Slicing a cow skull to make interior braces for a custom guitar. Photo by peckhammer
Next to the 1954 Stratocaster
(serial number 0168) sitting
on my repair bench, I’ve got
some materials for a few custom
builds I’m working on. Nothing
crazy, just some cow skulls, a big
chunk of an ebony tree, and a
handful of dried scorpions that
I’ll entomb in the headstock of
these guitars. The scorpions will
be partially visible under the
truss-rod cover. I’ve also got a
bottle of invisible ink. My plan
is to tattoo the black ebony
with secret messages in Latin
that can only be read under a
black light. The cases for these
instruments will contain an
antique Bible, a wooden spike,
and a vial of holy water.
I know a cow-skull guitar
might sound strange to some
players—especially those enamored
with vintage instruments.
I think it’s important to lighten
up and have a little fun. Don’t
be afraid of your imagination—
you never know what you can
come up with.
So, about these cow-skull guitars:
I’ve got one coming along
nicely, with the skull sliced up
and ready to be used as interior
bracing. It turns out skull bone
is a perfect material for the
job—it’s lightweight and super
strong. And conveniently, I can
run wires through the brain cavities.
But most importantly, skull
bone is creepy as hell! I like
the idea of someone opening
the back to change part and—
yikes —there’s a jawbone and rack
of teeth lurking in the shadows.
The reason I mention
this guitar is that it makes a
point. It illustrates my “don’t
take yourself too seriously”
credo and my “learn to master
hand tools first” building philosophy.
Digging deeper, it’s
the result of what I was taught
by a traveling gypsy guitar
maker named Boaz.
Guitar critic, historian, and
builder Rick Turner once wrote
this about Boaz and his guitars:
“What you see here is not the
product of some 18th-century
luthier who slaved away to meet
the demands of a Spanish or
French courtier. Rather it is the
product of a virtual living time
machine named Boaz.”
I remember reading that.
I also remember reading stories
about Boaz riding his
BMW motorcycle through
South America, eating monkey
brains with the Amazon people,
and building a guitar with a
Swiss Army knife in Tierra
del Fuego on a bet. I thought,
“Wow—I want to know more
about
this guy!”
A year later, I found myself
hanging out with Boaz—staying
up late, drinking wine,
and talking about girls and
guitars. I listened to his stories
about Paracho, a town in
Mexico where almost everyone
builds guitars. He described
how a lot of the guys get bored,
so they hide porn inside the
guitars. He told me that, in
Russia, the builders keep their
woodpile outside where they
urinate, and that’s why Russian-made
guitars smell like urine.
He also gave me the best
advice I’ve ever been given. He
took out his Mexican knife
(which I’m sure he made himself
using only the wings of a
bumblebee and a small twig),
waved it in my face, and said,
“This is all you need, man.
Learn to make a guitar with a
knife, and you will be able to
build anything your imagination
desires.”
And I did. So now when I
get approached about making
a guitar with a retractable mic
or I get an idea for a theme
guitar made from animal parts,
I think, “Sure, I can do
that.”
Back to the ’54 Strat on my
workbench that’s sharing space
with the cow-skull bracing
and jawbone. The paint looks
old. I’m thinking a nice new
red paint job would look . . .
Ha—relax, I’m only joking. In
fact, I’ve actually got a question
for
PG readers regarding
this guitar. Everything checks
out on it, but it’s got one thing
I’ve never seen and I’m wondering
if someone out there
can help me: In the tremolo-spring
cavity, where the date
should be written “5/54,” there
is only a handwritten “#2.”
I’ve found another equally
confused guitarist online who
has a ’54 Strat with a “#3” in
the same spot. I’d like to think
there’s something dark and
mysterious going on here—like
maybe somewhere there are
two ’54 Strats marked #1 and
#4, and they’re meant for the
four horsemen of the apocalypse.
But the explanation may
very well be incredibly mundane,
too. Regardless, if you’ve
got an answer—or another
question about the Dark Side
of guitardom—please feel
free to drop me an email at
randy@parsonsguitars.com.
Meanwhile, stay cool.
Randy Parsons
builds guitars for Jack
White, Jimmy Page, Joe
Perry, and other adventurous
players using
out-of-the-box materials
like bone, flowers, copper,
and solid ebony.