In my hallway there is a box measuring 115cm x 45cm x 16cm. It's waiting for the courier to deliver it to it's new owner. After almost 20 years, it's time to say goodbye. In that box is my first ever Gibson.
I made the decision to sell because the guitar wasn't getting used, which is just wrong, and because I want to raise some cash to buy a new guitar. But now it's sold, I have to admit to feeling a little weird about it all and, judging by my Facebook feed, so are some of my bandmates.
I have always found it odd that people get attached to objects - giving names to cars, assigning them gender, and even talking to them - but here it is happening to me. Selling it feels like a little betrayal, a turning away. But what am I supposed to do? Hoard every musical item I've ever owned? What is this?
Let's start with the facts.
The guitar in question is a 1997 Gibson Les Paul Special in yellow-burst with P90 pick-ups. Made in the USA.
The Specials were a mid-range alternative to the Les Paul Standards, well-made but less finesse. The gateway drug to the heroin of Gibson guitars.
I bought it on 18 April 1998, pretty much at the insistence of our drummer. Bungi believed our band Spirits One80, needed a heavier guitar sound than my Patrick Eggle New York Plus could deliver. And the solid mahogany body surely delivered that - it was a beast by comparison, weighing in at nearly 7.5 kilos. The P90s appealed to my indie sensibilities rather than going full Slash.
Over the following years, the guitar did hundreds if not thousands of hours of rehearsals, gigs, writing and recording.
I put it through a Fender RocPro 100w amp and, if you have never done the Gibson-through-Fender thing, give it a try. The sparkle to the tone is where indie lives (imho). Here's some of the things that we did together (he said anthropomorhising like mad).
Empty
Complicated
Glitter Girl
Between My Knees
For a couple of years, this guitar was in my hands virtually every single day, during the period when as a band, we were making our push for the summit via the A&R couch. So maybe it should be no surprise that I feel a pang or two of nostalgia and doubt at letting it go. Maybe it's captured the hopes, the possibilities and the raw excitement of being in a band, even if our musical success far outweighed commercial success. Maybe it's like a comfort blanket or the hand of a loved one - something familiar that can transport you to happy times in an instant. The muscle memory of something that just fits.
I made the decision to sell because the guitar wasn't getting used, which is just wrong, and because I want to raise some cash to buy a new guitar. But now it's sold, I have to admit to feeling a little weird about it all and, judging by my Facebook feed, so are some of my bandmates.
I have always found it odd that people get attached to objects - giving names to cars, assigning them gender, and even talking to them - but here it is happening to me. Selling it feels like a little betrayal, a turning away. But what am I supposed to do? Hoard every musical item I've ever owned? What is this?
Let's start with the facts.
The Specials were a mid-range alternative to the Les Paul Standards, well-made but less finesse. The gateway drug to the heroin of Gibson guitars.
I bought it on 18 April 1998, pretty much at the insistence of our drummer. Bungi believed our band Spirits One80, needed a heavier guitar sound than my Patrick Eggle New York Plus could deliver. And the solid mahogany body surely delivered that - it was a beast by comparison, weighing in at nearly 7.5 kilos. The P90s appealed to my indie sensibilities rather than going full Slash.
Over the following years, the guitar did hundreds if not thousands of hours of rehearsals, gigs, writing and recording.
I put it through a Fender RocPro 100w amp and, if you have never done the Gibson-through-Fender thing, give it a try. The sparkle to the tone is where indie lives (imho). Here's some of the things that we did together (he said anthropomorhising like mad).
 |
| Nostalgic rock action pic of me and 'Les' |
Empty
Complicated
Glitter Girl
Between My Knees
For a couple of years, this guitar was in my hands virtually every single day, during the period when as a band, we were making our push for the summit via the A&R couch. So maybe it should be no surprise that I feel a pang or two of nostalgia and doubt at letting it go. Maybe it's captured the hopes, the possibilities and the raw excitement of being in a band, even if our musical success far outweighed commercial success. Maybe it's like a comfort blanket or the hand of a loved one - something familiar that can transport you to happy times in an instant. The muscle memory of something that just fits.
