming name tags pinned to the same hat.

Sir George Martin was once asked why the recordings of the 60s and 70s are so well respected. After thinking over the question, Martin answered that, during that mythical era, there were a lot of people who were awfully good at what they did. Professional songwriters wrote for professional singers who made recordings backed by professional musicians playing professionally prepared arrangements in professional studios with professional engineers at the controls. And all of this under the watchful eyes of professional producers assigned to the project by professional A&R managers.

The word “professional” inserted before every job description in this scenario dictates that there were three truths at work. First, there was a definitive division of labor. Engineers engineered, musicians played their instruments, producers produced etc. Second, everyone involved was expected to be an expert at their job, and third, everyone was paid well. Where did the money come from? A professional record company who was not about to put an expensive production into the hands of amateurs. And why would a record company fund such a project? Because they knew that they would have a reasonable chance to make a profit. And why would they think that they could make a profit? Because every professional record company has a professional marketing department and a professional promotions department as insurance that their products will find their way into the hands of consumers. And all of this costs a boatload of money.

The internet record label Sellaband has stepped into the chaos of today’s music recording and marketing landscape holding the carrot of a professionally produced and manufactured album under the nose of anyone with the ability to sell 5000 units at $10.00 a pop. The actual recording budget, less manufacturing and other costs is in the neighborhood of $30,000. To those accustomed to the numbers associated with major label budgets, this is a pittance, while to many unknown and less experienced artists, this budget could could very well provide the product that could launch a career. And when I say “launch” I mean just that. Because the numbers don’t approach what is typically spent on a major label production, there are many corners to be cut, many favors to be called in and many typical label services to be foregone if the final product is to sonically compete with professionally produced recordings.

There was a time, not so many years ago, when having a professionally produced album in hand meant perhaps a great deal more than it does today. One factor in the equation was that a professionally recorded product was, by definition, usually backed by a promotional machine dedicated to making the venture financially viable. In today’s climate the cost of recording music has become affordable to the extent that a $30,000 budget can be manageable. What this means is that a label like Sellaband, which makes no artistic judgements and whose decision of who will make an album is made solely on the ability of artists to raise the required budget, can facilitate the creation of recordings that are paid in full without the cumbersome debt of re-coupable expenses.

But everything positive about a system like Sellaband comes at a price. The relative ease of releasing an album is balanced by the extreme difficulty of creating the demand for the album from the general public. While the cost of making recordings has dropped precipitously due to technological advances and the ability of artists/songwiters to produce and engineer their own music, the machinery of professional promotion has yet to be cracked. Real promotion still costs real money and a label like Sellaband cannot be expected to have the magnitude of required funds available at this early stage of the game.

That is not to say affordable promotional tools are not as available as are the tools to make music. It is remarkable to think that the internet, as Kevin Kelly so vividly describes in his Ted Talk, is only 5000 days old. But the psychology of promotion is still a tool of professionals. The internet offers countless methods whereby an artist can reach a target audience, but in the hands of amateurs these tools have the effect of shotgun blasts loaded with rock salt… plenty of hits but no real damage done. Professional promotion is done with surgical precision. Time is money and energy is not wasted firing scattergun blasts into the crowd. Reaching a worldwide audience is not the issue, but the same taste, discretion and economy of effort that make for notable music and great apple strudel are missing from the arsenal of many self-promoting artists. If attention is the new currency, artists will have to find a way to get and keep attention on their product if they expect to become commercially viable. Every unit sold represents a unit left on the shelves of everyone else with the same access to the the promotional tools available on the internet. There is massive room for growth and creativity as amateurs learn to use these tools with the same skill and precision of professionals. In the meantime, consumers are asked to wade mouse-deep through mega-gigs of homemade websites that feature unreadable red text shimmering on green paisley pages or slow loading flash sites that only the immediate family will have the patience to endure.

Music is an art of emotion. Promotion is not. And this is where artists must evolve if they are to create a marketplace for their products. Music has intrinsic value merely as a window into the heart of the artist who creates it. But commercial value is something altogether different. Creating value for one specific product to the exclusion of others was once as simple as buying cocaine and hookers for radio program directors, renting billboard advertising space, going in debt to the label for tour support and waiting for the money to roll in. Technology has changed all of that and today everyone has equal access and anyone can be a rock star. Getting paid to be a rock star however is the hard part. It’s not enough to be special. Consumers have to know it. The music buying public has to perceive the unique quality that makes a song worthy of a paid download and the work of providing this perception is increasingly being left up to the artist.

One bite of mom’s strudel would convince you of the value of owning a slice. There being only one source makes it a hot commodity. If you could make it yourself, the commercial value of mom’s strudel plummets, unless I could convincingly portray mom’s strudel as being more desirable than that which you can whip up in your home studio. And that is what promotion is all about. It can still cost plenty of money but creative minds thinking outside the restrictions of conventional record label thought could very well break through the money barrier to invent new promotional devices to go along with the exciting new world of music production.

I’VE HAD IT! I’ve had it up to here with beggars. My compassion has finally withered until there is nothing left but a parched and twisted vine, its roots seeking sustenance in the cracking clay that was once fertile ground for an occasional “got any spare change?” The beggars I’m talking about aren’t the rag-clad human lumps who raise a disfigured hand in supplication at the village gates. No, the beggars that have put me over the edge work at what has become the modern version of the village. Every major supermarket is flanked by card shops, fast food outlets and the inevitable designer coffee dispensing clip joints. There was a time when one would go to the market, shop for weekly groceries and head for home. But now there are things to do, places to hang out. The shopping center has become the cultural equivalent of the ancient Greek agora…a meeting place. And the art of institutionalized begging has been refined to take advantage of the crowd gathered for no other purpose than to waste a little time and spend a little money.

Upon entering the modern marketplace it’s not uncommon to to be immediately approached by the old school panhandler. Their approach hasn’t changed much over the years. The real pros have upped the ante from asking for extra change to asking for a dollar and sometimes have the balls to wear better sneakers than their prey. Then there is the rented kid gambit. A doe-eyed woman roams the parking lot holding an infant of spurious origin and begs for everything from money for milk to gas money for the old Datsun crap wagon that sits steaming at the far end of the parking lot.

The latest scam is run by the ostensibly underpaid coffee jockeys who look you square in the eye as the translate your order of a “medium coffee” into Italian gibberish without cracking a smile. On the counter is a cup marked “TIPS.” What it really says is “We don’t get paid enough to pass a cup of coffee across the counter to you, but it’s air-conditioned in here and we don’t really know how to do anything else so can we have some of your ‘extra’ money?” Personally, drinking over-priced coffee with designer names from a paper cup goes against my grain and paying a guilt fee to a pimple-faced snot-nosed kid for pouring it adds insult to acidosis. I bought a nice espresso machine and at three bucks a day it will pay for itself in no time.

But the fun really starts when you hit the main attraction, the supermarket itself. Getting in the door is an exercise in avoiding eye contact with representatives of Greenpeace, Little League fund raisers, Girl Scout cookie hucksters and the guy who asks for a moment of my time to explain how horseback riding excursions for “teens at risk” will lower the odds of my car being stripped in the parking lot by youthful offenders pining for the smell of leather on sweating horseflesh. Jesus, it’s like you have to run the beggars gauntlet just to get in the store.

With the price of energy going through the roof, it follows that the prices of everything in the store have risen proportionately. Everything has to be delivered by internal combustion engines and, once on the shelves, must be cooled or heated accordingly. I can almost feel the magnetic pull on my wallet as I walk up and down the aisles. Back in school I worked at a supermarket and was struck with a combination of disgust and pity whenever the local bums came in to buy crackers and canned cat food with their nickels and dimes. With a box of saltines at over three dollars and cat food out of reach it is no wonder these guys are asking for paper money in the parking lot.

The killer-diller of the day however, is reserved for the check-out counter. After dodging all the money-grabbers going in and choosing which groceries will look the biggest in the basket without having to take out a bank loan, the checkout clerk has the unmitigated balls to ask if I would be interested in donating something to prostrate cancer! That’s not even grammatical begging! I mean, why can’t she say ” Would you like to donate something toward finding a cure for prostrate cancer?” Nope. It’s just “Do you want to give something to prostate cancer?” with a finger pointing at the empty clear plastic cup next to the credit card reader. My first instinct was to pee in the cup.

After assuring the grocery bagger that yes, I could manage to carry my box of saltines and can of tuna livers out of the store under my own steam I am assailed by a last ditch effort to separate me from the last of my “extra” change. At the front of the store next to the managers station is a makeshift jail cell. Employees of the store take turns standing inside the bars and, with a hangdog expression, ask me if I could donate something to get him out of jail…all in the name of some goddamned charity or other.

Now, I can dig the motives of good people trying to raise money for a good cause. But Jesus Henry Christ! I’m paying more for less groceries everyday…and a portion of what I pay for those groceries is providing the hourly wage of a store employee pacing in a makeshift jail like a caged idiot and begging customers for money! I’ve had it! From now on I’ll buy my produce at the farmers market, my meat at the discount supermarket on the other side of town where a chic overpriced coffee place would be laughed out of the parking lot, and my toilet paper and soap at some other goddamned place. I refuse to be guilted out of whatever I have left after battling the beggars just to get into the damned store, and then battling the beggars who I am paying with my grocery money to get back out again.

Beggars…I’ve had it!

My family immigrated to the United States when I was three years old and the trip took twelve days. My latest trip to Austria took much less time but felt every bit as taxing on the nerves. It started out beautifully. I was able to secure an aisle seat in the exit row and settled down to what I thought would be a nice nap for the twelve hour flight into London’s Heathrow airport. Ah, lucky me, my neighbor was a nervous twit who had never flown across water. Every noise, every vibration was cause for a new panic attack. I found myself constantly having to remove my headphones to respond to her inane questions. So, deprived of a good night’s sleep, I made it my duty to torment the girl. Every time I noticed her start to relax, I grabbed the adjoining armrest and said something like,”Did you hear that?” or, “Did you feel something strange…what was that?” Turnabout is fair play after all. And the loss of my nap cost her at least five years in terms of roasted nerve endings.

The kicker was the speedy lay-over at Heathrow. I had never passed through security and from one terminal to the next with such speed…only to be advised at the next gate that my Vienna flight had been cancelled! I was quickly and cheerfully assigned a seat on the very next flight, but when I asked which gate I should go to, the well-mannered British Airways representative let me know that the gate would be announced one hour before boarding. And so I made it a point to stay awake, and also within sight of the departure monitor. I could have taken the nap I missed on the first flight because I stared at that monitor for a full seven hours before the departure information was posted. I did have a chance to inspect the fine products available in EVERY GODDAMNED SHOP in terminal four…at least five times! I realized that I was being looked at askance, for those unfamiliar with the term, it is the way in which one is viewed when a misdemeanor is thought to be imminent.

I finally landed in Vienna at midnight, local time. As I was meant to land at 17:20 (I know, it looks imposing, but it’s just the European way of making 5:20 look important) I was certain that there would be no-one to meet me. Ah, but all travail is rewarded when one is patient. In the time I was delayed at London, Mike Pobisch, Solidtube’s guitarist and songwriter had, upon being informed of the flight cancellation, left the terminal, done a gig in the center of the city, and returned to collect my tired ass. It turns out that Mike has a great command of English, but I’m certain that I was responsible for helping him add a few choice expletives to his arsenal.

So…twenty-four hours en-route and finally in Vienna. What to do, what to do? Drop off Luggage? Get a much-needed shower? Eat? Sleep? HAH!! In Mike I have found a kindred spirit. We are not men to trifle with such things as food, rest or hygiene. From the airport we went immediately to the Casablanca club located in an area of Vienna known as the Bermuda Triangle and the site of many Solidtube gigs. The place is about the size of three of my shoes and it was fortunate that I was wearing only two, otherwise some of the guests would have been forced out the front door.

As it was, I had the time of my life. Mike was a great host and kept one of my hands filled with a large “bierkrug” while the other was occupied shaking hands. We closed the place and I finally hit the manger as the sun was rising.

What I thought would be a restful first day in Vienna was really a continuation of apparently unfinished celebrations. I met with Mike and Mandana in the early afternoon to begin discussions about the way we will be proceeding with the recordings. In the early evening we stopped in at Replugged, the site of the Vienna Calling show to look the place over and speak with the sound crew. Mike then dropped me off at the Postsporthalle so I could meet my son Pete and his wife Sheryl who had just resumed playing with the Flying Foxes basketball team after having her first child. We had a great family reunion and Mike picked me up at 11;00 PM…I mean 23:00. Did we go home? Hah!

Mike had some friends in the car and minutes later I found myself at a club full of carousers. One thing obviously led to another and before the night was over it was round two at the Casablanca. By this time I had no clue what time it was or what day it was for that matter. And I didn’t care. All I knew was that the clocks here start over after they go past 24:00 and wherever we were, we were back in single digits…and I was having a great time.

Next post I will have visited Wild One Music studio and will also have had the first full band rehearsal. If Mike and Mandana are any indication, I’m sure the rehearsals will be everything I could hope for musically and a ton of fun as well. But for now, forgive me…the sandman is calling, and this time he won’t be denied.

That is a direct quote from Monty Budwig. I had been studying string bass with the veteran west coast bassist for a few months and the lessons had become more like rap sessions on a variety of subjects, some of them musical. On one occasion I walked in on Monty and trumpeter Jack Sheldon debating the financial merits of opening a repair shop for “love toys.” I couldn’t help myself from observing that they both had a few screws loose and the “lesson” degenerated into a discussion concerning the many character flaws integral to the making of most great musicians.

The name of a famous bassist came up and we were unanimous in our opinion that this guy would not be our first choice as a next door neighbor. We agreed however, that this musician could be depended on to light it up when the record button was pushed. To paraphrase Monty, “When you got a roomful of guys making double scale, a producer breathing down your neck and the clock is ticking…gimme an asshole who can play!”

Most of my close friends and acquaintances are either athletes or musicians and I can say with authority that of those who excel in either endeavor, few, if any have both oars in the water at the same time. Their infirmities range from engaging in mild superstitious rituals to experiencing out and out psychotic episodes. Off beat and idiosyncratic behaviors are the order of the day and that which would be considered utterly unacceptable in civilian circles barely raises an eyebrow within the safety of the rehearsal hall or studio.

The fascination the general public holds for artistic individuals is intriguing and paradoxical. We are expected to be different, entertaining, funny, brilliant and maybe a little nuts. And yet when one of our guild fucks up and is caught in compromising circumstances the general public points an accusing finger and claims to have known that this individual was a jerk all along.

There is one generalization made about musicians that couldn’t be more innaccurate and this is the notion that we are lazy. A recent post in the Sellaband forum described most musicians as lazy and characterized them as not having the skill set to deal properly with business. These are two completely unrelated subjects. It is true that in many cases those in the arts are sheep in the fleecing line of the less than reputable music business sheering machine. But that has more to do with artistic preoccupation and focus than it has with laziness. That artistic people are inept to a fault when it comes to the mundane is nothing new. But laziness is not conducive to artistic endeavor and I have yet to meet the accomplished artist who hasn’t invested the time and effort required to excel.

For some reason, civilians think of musicians as organ grinder monkeys who should be ready to perform in the most casual of circumstances in exchange for a handful of peanuts. I was at a holiday party recently and there occurred the obligatory karaoke plague. I had been introduced into my immediate circle as a musician and voice teacher. One of my fellow party-goers was a well dressed professional type and he challenged me rather obnoxiously to sing, “Well c’mon now, you’re a pro. Why don’t you get up there and show us how it’s done.” I asked him what his profession was and upon learning that he was a dentist I suggested that I drop around his office in the morning to see about a loose crown that had been troubling me. I told him that I had spent as many if not more years learning my trade than he had, am really good at what I do and would be interested in singing for him in equal trade for dental work. He walked away muttering something about lazy smart-assed musicians and I don’t think I’ll be able to close the deal. Well, I am, after all, inept at business…but never lazy.

But getting back to the quote, II suppose that the “asshole ratio” among working musicians is on par with the general population. There is however, a big difference in the dynamics of what can be called the “asshole effect” when it comes to cooperation in music in comparison with civilian endeavors. The typical asshole in business is an asshole through and through with no redeeming qualities. This breed is not loathe to sabotage the efforts of co-workers in advancing his personal agenda. The civilian asshole’s…assholitude isn’t dependent upon a degree of excellence or even accomplishment. Assholes in the mundane pursuits exist at every level and can be counted on to rain on the least significant parade.

Assholes among musicians are more made than born. This is because it is decidedly difficult to rise through the ranks as a born asshole unless under effective camouflage. Only after proving himself can the born asshole be true to his nature, and even then he will have all the made assholes to contend with. But here is the big difference…even the biggest asshole will give a producer his best efforts. An asshole in the rhythm section would never say to himself, “Hmm, how can I fuck this up and make everyone look bad.” Assholes who are also shitty musicians don’t last long in the business. Assholes among veteran musicians might be the last choice for a cocktail party, but they didn’t get to be assholes by not bringing the real deal to every gig. Indeed, being the very best at their art only increases the AQ, or Asshole Quotient.

So, when the clock is ticking away the recording budget, you can forget nice guy Johnny who’ll bring coffee and donuts to the studio and get the feel after four or five takes. In the words of the great Monty Budwig, “Gimme an asshole who can play!”

I read a post on the Sellaband forum recently in which an aspiring artist asked for advice in ways to increase their fan base, specifically, how to increase attendance at live gigs. The Sellaband community, always eager to contribute to the success of its own, responded with suggestions ranging from traditional methods of sending flyers and posting placards to employing the internet in reaching the eyes and ears of prospective fans.

One very simple method of increasing the fan base was conspicuous by its absence from the discussion however. But first a word about the environment in which aspiring artists find themselves today.

There have been many changes in the dynamics between artist and audience with the advent of inexpensive digital recording methods. The line between audience and artist has become blurred by the ability of non-musicians or amateurs of limited experience to create sound recordings which, in the ears of the creator, have the characteristics of actual music. User-friendly multi-track sequencing and massive loop libraries have created a cottage music industry wherein musical chops have been replaced by mouse technique and terms like “cut and paste” make studying counterpoint…well, pointless.

I find it of interest that the number and variety of live music venues has decreased in correspondence with the explosion of massive musical equipment outlets. There are more tools for the making of music and less places to use them every day. Professional recording studios are dying faster than family run restaurants. If one were to look at this trend with a pessimistic eye, embarking on a career in music would seem like a foolish ambition indeed.

Yes, everything has changed, and yet, nothing has really changed at all. The environment has generated a flood of uninspired creativity in all things. We eat food that isn’t food, we watch reality television that isn’t real and we listen to music that isn’t really music every day. But somewhere, a chef is preparing a work of culinary art and and a writer is creating drama from his heart. Optimism dictates that the same holds true for the art of music and that quality will not succumb to compositional methods defined as being “user-friendly.”

How does this apply to the question of increasing a fan base? I would suggest that people go to concerts when there is something to go for. That “something” must consist of an experience that they cannot provide for themselves. If an aspiring artist wants an audience, he must set the table and provide a real meal. It isn’t a question of getting people to the gig. What is missing in so many live shows is the X-factor…which I define as “Being so goddamned good that they can’t stay away.” That which an artist provides for his audience must be better than whatever is on television that evening.

There has always been a sense of entitlement in the ranks of the less experienced. It is usually only after years of struggle that experienced artists can appreciate their own responsibility in providing a product that justifies a lasting relationship with their fan base. Many musical acts have “all the tricks of the trade…but no trade” as the old saying goes. Modern methods make recording a great sounding demo almost effortless. When an artist appears on the live stage however, the audience should not be expected to accept any less than that which he hears on a recording. Indeed, the experience should be enhanced by the immediacy of live performance…the “X-factor.”

Recordings and live performances have a unique relationship in that each generates interest in the other. Good recordings will move listeners to want to witness the artist perform live, and great live performances will move an audience to buy the recordings which bring back the experience. An artist can insure that his recorded music finds an audience by making the very best recordings possible. And the simplest way an artist can increase his live audience is by shouldering the responsibility of being so goddamned good that they can’t find it in themselves to stay away.

“Hello, my name is Pete and I’m a guitar-a-holic.” Every time I get my hands on a beautiful guitar or bass I imagine myself saying those words as I introduce myself to a roomful of like-minded addicts in some sort of twelve-step program for gear junkies. My addiction goes back to about age 3 or 4. My dad had a Sears Silvertone acoustic guitar and I thought it was the most beautiful thing ever made by the hand of man. And when the guitar was put away, I would stretch rubber bands across a cigar box and pretend that I was making music. And from that time to this very moment, I have led the life of a sex-addict working as an oil boy on a photo shoot for sunscreen products. For most of my life, I have been surrounded by beautiful instruments.

During my years at Shangri La, I had the opportunity to have some of the finest instruments in my hands on a daily basis. The studio owner had very wisely invested in a marvelous collection of vintage guitars and basses and I looked at that collection as my personal Golden Gate Bridge. Because the bridge is so massive, it is under constant maintenance. As soon as the crews finish repainting at one end, they go back and start all over again. Every one of those instruments was in perfect working order because a part of everyday was devoted to cleaning, restringing, intonating and making minor repairs. Every day was an orgy.

I learned a great deal about vintage instruments…how to date them accurately, the desirability factor of various makes, models and years…all the usual bullshit that fills the air at vintage guitar shows. But the most important thing I learned is that there are great guitars that can be had for the price of a good flight case…and there are priceless guitars that can be real dogs. A vintage guitar can be worth a boatload of cash to a collector, but that doesn’t necessarily make it a great musical instrument. The guitars I’m going to concentrate on here are solid body electrics. Jazz guitars, flat top acoustics and semi-hollow body guitars are an entirely different matter.

As a player, I don’t get overly excited about words like “dead mint”, “ten out of ten” or “complete with original hang tags.” Great guitars have usually been played…a lot. I’ve handled some guitars of museum quality that were dogs the day they came out of the factory. There is a mythical reverence for the hand work that went into the construction of Fender guitars and basses of the 50’s. The fact is that those instruments were built to be affordable. Anything done by hand was done so because machines were either too expensive or had yet to be developed. One characteristic of hand work that escapes logical consideration is the variable level of quality control. The Fender factory of the 50’s shouldn’t be equated with a one-off boutique lutherie. These guitars were not hand carved by master craftsmen, they were assembled from pre-fabricated parts. And every once in a while, the perfect neck would find the perfect body and a fantastic guitar would be born. Many times those few great guitars would end up in the hands of great players.

This was In the days before musicians found it impossible to play a show without ten guitars on stage. Guitars and cases were thrown into car trunks, pick-up trucks and luggage bins with little regard for the cosmetically-obsessed collector of the future. There are plenty of stories of the “Holy Grail” being found tucked under a bed for 30 years in its original case complete with tags. Some of those guitars might turn out to be really great instruments. But maybe they were tossed under the bed because they didn’t sound good or played like shit. The sad fact is that once those guitars are found, they rarely get the chance to prove themselves because the inflated price of “dead mint” vintage guitars almost insures that they will end up as trophies hanging some doctor’s or lawyer’s wall.

Yes, vintage guitars are wonderful artifacts of a magical era in pop music. But when it comes to solid body guitars built on an assembly line, it isn’t unusual to play ten vintage beauties before finding an instrument that is everything it should be. The fact is that there are only so many old guitars. They don’t build ‘54 Strats anymore. I’ve played four 1954 Stratocasters. Two were dogs, one was pretty nice and one was an exceptional guitar. Hint, the winner did not have the original tags. I’ve also been intimate with a half-dozen “Black-guard” Telecasters ranging from unbelievably mint to something that looked like it was dragged behind a tractor from gig to gig. The mint ones were stiff and unresponsive, which is probably why they were still mint. The old beater was probably one of the three best guitars I’ve ever played.

Because there are so few old guitars left, guitar manufacturers are now marketing replicas of some of the more desirable models at what I consider absurd prices. I actually bought a masterbuilt ‘54 Stratocaster myself. But I had to look through fourteen of them before I found one that was exceptional. Yes, they’re pretty, but what makes them worth the price? They’re still made out of wood and have a bit of hardware screwed on. If the “way they used to make ‘em” is so special, why don’t they make ‘em like that now? well, I got news, They do. And I think that the standards of today’s assembly line built instruments are far superior to what was being done in the “old days.” The Fender “Hwy 1″ guitars and basses are much better that the shit they were cranking out in the 70’s…at a fraction of the cost. ( I just checked E-bay…there is an early 70’s precision bass listed at $2900.00! Insane)

The bottom line is that I don’t get too excited about ultra clean vintage instruments anymore. I say let the collectors shell out the bucks and hang them on their walls. There is no shortage of great playing, great sounding guitars out there. Go to a guitar shop, put on a blindfold and play twenty or thirty guitars. You might surprise yourself.