Halo Guitars shares with us the build of their AshCourt model reviewed this month.
An imperfectly perfect routing job.
Take a moment to appreciate those quirks in your instruments that reveal their makerās hands.
Letās talk about obsessions for a minute. They come in all sizes and shapes; some are benign and harmless, while others can be cruel, crippling, or even life threatening. Members of 12-step and self-help programs remind us of how insidious our own self-delusion can be, which intrigued me enough to take a look at my gear and, ultimately, myself.
I took stock of any compulsive behaviors or things that kept me up at night. I tabulated items that pushed my buttons or irritated me. In the end, I had to admit that Iāve got issuesāIām obsessed. I canāt help myself, but I donāt want to either.
There are names and acronyms for what I have, but it all boils down to one thing: Iāve been obsessed with the little details. The little stuff that most people can pass by without a second thought. That candy wrapper teetering on the edge of the waste bin; I wonder, who could possibly tolerate that? That screwdriver with a worn tip? Iāve got to replace that! A small gap between a maple top and the binding? We canāt let that go. An uneven seam? To the bandsaw it goes, and then the dumpster. Those are the little glitches that make a statement individually and add up to a total that is less than what it could be. No, make that should be. Or should it?
The ancient Greeks were fascinated with the concept of arete, which refers to excellence or virtue. Arete represents the highest quality or state that something or someone can achieve. The German auto designer Ferdinand Porsche considered it almost a religionāindeed, the companyās motto has been interpreted as āexcellence is expected.ā Iām not imagining that I have the chops of a Porsche engineer, but we all have goals.Of course, there is a limit; otherwise, Iād never get anything done. Iām not crazy. So, in order to save myself, and possibly you, I encourage embracing a get-out-of-jail-free concept of sorts known to the Japanese as wabi-sabi.
Wabi-sabi plays a profound and integral role in Japanese culture and traditions, influencing various aspects of art, philosophy, and daily life. This aesthetic concept, ingrained into Japanās culture, actually celebrates imperfection, impermanence, and simplicity. Some of the aesthetic principles of wabi-sabi include appreciating asymmetry, valuing roughness and simplicity, recognizing beauty in natural things, and embracing natural wear and tear. I think those of us who appreciate a real road-worn vintage instrument may already be part of the way there!
āAs much as I donāt want my toaster to project sloppy construction, I do want beautiful instruments to approach perfection, while leaving little breadcrumbs that are evidence of the makerās hand.ā
For me as a musician and builder, Iāve come to soften my obsessions to appreciate and even look for the little āmistakesā in music and craft that tell me that a human being actually created those things. Things like off-mic banter in studio recordings, or fret buzz. As much as I donāt want my toaster to project sloppy construction, I do want beautiful instruments to approach perfection, while leaving little breadcrumbs that are evidence of the makerās hand. Of course, under the microscope anything can be dissected and proclaimed imperfect, but there is a beauty to something that says, āThis is as good as you need it to be.ā Furthermore, you could say itās beautiful the way it is because it has character shaped by virtues and flaws, just like a human being.
So, before I jump to a conclusion or judgement on a guitar, song, or most anything that is created by humans, I take a breath and consider character and personality. You might say that a perfect execution of lutherie might be flawless, but itās the cold, sterile presence of the totally immaculate that I find flawed. When I look at the flatness of the finish on the top edge of a Collings headstock, I marvel at the determination behind it. But itās not the entire beast, for that same guitar has telltale marks that prove it was made by people, not an alien force. They are the wabi-sabiāthe makerās mark.
I once owned a vintage Telecaster that was stunningly mint, but had a tiny knot in the maple fretboard, just past the 12th fret. Would I have returned it as unacceptable if I had been the original owner? Even at the time, many decades ago, I recognized the character that birthmark brought to my guitar. Even though itās long gone from my collection, if I ever saw it again, Iād recognize it like an old compadre. And that, my friends, is what makes our instruments real to us. And Iām now obsessed with that.
Club- or festival-provided stage amps can be hellish or angelic. Here are some of the devils and angels Premier Guitarās editorial director has encountered along the road.
I have a slight allergy to backline amps. I shouldnāt, because Iāve played through a lot of them at clubs and festivals over the years, and most of my experiences have been fine, but I think a few bad combos and unfathomable heads put me off to a degree I canāt quite shake.
One of the first times I got the backline shivers was in the ā90s at a New York City club gig supporting John Sinclair, where I was told we would not need to bring amps. Awaiting me was a severely scarred Peavey Bandit combo with nary a knob left on its face, and the EQ and pre gain didnāt even have posts left. I just twisted a few stumps and gave up on the rest. How was the sound? Like an amplified fluorescent light bulb. On the other hand, Iāve never met a backline Peavey Classic series amp I didnāt like. Or, really, almost any backline amp that got the TLC it deserved, along with the heavy use. I once plugged into a right-out-of-the-box amp delivered to a club in Geneva by a then-emerging European manufacturer that sounded great during soundcheck, but its transformer died on the first chord of the first song in my bandās set. Luckily, theyād sent two, so we had to stop, open a box, mic the new amp, and jump back on the horse.Another case: I like a little drive, so imagine my dismay to find a backline at a satellite tent at a major festival with zero master volume amps. At the time, I wasnāt using effectsājust a Strat and a Tele. So I plugged into a big blonde Fender and just turned up. The stage volume was brutal, but I had my tone so it was great. At least for me. I hope the drummer who played with me that day can still hear.
Sometimes, even speccing the backline doesnāt help. While playing a series of gigs in France, I requested either Vox or Marshall amps, such as an AC30 or JCM800, and at one big stage I encountered a fresh-looking JCM 2000 Triple Super Lead atop a 4x12. I must confess, I took one look at both decks of buttons and push-pulls and my heart sank. I was out of my comfort zone at the time. Try as I might, I could not get anywhere near the mocha, mid-ripe sound I get out of my ā72 Super Lead without turning up to a stratospheric level. I felt terrible. Not for the audience. It was an outdoor stage with plenty of open space. But for the stage crew. When one of them shouted, āTed, es-tu psychotique?ā between songs, I didnāt need to consult Google Translate to know what he meant. I was embarrassed and regretful about the volume, but had a great time playing, nonetheless. (Sorry, crew!)
āAwaiting me was a severely scarred Peavey Bandit combo with nary a knob left on its face, and the EQ and pre gain didnāt even have posts left.ā
Over this summer I played a voter registration benefit, and the large venue that held it sent a really appealing backline list, with a Deluxe and a DeVille included. When I got there, there was a Deluxe but no other guitar amp per se. I had to play through a bass amp, and it was okay, thanks to my pedals, but a decidedly less-than-magical experience.
I feel like Iām whining, but like most of you Iāve spent years chasing a particular tone, and when I have my own rig itās as delicious as German chocolate cake. So maybe Iām spoiled. And there are some backline amps Iāve coveted at gigsālike the humble Blues Junior at Nashvilleās Eastside Bowl thatās been upgraded with a Deluxe transformer. It speaks eloquently.
There have been many other funky, hard-to-manage (at least for me) backline amps Iāve wrestled with over the years. After all, Iāve played in a lot of juke joints and roadhouses. And I used to sweat about it. But I finally made my āwhateverā peace with backlines thanks to some advice from Luther Dickinson: āNo matter what an amp sounds like, you have to stay out of your own head.ā Just let the music fly.
In that spirit, two of this issueās gear features deal with backlines. One is a public service: If youāve never played through a backline, hereās what you should expect; or if youāre putting one together, as Iāve had to do many times, hereās what to consider. The other piece polls eight heavyweight guitarists on their own backline gear specsālending insight on how established pros ensure that they sound like themselves under any circumstances.
So, if stage life throws you a lemon for an amplifier, just plug in and make it as juicy as you can. Donāt worry, because thereās another gig down the pike where youāll sound exactly like yourself.
On Thatās the Price of Loving Me, āWeāre Not Finished Yetā is a love letter to Warehamās 1968 Gibson ES-335.
The singer-songwriter-guitarist, known for his time with indie rock heroes Galaxie 500, Luna, and Dean & Britta, reunites with producer Kramer on his latest song-driven solo effort, Thatās the Price of Loving Me.
āYou want there to be moments where something unexpected hits you,ā says Dean Wareham. āTheyāve done studies on this. What is it in a song that makes people cry? What is it that moves you? Itās something unexpected.ā
The singer-songwriter, 61, has crafted many such momentsāmost famously during the late ā80s and early ā90s, helping cement the dream-pop genre with cult-favorites Galaxie 500. Take the tenor saxophone, by Ralph Carney, that elevates the back half of āDecomposing Treesā from 1989ās On Fire, or the Mellotron-like atmosphere that bubbles up during āSpookā on This Is Our Music from 1990āboth of which, notably, were recorded with journeyman producer Kramer, whoās part of Warehamās rich sonic universe once again with the songwriterās new solo album, Thatās the Price of Loving Me.
Following This Is Our Music, the final Galaxie 500 album, Wareham and Kramer went their separate ways. The former founded the long-running indie-rock band Luna, formed the duo Dean & Britta with now-wife Britta Phillips, worked on film scores, and released a handful of solo projects. Kramer, meanwhile, grew into a hero of experimental music, playing with and producing everyone from John Zorn to Daniel Johnston. They stayed in touch, even as they drifted apart geographically, and always talked about working together againābut it took the weight of mortality to make it happen.
ā[Kramer has] been saying for years, āItās crazy we havenāt made a record together,āā says Wareham over Zoom, his shimmering silver hair flanked in the frame by a wall-hung cherry red Gibson SG and a poster of Rainer Werner Fassbinderās 1975 drama Faustrecht der Freiheit. āHe was living in Florida, and I was living elsewhere and doing other things. But I did lose a couple of friends over the pandemic, and it did occur to me, you canāt just say, āIāll get to itā forever. Not to be morbid, but weāre not gonna be here forever. Weāre not getting any younger, are we?ā
Dean Wareham's Gear
Wareham was a member of the early indie dream-pop trio Galaxie 500. After their split, he formed indie rock stalwarts Luna as well as Dean & Britta, with wife and Luna bandmate Britta Phillips.
Photo by Laura Moreau
Guitars
Amps
- Lazy J 20
- Mesa/Boogie California Tweed
Effects
- EAE Hypersleep reverb
- EAE Sending analog delay
- Dr Scientist Frazz Dazzler fuzz
- Danelectro Back Talk
- Joe Parker Raydeen overdrive
Strings, Picks, and Accessories
- Curtis Mangan nickel wounds (.010ā.046)
- Dunlop Nylon .88 mm picks
- Truetone 1 Spot Pro CS12
In 2020, Dean & Britta recorded a covers album, Quarantine Tapesāthe perfect opportunity, amid the agony of lockdown, to finally get Kramer involved. The producer mixed their hazy version of the Seekersā āThe Carnival Is Over,ā which planted the seeds for a bigger collaboration on Thatās the Price of Loving Me. At first, though, Wareham didnāt have any songs, so he gave himself a hard deadline by booking some time at L.A. studio Lucyās Meat Market.
āWhat is it in a song that makes people cry? What is it that moves you? Itās something unexpected.ā
āI donāt write songs every dayāsometimes I donāt write songs for a whole year or something,ā he says with a laugh. āThe only thing that gets me to do it is booking studio time. Then I have to write some songs because itāll be embarrassing if I show up with nothing.ā
The space itselfādecked out with a jaw-dropping amount of vintage guitars and amplifiers and keyboardsāhelped animate his sleepy-eyed and gently psychedelic songs. āI thought I had a few nice instruments,ā Wareham says, ābut I showed up, like, āOh, your Les Paulās from 1955? I think Iāll play this one. Your Martin is from the ā40s?āā Speed and spontaneity were essential: They worked six full days, with Kramer guiding him to capture every performance without overthinking it.
Warehamās latest was produced by Kramer, a former member of Shockabilly, Bongwater, and the Butthole Surfers who owns the legendary underground label Shimmy-Disc. He produced all three Galaxie 500 LPs.
ā[Thatās] how I worked with Kramer back in the day too,ā he recalls. āMaybe it kinda spoiled meāhe was always like, āYep, thatās it. Next!ā I got lazy about going back and redoing things. Weād make the decision and move on: keep that drum track and bass track. Maybe Britta [bass, backing vocals] would change a few things. Sometimes youāre with people who think every single thing should be replaced and made perfect, and you donāt actually have to do that. When it came time for me to overdub a guitar solo or something, Kramer would just allow me two takes generally: āDo it again a little differently. Thatās it. Thatās good.āā
āI thought I had a few nice instruments, but I showed up, like, āOh, your Les Paulās from 1955? I think Iāll play this one.āā
The material itself allowed for such malleability, with ringing chord progressions and gentle melodies often influenced by the musicians who happened to be gathered around him that day. āYou Were the Ones I Had to Betrayā has the baroque-pop sweetness of late-ā60s Beatles, partly due to the sawing cellos of L.A. session player Gabe Noel, who also added some boomy bass harmonica to the climax. āItās an instrument youād mostly associate with the Beach Boys, I guess,ā Wareham says. āIt kinda sounds like a saxophone or something.ā
Wareham, his 335, and Mesa/Boogie California Tweed at a recent Luna show, with bassist Britta Phillips in the background.
Photo by Mario Heller
Itās easy to get wrapped up in the warm hug of these arrangements, but itās also worth highlighting Warehamās lyricsāwhether itās the clever but subtle acrostic poetry of āThe Mystery Guestā (āIād never done that before, and itās not that hard to do actually. Sometimes itās just to give yourself a strange assignment to get yourself thinking in a different wayā) or the hilarity of āWeāre Not Finished Yet,ā which scans as carnal but is actually a love letter to his semi-recently acquired 1968 Gibson ES-335.
āSometimes itās just to give yourself a strange assignment to get yourself thinking in a different way.ā
āI read this poem about a guy polishing an antique wooden cabinet or something,ā Wareham explains. āI thought, āThatās funnyāitās vaguely sexual, how heās like rubbing this thing.ā I thought it would be funny if I wrote a song not about a piece of furniture but about the guitarāthe experience of buying this. The lyrics in there: āI waxed you; I rubbed you; I reamed you.ā It all sounds like a dirty song, but itās like, āNo, I had to get the peg holes reamed!ā It works kind of as a love song, but thatās what itās really about.ā
Which brings us back to that idea of the unexpected. The most beautiful touches on Loving Me, crafted with his olā producer pal, are the ones that appear out of nowhereālike the blossoming guitar overdubs of āNew World Julieā and āDear Pretty Baby.ā Kramer, he says, liked to ārun two or three guitar tracks at once, where it becomes a symphony of guitars.ā
These surprises, indeed, are the moments that stick with you.
YouTube It
Lunaās four-song performance on KEXP showcases Dean Warehamās sparse, low-key indie rock vibe as well as his simple and sweet guitar embellishments.
In the ā80s, Peter Buckās clean, chime-y arpeggios defined the sound of alt-rock to come.
In the ā80s, Peter Buckās clean, chime-y arpeggios defined the sound of alt-rock to come. From R.E.M's start, his post-Roger McGuinn 12-string style served as the foundation for the bandās simple, plain-spoken approach, offering a fresh take on what an independent band could be and inspiring generations of artists to come. Buck not only found his sound quickly, he evolved throughout the bandās career. By the ā90s, R.E.M.ās sound had evolved to incorporate organic, acoustic textures, and eventually leaning into a glam- and grunge-inspired, distorted-guitar-focused sound on 1994ās Monster.