How does something so primitive make such a lovely sound?

Take a look at an electric guitar sometime. There isn’t much going on, regardless of what make or model you hold in your hand. They’re all pretty much a couple of magnets picking up vibrations from a set of steel strings with some knobs to control volume and tone. Sure, some of the more expensive models or custom built ones incorporate built in effects or strange switches to add to the allure and function of the instrument, so they aren’t all the musical equivalent of a Jeep Wrangler, but the basics are the same for all of them.

Really, the electric guitar has changed very little since it gained traction with musicians in the 1950s. When you think about it, that’s fairly amazing. Can you think of anything that you can buy in mint condition today that is almost exactly the same as something produced fifty years ago?

I still remember my first electric guitar. It was a gorgeous Fender Telecaster, ash blonde finish, rugged brass saddles, and just enough time in various bars and clubs to give it a slight amber color. God damn, it was a great guitar. I got it just as the Les Paul was getting big, so it was a great deal at the local music shop. They were happy to move it out the door, even if it was some kid that probably couldn’t appreciate where it had been.

Plugging it into my Dad’s amplifier at home, I recall the sound of the tubes getting warm, the hum of the single coils as they cycled. And then I strummed my first chord on it, a glorious E major. I switched into the neck pickup because you can’t feel the blues through any other pickup on a Telecaster, and then I played through some 12 bar blues before moving onto other standards of the day.

That first week, I managed to play so often that I wore my own spot on the back where my jeans rubbed down the finish. I later joked that the spot was my major contribution to music, and I may have been right. Strings of bad college bands and cover groups don’t really carve out a spot in musical history, so no one’s going to mistake me for Roy Orbison or Stevie Ray Vaughan any time soon. All the same, feeling the strings vibrate when you nail a chord or hearing the chime of a softly overdriven amp as you give yourself up to the music and let the guitar play itself is a very special moment, one that you have to experience for yourself to believe.

Music on the guitar is like some crazy black magic. Ever since that day, music has been my mistress. I’ve had many loves since then, but none of them ever could capture my heart and passion the same way that first guitar stole my breath. Like any other mistress, once the lady of the moment found out about her, she was ready for a catfight. So it was that my blonde Telecaster was chucked from my 6th story apartment window. Ironically enough, she broke her own windshield when she tossed my baby out. We’d been together for 10 years at that time. I gathered up the pieces and had a fitting funeral pyre for such a close friend.

I was able to salvage the neck and pickups, but nothing ever resonated like the original swamp ash body. Even today, I dream about playing it, feeling the emotions bottled up inside coming out in a wash of anger, frustration, love, joy, and promise all at the same time. Sometimes I even feel it there, like a phantom limb. Maybe one day we’ll be reunited again, but if not, I’m glad to have loved and lost. I’ll never settle for mediocrity after having found that special one that changed my world forever.