Shown here is the headstock from a
1937 D’Angelico Excel. At first glance,
some players might be confused by the
seemingly crude construction of these
vintage masterpieces.With an unfiltered Camel perched on
his lower lip, he crouched before the
family spinet. On the side of the keyboard,
a tumbler of bourbon rippled slightly as
his hands caressed the chords to “Dear
Landlord.” At the age of 16, I wasn’t a
big Dylan fan yet. But as Laurence sang
the words, I was beginning to understand
much more than just this song. There
was such confidence in his voice that any
imperfection in pitch or tone was not only
overlooked, but also seemed to add urgency
to the unfolding story. It was here, in the
home of my best friend Philip, that I began
to understand what makes perfect art.
Philip, Laurence, and their four brothers
had moved to Chicago from Houston.
Sons of a college professor and war hero,
their household was a repository of alternative
culture in our neighborhood—a
wood paneled enclave full of books and
music. Their mother was always humming
to herself while flying around the kitchen,
the room where I learned what great
Mexican food was all about.
I introduced these friends to Hendrix,
Humble Pie, The Who, and Bukowski in
exchange for an immersion in Miles, Monk,
Ornette Coleman, and Kerouac. And my
sense of melody, harmony, and rhythm
evolved with their influence before our
worlds collided in 1971 at the intersection
of the Mahavishnu Orchestra. Listening
to the polyrhythmic chaos of this seminal
band challenged ideas about what made a
guitar solo great. Intonation be dammed,
John McLaughlin played his guitar as
though it was a percussion instrument. It
truly was perfection of a different kind.
Over time, I’ve become fond of what
some might call imperfection. It might be a
flubbed note on Live at Leeds, or a semitone
of flatness on a Neil Young vocal. While I’m
not a big fan of Yes, I noted the unabashed
fret buzz with satisfaction from Trevor
Rabin’s intro to the 1987 hit, “Shoot High,
Aim Low.” My ears pricked up with delight
when I noticed Billy Gibbons searching
for harmonics in “La Grange.” And the
Hendrix catalog is a veritable manual of
industrial guitar “malfunctions” presented
as art. These little deviations kept me
returning for additional listens.
Just like the music they are intended
to make, it’s the same for the instruments
themselves. A quick scan of a vintage
D’Angelico may puzzle some players
because of the seemingly crude construction.
When presented with the task of
restoring a 1937 Excel, I was constantly
reminded that the imprint of the master’s
hands was on the piece. It was as though
the man himself had left a trail of breadcrumbs
or footprints. Centerlines didn’t
line up exactly and shimming was apparent
within the neck joint. But these were
the things that made it what it was—a
booming, bellowing, and legendary piece.
Once I opened up the body, I wondered
if I could swab it for D’Angelico’s DNA
before carefully putting things back in
place, warts and all.
Another time, I had a well-known guitarist
praise the playability and sound of
my work. He told me the new guitar I had
built for him was the best he’d ever played,
and that he wanted another. Only this
time, he wanted the finish to be as thin
as his vintage guitars. When I explained
that the finish on his guitar was only .007"
thick, he refused to believe me. He was
certain that the dead-flat, high-gloss finish
I’d labored to achieve meant that it was
“glopped on like a bowling ball.” It may
have been that moment when I started to
realize something: At a certain point, perfection
actually diminishes the appreciation
of the effort required to achieve it.
I think it’s unfortunate that the guitar
boom has turned instrument building into
an arms race instead of a craft. As much as
I admire quality and precision, I draw the
line when it erases personality. A guitar isn’t
a toaster and it deserves a better gestation
than a mere appliance. I know I’m not alone
with this thought, and it may help explain
the fascination with vintage instruments.
Although guitars from the 1950s were
made in larger quantities than the heyday of
D’Angelico production, they certainly display
a wider range of character than many
of today’s guitars. Even their battle scars
help make them unique and interesting. Of
course, there are modern production guitars
that emulate this—a kind of “distressed blue
jeans” approach to introduce the notion of
personality into a “Stepford wife” instrument.
It’s clever, but not artful. Art and
craft take thought, and require a depth that
scratches more than just the surface. It’s all
about context for the content.
The discovery of the builder’s subtext
leads to a greater understanding and appreciation
of the whole. It’s true in music,
and it’s true in most every other creative
endeavor. Once your antenna is up and
able to receive messages beyond the obvious,
things really get interesting. It no
longer surprises me that Thelonious Monk
labored for years by practicing dissonant
chords for just the right delivery and effect.
In the end, perfection of an ordered kind
is easy, because there is a simple goal. Just
like doing the dishes, you scrub until they
are clean. Leaving stylistic breadcrumbs on
your work is infinitely more difficult than
polishing it into sterility.
Jol Dantzig is a
noted designer, builder,
and player who co-founded
Hamer Guitars,
one of the first boutique
guitar brands, in 1973.
Today, as the director of
Dantzig Guitar Design, he continues to
help define the art of custom guitar. To
learn more, visit
guitardesigner.com.