
Yes, it is possible to age your instrument. But there are pitfalls to avoid and techniques to master.
Hello intrepid modders! As a result of countless requests, this month I'll launch a new series that explores the art of DIY relic'ing. We'll cover the whole story, including how to age wood, finish, metal, and plastic, and we'll also discuss what gives vintage instruments their special look and feel, and how to mimic these attributes. Put away the blowtorch and ball-peen hammer—there's a lot more to this than you might think.
To illustrate these techniques, I'll take a brand-new guitar and age it from headstock to endpin, while documenting each step of the process. I'll introduce our case-study 6-string—an affordable Junior-style double cut—in the next installment of this series. And while we're aging it, I'll offer tips for upgrading parts. As a bonus, I'll occasionally include advice, insights, and trade secrets from relic'ing pros I've recruited specifically for this project.
Okay, for starters, let's get some perspective on the whole relic phenomenon—one of the hottest topics ever in the guitar-modding community. It's almost a new religion: The number of players using "aged" guitars continues to increase, and players starting their own relic'ing jobs on the kitchen table is also on the rise. You can find a slew of videos online addressing this, along with wild stories about how to use coffee, tea, shoe polish, and other mysterious stuff to make a guitar look old. And, of course, the web is full of DIY relic photos.
What's so appealing about aging a guitar? Over the years, my customers have shared many different reasons for wanting me to relic their instruments. Some wish to own and play a faithful replica of a famous vintage guitar (think SRV's No. 1, Clapton's Blackie, or Rory Gallagher's '61 Strat). Some time ago, while picking up his new Strat in my shop that we'd relic'd to his wishes, a customer explained it this way: "I really like the look and feel of a vintage guitar that has been played for decades and every single ding tells a story. But I can't afford one, and now that I'm in my mid '50s, there simply isn't enough time left to play a new guitar for another 50 years and give it a history. So I'll go this route now."
The goal of a relic job has always been to make the object appear more vintage by mimicking age. The vintage craze isn't limited to guitars: Watches, cars, clothes, furniture, jewelry, hi-fi equipment, wine ... the list is endless and whole industries have sprung up around it. As guitarists, we have many reasons to consider doing a relic job on an instrument. Perhaps you want to individualize your guitar—make it a one-of-a-kind piece with you as the designer. Or maybe you yearn for an era when music was still handmade and not computer-generated or auto-tuned.
The goal of a relic job has always been to make the object appear more vintage by mimicking age.
Naturally, there are different degrees of aging, ranging from "barely noticeable" to "totally messed up" and everything between. I really like the definitions that the Fender Custom Shop uses for its Original-Era Finishes and Time Machine series—their builders have put a lot of thought into this. Here are Fender's terms (you'll find detailed descriptions of each one on the Fender Custom Shop website):
- N.O.S. (New Old Stock) - As if you bought it new in 1954.
- Closet Classic - Kept in a case most of its life—perhaps even forgotten.
- DLX Closet Classic - Owned with pride.
- Journeyman Relic® - Used but not abused.
- Relic® - There and back—and still here today.
- Heavy Relic® - Hard-fought wear and tear.
As we explore the aging techniques, I'll refer to these terms, focusing on what Fender calls Journeyman Relic and Relic—their most popular grades. Beyond Fender's Heavy Relic grade comes the "Gone Too Far" category, and, sadly, you'll see this a lot. Over the years I have encountered a lot of ugly relic jobs, consisting of completely destroyed finishes, rusty hardware that ceases working because of its condition, and unnatural wear in spots you'd never see on heavily played instruments.
Most people who overdo it somehow become possessed, once they start to relic a guitar. Or as PG's John Bohlinger said in his November 2013 Last Call column on relic'd guitars: "Those who relic also give themselves away because they go too far. They're not satisfied with a normal 50 years' worth of wear. They want their guitars to look like Keith Richards himself personally played 50 years' worth of gigs on it."
Photo 2
Photo by Andy Ellis
Over the years, customers have sent me many images of such projects, and I archive them so I know what not to do. Photo 1 shows a sampling of the Gone Too Far relic category. In contrast, look at Photo 2, which is a well-loved 1942 Gibson ES-150. This guitar is 78 years old—a veritable grandpa of electric 6-strings. It shows finish checking and the kind of hardware tarnishing, scrapes, and scratches that come from being played for almost eight decades, but somehow they ring true. (A side note: This guitar's owner explains that the big gouge across the bass f-hole occurred when someone was apprehended stealing the guitar out of its case from the backseat of the owner's car. The case latch tore into the wood as the would-be-thief bolted, leaving the instrument. That still qualifies as genuine aging, wouldn't you agree?)
Many guitarists have never seen, touched, or played a real vintage guitar, so they have no sense for honest wear-and-tear that comes with the territory, and this can't be substituted with pics from the internet—especially in terms of an instrument's feel. This includes rounded fretboard edges and fretboard wear—a subject we'll return to during this DIY relic series.
If you decide you want to relic your own instruments, here's some advice:
Do your research: Get as many vintage guitars as possible in your hands and pay close attention to them. Go to vintage guitar stores and trade shows—nobody will be annoyed if you tell them you want to admire the instruments. Check local ads to see if someone near you is selling a vintage guitar. Often the seller will invite you to examine it. Politely ask if you can take some photos, measurements, and notes. Over time, you'll get a better sense of what it's all about and start detecting similarities in vintage instrument wear.
Dress rehearsal: Get an inexpensive new guitar and train your skills on it before you start to work on your cherished instruments. This is a good investment. If something fails ... who cares?
Go easy: Over the years, I've developed three golden rules. In honor of my personal hero, Star Trek's Captain Jean-Luc Picard, let's call this the Relic Prime Directive:
- Break the shine.
- No rust.
- Don't overdo it.
If you remember these three simple rules when doing any relic job, you'll be rewarded with a successful, aesthetically pleasing result.
That's it for now. Next month, we'll perform our next guitar mod, and then return to our DIY relic series, so stay tuned. Until then ... keep on modding!
[Updated 9/15/21]
- Last Call: Someday You'll Regret That Relic Job - Premier Guitar ›
- DIY: Relic'ing Metal Hardware - Premier Guitar ›
- DIY Relic’ing: Break the Shine - Premier Guitar ›
- Reader Guitar of the Month: Zoller Partscaster - Premier Guitar ›
- Reader Guitar of the Month: T-Style Chickadee - Premier Guitar ›
- DIY Relic’ing: Hardware Continued - Premier Guitar ›
- DIY Guitar Relic'ing: Let's Crack Some Lacquer Finish - Premier Guitar ›
- Reader Guitar of the Month—Pickups and Finishes - Premier Guitar ›
- DIY 101: How to Build a Delay Pedal Kit - Premier Guitar ›
- An Easy Guide to Four Minor Guitar Repairs - Premier Guitar ›
- Save Money with DIY Guitar Repairs: No Repair Fees! - Premier Guitar ›
Columnist Janek Gwizdala with heroes Dennis Chambers (left) and Mike Stern (right).
Keeping your gigging commitments can be tough, especially when faced with a call from a hero. But it’s always the right choice.
Saying “yes!” to everything early on has put me in a place now where I can say no to almost everything and still be okay. That wasn’t without its challenges. I’d like to share a story about a “yes” that would haunt me for years.
As bass players, we can, if we choose, quite easily find ourselves in a wide variety of situations without having to change much about our sound or our playing. If your time is good and you’re able to help those around you feel good and sound better, the telephone will pretty much always ring.
Playing jazz as an electric-bass player living in New York City from 2000 to 2010 was somewhat of a fool’s errand in terms of getting work. No one wanted electric bass, and bandleaders would go to the bottom of a list of 100 upright players before they would even think about calling you. Not only that, but I wasn’t even at the top of the electric list when I first moved there. Not even close. Anthony Jackson, Richard Bona, Will Lee, Tim Lefebvre, James Genus, Lincoln Goines, Mike Pope, John Benitez, Matthew Garrison—that’s a who’s who of the instrument when I first moved to town, and I was very much a freshman with almost no experience. Almost…
I’d been lucky enough to play extensively with Kenwood Dennard (Jaco’s drummer), and a little with Hiram Bullock (Jaco’s guitarist) before moving to NYC which helped create a little momentum, but only a VERY little.
This is where the story begins:
I’d sent Mike Stern a demo back in late ’97. He’d not only taken the time to listen to it but had called my parents’ house right after I moved to the U.S. to tell me he loved it and wanted to hang. I missed the call but eventually met him at a clinic he gave at Berklee.
Of course, I was buzzing about all of this. It helped me stay laser-focused on practice and on moving to NYC as soon as possible. I got the typical “look me up when you get to town” invitation from Stern and basically counted the seconds through the three semesters I stayed at Berklee until I could split town.
I arrived with a ton of confidence but zero gigs. And nothing happened overnight. It really took saying yes to literally everything I was offered just to keep a roof over my head. Through that process, I felt like I was getting further away from playing with my jazz heroes.
The early gigs were far from glamorous—long hours, terrible pay, and sometimes, after travel expenses, they cost me money to play.
“Whenever I have a single moment of doubt, I think about the time I had to say no to my heroes—the reasons I moved to America, the reason I do what I do.”
When Stern finally called, a few years into living in NYC, things started to move pretty quickly. I began playing a lot of gigs at the 55 Bar with him, and short road trips became a thing—a four-night stint at Arturo Sandoval’s new club in Miami, gigs in Chicago, Cleveland, and upstate New York, and then some international work, including a tour of Mexico and a trip to Brazil, if I remember right.
But the hardest phone call of my career came from Mike not long into my time touring with him. It went something like this:
“Hey man, what’s your scene in April? Lincoln can’t make a trip to the West Coast. It’s just one gig. Trio… with DENNIS CHAMBERS.”
Mike didn’t shout Dennis’ name, but that’s how I heard it. My all-time hero. Someone I’d been dreaming about playing with for over 15 years. And here’s the kicker: I had to say no.
I’d just committed to six weeks with Jojo Mayer’s band Nerve in Asia and Europe, and there was no way I could bail on him. And there was no way I could afford to ditch six weeks of work for a single gig with Mike. To say that haunted me for years is an understatement. I was destroyed that I had to turn it down.
The tour with Jojo was amazing—the posters hang in my studio as a reminder of those times to this day. And thankfully, I was able to go on some years later and play dozens of shows with Mike and Dennis all over the world—truly some of the highlights of my career.
I still think about that phone call, though. Whenever I have a single moment of doubt, I think about the time I had to say no to my heroes—the reasons I moved to America, the reason I do what I do. I get emotional writing and thinking about it even now. But I've learned to never have regrets and understand you just have to believe in the process and maintain the willpower to continue—no matter what.
$149
Marshall 1959 Super Lead
The very definition of classic, vintage Marshall sound in a highly affordable package.
There’s only one relevant question about Marshall’s new 1959 Super Lead overdrive/distortion pedal: Does it sound like an actual vintage Super Lead head? The answer is, simply and surprisingly, yes. The significant difference I heard within the voice of this stomp, which I ran through a Carr Vincent and a StewMac Valve Factory 18 kit amp for contrast, is that it’s a lot quieter than my 1972 Super Lead.
The Super Lead, which bore Marshall’s 1959 model number, debuted in 1965 and was the amp that defined the plexi sound. That sound is here in spades, clubs, diamonds, and hearts. Like the Super Lead, the pedal is easy to use. The original’s 3-band EQ is replaced by a single, rangeful tone control. The normal dial and the volume, which together mimic the character created by jumping the first and second channels of a plexi head, offer smooth, rich, buttery op-amp driven gain and loudness. And the high-treble dial functions much like the presence control on the original amp.
The pedal is sturdy and handsome, too. A heavy-duty metal enclosure evokes the classic black-with-gold-plate plexi look and a vintage-grille-cloth motif. Switches and knobs (the latter with rubber sides for slip-free turning) are ultra solid, and—refreshingly—there’s a 9V battery option in addition to a barrel-pin connection. Whether with single-coils or humbuckers, getting beefy, sustained, historic tones took moments. I especially delighted in approximating my favorite Super Lead head setting by flooring the high treble, normal, and tone dials, and turning back the tone pots on my Flying V, evoking Disraeli Gears-era Clapton tone. That alone, to me, makes the 1959 Super Lead stomp a bargain at $149.The Miku was introduced about 10 years ago and is based on the vocal stylings of Hatsune Miku, a virtual pop icon. But it does much more than artificial vowels and high-pitched words.
It’s tempting to think of this pedal as a joke. Don’t.
It all started a few years ago through a trade with a friend. I just wanted to help him out—he really wanted to get a fuzz pedal but didn’t have enough cash, so he offered up the Korg Miku. I had no idea then, but it turned out to be the best trade I’ve ever made.
Here’s the truth: the Korg Miku is not your typical guitar pedal. It won’t boost your mids, sculpt your gain, or serve up that warm, buttery overdrive you’ve always worshipped. Nope. This little box does something entirely different: It sings! Yes, sings in a Japanese kawaii accent that’s based on the signature voice of virtual pop icon Hatsune Miku.
At first glance, it’s tempting to dismiss this pedal as just a gimmick—a joke, a collector’s oddity, the kind of thing you buy for fun and then forget next to your Hello Kitty Strat. But here’s the twist: Some take it seriously and I’m one of those people.
I play in a punk band called Cakrux, and lately I’ve been working with a member of a Japanese idol-style girl group—yeah, it’s exactly the kind of wild mashup you’d ever imagine. Somewhere in the middle of that chaos, the Miku found its way into my setup, and weirdly enough, it stuck. It’s quirky, beautiful, occasionally maddening, and somehow … just right. After plenty of time spent in rehearsals, studio takes, and more sonic experiments than I care to admit, I’ve come to appreciate this pedal in unexpected ways. So here are a few things you probably didn’t know about this delightfully strange little box.
It’s Not Organic—and That’s OK
Most guitar pedals are chasing something real. Wah pedals mimic the human voice—or even a trumpet. Tube Screamers? They’re built to recreate the warm push of an overdriven tube amp. Cab sims aim to replicate the tone of real-world speaker setups. But the Miku? It breaks the mold. Instead of emulating reality, it channels the voice of a fictional pop icon. Hatsune Miku isn’t a person—she’s a vocaloid, a fully digital creation made of samples and synthesis. The Miku doesn’t try to sound organic, it tries to sound like her. In that sense, it might be the only pedal trying to reproduce something that never existed in the physical world. And honestly, there’s something oddly poetic about that.
A World-Class Buffer
Here’s a fun fact: I once saw a big-name Indonesian session guitarist—you know, the kind who plays in sold-out arenas—with a Miku pedal on his board. I was like, “No way this guy’s busting out vocaloid lines mid-solo.” Plot twist: He only uses it for the buffer. Yep, the man swears by it and says it’s the best-sounding buffer he’s ever plugged into. I laughed … until I tried it. And honestly? He’s not wrong. Even if you never hear Miku sing a note, this pedal still deserves a spot on your board. Just for the tone mojo alone. Wild, right?
“The Miku is one of those pedals that really shouldn’t work for your music, but somehow, it just does.”
Impossible to Tame
Most pedals are built to make your life easier. The Miku? Not so much. This thing demands patience—and maybe a little spiritual surrender. First off, the tracking can be finicky, especially if you’re using low-output pickups. Latency becomes really noticeable and your picking dynamics suddenly matter a lot more. Then there’s the golden rule I learned the hard way. Never—ever—put anything before the Miku. No fuzz, no wah, no compressor, not even a buffer! It gets confused instantly and says “What is going on here?” And don’t even think about punching in while recording. The vocal results are so unpredictable, you’ll never get the same sound twice. Mess up halfway? You’re starting from scratch. Same setup, same take, same chaotic energy. It’s like trying to recreate a fever dream. Good luck with that.
Full Range = Full Power
Sure, it’s made for guitar, but the Miku really comes to life when you run it through a keyboard amp, bass cab, or even a full-range speaker. Why? Because her voice covers way more frequency range than a regular guitar speaker can handle. Plug it into a PA system or a bass rig, and everything sounds clearer, richer, way more expressive. It’s like letting Hatsune Miku out of her cage.
The Miku is one of those pedals that really shouldn't work for your music, but somehow, it just does. Is it the best pedal out there? Nah. Is it practical? Not by a long shot. But every time I plug it in, I can’t help but smile. It’s unpredictable, a little wild, and it feels like you’re jamming in the middle of a bizarre Isekai anime scene. And honestly, that’s what makes it fun.
This thing used to go for less than $100. Now? It’s fetching many times that. Is it worth the price? That’s up to you. But for me, the Korg Miku isn’t just another pedal—it’s a strange, delightful journey I’m glad I didn’t skip. No regrets here.
Two guitars, two amps, and two people is all it takes to bring the noise.
The day before they played the coveted Blue Room at Third Man Records in Nashville, the Washington, D.C.-based garage-punk duo Teen Mortgage released their debut record, Devil Ultrasonic Dream. Not a bad couple of days for a young band.
PG’s Chris Kies caught up with guitarist and vocalist James Guile at the Blue Room to find out how he builds the band’s bombastic guitar attack.
Brought to you by D’Addario.
Devilish Dunable
Guile has been known to use Telecasters and Gretsches in the past, but this time out he’s sticking with this Dunable Cyclops DE, courtesy of Gwarsenio Hall—aka Jordan Olds of metal-themed comedy talk show Two Minutes to Late Night. Guile digs the Dunable’s lightness on his shoulders, and its balance of high and low frequencies.
Storm Warning
What does Guile like about this Squier Cyclone? Simple: its color. This one is also nice and easy on the back, and Guile picked it up from Atomic Music in Beltsville, Maryland.
Crushing It
Guile also scooped this Music Man 410-HD from Atomic, which he got just for this tour for a pretty sweet deal. It runs alongside an Orange Crush Bass 100 to rumble out the low end.
James Guile’s Pedalboard
The Electro-Harmonix Micro POG and Hiwatt Filter Fuzz MkII run to the Orange, while everything else—a DigiTech Whammy, Pro Co Lil’ RAT, and Death by Audio Echo Dream 2—runs to the Music Man. A TC Helicon Mic Mechanic is on board for vocal assistance, and a TC Electronic PolyTune 3, Morley ABY, and Voodoo Labs Pedal Power 3 Plus keep the ship afloat.