The guitar's witch wood was worn like a church pew polished by a billion fidgeting butts. The body was ovoid, sort of like a Vox Mk VI. The pickups looked positively prehistoric, like a rectangle within a rectangle. They were riveted immobile. The neck was flat and wide. The head was simple and elegant. The grimy tuners were of a silvery cloudy finish, darkened to black on the edges. Neglected silver plate perhaps. "I'm going to flip it over," I said. "I don't touch it," he replied, "but go ahead if you want." Ever mindful that my fingers could curl up like bacon and that I may wet myself, I picked it up. Fingers felt fine, bladder was still manageable. The back was clad, as advertised, with well burnished galvanized bucket metal. It had been carefully hammered flat and secured with tiny brass screws. A nice bit of metal work done to a real crappy piece of metal. The edges had been slightly rolled to a seamless transition around the sides. I was excited. I had not seen anything like it since that time in Peru, but that's a way other story.
Would anyone care to hear the Peru story?
Would anyone care to hear the Peru story?
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