Part 1 of a series about becoming a rock n roll musician in the 1960s
Every boy fondly remembers his first; be it a gun, an armpit hair, a pimple, a girlfriend, a school dance, a beer, his first shave, a car, or his first electric guitar. Well, maybe most boys never got an electric guitar, or there would be no Beatles or Beach Boys, and there would not have been anyone hearing or dancing to the music because all the teenage musicians would be on the stage playing for each other; just an opinion. Not me; I did receive one, much like the Japanese-made instrument in the picture. I remember mine had maybe one more pickup and a few more knobs that did nothing, as well as three of the pickups. But it looked so darn cool.
I had graduated from a Gibson J 45 acoustic to needing an electric guitar and amp so I could become the American equivalent of George Harrison: thanks to Ed Sullivans having the Fabs on his variety show and tricking me into believing mere mortal teenagers could replicate the lads from Liverpool. Having been in the music biz, my father knew others who owned music stores. He procured me a nice-looking Japanese-made instrument, along with a Sears amplifier. The neck had no truss rod, so within a week, it warped; a case would have been nice, but nope, it might cost a few bucks. My pop wasn’t known as Mr. Cheap-O because he was a philanthropist. The amp was pure junk: five watts of power on a good day, a 10-inch speaker, which blew out in a few weeks, and it stopped working completely after a month, leaving me to bang away with no sound. It didn’t matter; the strings were a good 1/4 to 1/2 inch from the fretboard, so I could only play for a few minutes before my fingers spasmed and locked up. My left arm had the muscles of Popeye.
Duane Eddy I was not, nor anything near George Harrison. My father, upon examining the condition of my gear, realized his frugal ways may have bitten him and me in the butt. He apologized, sent the guitar to a shop, procured me an even worse amp and the cheesy guitar returned in the same condition. I saw the reflection in my crystal ball, accepted my defeat, and went back to the acoustic, which I couldn’t find, and was told my father had loaned it to one of his cousins for a while. The guitar was missing. It seems the cousin thought it was a gift and sold it to a friend, who sold it to another, and so on. I was now stuck with an unplayable doorstop. Some years later, I did track the J45 down and got it back, only to lose it again in an unfortunate accident involving the Gulf of Mexico. More on that later.
Notes From The Cactus Patch 