Buying guitars must hyperactivate your kidneys. I was making really good time home in the truck, but nature's call had progressed from a gentle urgency to "if I don't find a bathroom real soon, I'm going to blow bladder all over the dashboard." I stopped at a UDF and scurried inside. After I had taken care of the situation, I grabbed 2 jerkies and a Stuarts Cream Soda. The girl behind the counter flashed a smile showing teeth that could only be called teeth in the most polite sense. "I see you buy guitars." She motioned at my truck. "Yes." I was trying not to look at her mole. She had a mole on her chin that looked like Abe Vigoda's nose, only in HO scale. "I don't have a guitar, but I have a case for one." She gave me my change. "No market for cases. Sorry." I smiled and hoped the charm I exuded didn't pass for flirtation. "It's monkey skin," she said. "I keep it here. Mom says it's creepy and she doesn't want it in the house. My boss lets me keep it in the back by the dog food. She had me at 'monkey skin'. "May I see it?" She disappeared through 2 banged up aluminum doors and reappeared before they even stopped swinging. She plopped it on the counter. Yikes! This was the most grotesque guitar case I'd ever seen. "My Uncle Donny skinned a big monkey that he found dead in his swimming pool. He made it into a gig bag for his electric guitar. See?" She pointed to a raised area. "I think that's his nipple." No knowing about the legality of owning such a thing, I passed. But I can give you the address if you're interested.
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I had never seen a guitar with one of these. Not in real life, anyway, only in old pictures . . . very old pictures. I wondered if it worked. "Peter Frampton owned it. He sold it to Jimmy Page," the owner pleaded. "Jimmy Page sold it to Jimi Hendrix in 1986." "I bet he hardly used it," I said. "Only once and that was at that there big We Are The World concert," he offered. This was fun. "Remember that?" "Oh, yes," I said. "I couldn't keep my foot from tapping." I flipped the heavy beast over. " I'll give you 20 bucks," I said. He looked shocked. "For a guitar that Slash himself owned? Are you nuts?" I knew who was nuts, but I wanted the pickups. I WANTED the Chambered Star and Dot lever. "Oh, did Slash buy it from Jimi?" I asked. "No, I think he bought it from Prince," he said. "Fifty bucks," I countered. "Last offer and I get to use your bathroom before I go. Take it or leave it." I slung the guitar over my shoulder like a fat rifle. I gave him my best dare you to say no look. He stuck out his hand. We had a deal.
The Russian guitar under the house trailer wasn't Russian at all. It had a hammer and sickle stenciled on it and the guy claimed that a communist named Keith Richards had owned it back in the late 60s before he was a Rolling Stone. I told him, as far as I knew, Keith Richards was an avowed capitalist. "He is now," he answered, "but this was his back when he was poor and stuff and a member of The People's Army." That's when I knew the guy was delusional. He could see that I was leaving. "Then he sold it to a guy in the Yardbirds," he tried next. "Eric Clapton!" He looked at me with one eyebrow raised. "No," I said. "Jeff Beck?" He was pleading now. The thing was, I liked the pickups on it. I had never seen anything like them. Dark, narrow rectangles that looked like the tops of tiny ancient car batteries . . . and triangular magnets! Who ever saw triangular magnets? But the neck was warped like a rotini noodle and the body appeared to be a fine combo of linoleum over plywood. Junk. I flipped it over in my hands. My heart almost thudded to an elated halt.
He offered the guitar to me like it was a giant fudgesicle. "I got it in a deal with Satan," he said. He was short, fat and all his visible skin was covered with badly drawn tattoos: flames, skulls, devils, you know, generic wicked. I laughed. "I don't know what you gave him for it, but apparently Satan only had to cough up a $50 piece of crap from Kmart." How is it these idiots make so many deals with Satan? Why don't they hit up St. Joseph or Raphael or somebody like that? Casper the Friendly Ghost would come up with a better guitar than this. It was pink, I swear. Barbie pink. Mary Kay pink. Hannah Montana pink. The kind of pink you'd see on the diseased toenails of a cheap cheap hooker. "It's pink," I said and my lip curled in perfect disdain. I walked away. It you go guitar hunting, beware the old pat "Got it from Satan," story. Satan doesn't make guitars and if you believe he does you're probably already signed up in his minion book. Pink? Give me a break.
The highway through Pennsylvania is boring and I felt my mind wandering. When buying guitars, you have to know where to draw the line. One time a guy tried to sell me three fourths of a guitar. He heard I traded in the bizarre and the macabre . . . Mr. Guitar Noir, so to speak. The bottom 1/4 had been cut cleanly. So cleanly it looked like it was done with a chainsaw. The bridge was gone, so the strings were splayed willy-nilly like a spastic granddaddy long leg. "This looks like it was hacked off with a chainsaw," I said. I pricked my finger on an errant G string. "That's because it was hacked off with a chainsaw," he replied. "Bobby was playin' Freebird on it when Mayella kilt him with a wild swing of a two stroke Craftsman and Bobby had just put on a fresh chain too. He was gonna cut far wood after the game." He pointed to what looked like a dried up Earth worm on the volume knob. "Skin, swear to God. And if you look at the back, the blood stains make the face of Castro!" My friend, there is a fine line between a storied guitar and just court evidence for a troubled marriage. I walked away. I told him the guitar was just far wood.
We haggled a price for the guitar. I stowed it carefully in the truck and said a cordial good-bye. I had just pulled out of the driveway. I didn't hit a bump. I didn't make a sudden steering move. The radio wasn't on. But, from behind the seat, chimed a single, slinky, skanky sounding G minor ... strummed just once. Then there was silence. It didn't do it again; not on the way home and not in my workshop later. It didn't even do it for the lead guitarist of a very famous band (that I'm not at liberty to name here) who bought it without even trying to beat me down on price. I wouldn't have come down on price anyway. It's crazy, but sometimes I still hear that chord in my head. Witch wood indeed.
Why do you suppose it was G Minor? "Waiting for wired money." That's what the text from Vickie said. I turned to the guy selling the witch wood guitar. "Excuse me for a minute?" I asked. "Sure," he shrugged. I left Vickie in charge of the shop while I was on the road. Actually she was in charge of the shop even when I wasn't on the road. She would not have bothered to text me if she wasn't pretty sure it was going to happen. "Cool beans," I texted her. "You sound like such a gomer when you say that," came back. "Can you handle shipping or do you want me to take care of it?" I tapped out, "I'll be home in a couple of days." She came back with "I'll take care of it." "Cool beans," I texted. I'm sure if it was possible to text an eye roll, she would have, but the exchange ended. "Good!" I thought. "I have gas money to get home now." I turned to dirty ball cap guy and his haunted guitar.
The Pepperjackcaster will soon be on its way to France. Which guitar do you think will sell next? The guitar had a true device and that's the prize I hunt. There are millions of electric guitars out there ... old ones, new ones, some with a little history and some so dripping with past they are practically haunted. I leave those for the other hunters. I, my friend, am a seeker of the true device. Half note predicators ... staminated tone phasers ... any and all heterodox pickups. This guitar had mnemonic valve (a brass one). It's a sort of prehistoric reverb. I had not seen one in years.
By the way, have you seen the crystal version of one of these? I would love to have a photo for my files. Leave a message. |
 AuthorThe Guitar Hunter chronicles his journeys here. Check back often. Archives
April 2012
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