Perhaps it’s just coincidence, but lately I’ve had a few chats where chums and acquaintances recalled Peavey amps with great fondness. Just a few months back, a friend I play with showed up to a show beaming with pride for having scored an old Studio series combo from the ’90s on the cheap, and I know a few bass players who are always on the hunt for ’80s Peavey bass heads.
But the most affectionate reflections always seem reserved for the tweed-covered amps fromPeavey’s Classic series. In our First Look video for the Peavey Classic 20 reviewed here, my colleague John Bohlinger recalled using a pair every night for a television show on which he was musical director. And I’ve run into Classic 30s and Classic 50s in a number of backline situations that were always easy to work with and get solid sounds from, and didn’t render my guitar and pedals unrecognizable.
I don’t know if this nostalgia for old Peaveys is a widespread phenomenon. I have some pretty weird musician friends. But if a reappraisal of these workhorse amps has become a recent feature of the guitar zeitgeist, Peavey’s EL-84, 1x12 reboot of the Classic 20 is well timed.
A Bit of English Tweed
My guess is that a lot of Peavey Classic-series customers over the years assumed they were Peavey’s homage to a 1950s Fender Deluxe or Bassman. But despite the cosmetic similarities, Peavey’s Classic-series amps have more in common—at least in terms of tube complement—with English stalwarts like the Vox AC15 and Marshall 18-watt. In fact, the closest Fender equivalent might be the Blues Junior, which, like the Classic 20, AC15, and 18-watt Marshall 1974X, uses two EL84 power tubes and three 12AX7 preamp tubes. Of course, tubes are far from the only factor in shaping an amp’s tone signature, and sometimes the differences between Brit- and American-style amps aren’t as stark as you might imagine. I’ve certainly coaxed some pretty tweed-Deluxe-like tones from 2xEL84 amps.
The Classic 20 definitely possesses qualities of English- and California-bred amplifiers. In my time with the amp, I often heard a less throaty version of a Fender ’65 Deluxe Reverb (which was among the amps I used for comparison). But the Peavey also exhibits the less squishy, more immediate attack and extra midrange you’d hear from an AC15. For players unsure about taking the Vox or Fender path, the Classic 20 could be a middle ground worth exploring.
“For players unsure about taking the Vox or Fender path, the Classic 20 could be a middle ground worth exploring.”
Where the Peavey really differs from many more traditional famous and ubiquitous rivals is in the features tailored for performance, recording, and practice flexibility. Unlike a Deluxe Reverb or an AC15, the Peavey has a midrange control that goes a long way toward coaxing out more British or more American inflections, depending on how you scoop or boost it. It also has footswitchable rhythm and lead channels, the latter of which features a post-gain volume so you can more easily tailor the volume relationship between the two channels. An attenuator enables switching between 20 watts, 5 watts, and 1 watt. There’s an effects loop as well as XLR and USB outputs that work with an onboard speaker simulator for running straight to a PA or recording interface. There’s a pretty decent digital reverb, too.
Stepping into the Tweedlight Zone
In the cleaner rhythm channel, the Classic 20’s ability to span American and British personalities pays dividends and reveals some limitations. The Peavey’s midrange control adds breath and heat to PAF humbuckers that can be harder to coax from a black-panel-style amp lacking a midrange control. It also gives single-coil pickups a very sprightly, jangly feel. But the clean channel can also seem to lack dimension and complexity at times. You probably won’t notice it too much in the absence of an A/B test—and I definitely subjected the Classic 20 to some very unfair toe-to-toe comparisons with vintage and boutique amps. Even still, the clean channel can feel a little tight and less bejeweled with overtones than it could be.
The lead channel, too, comes with some compromises. It can be awesome for generating fiery solo tones that contrast sharply with the clean channel. But the shared EQ means that some of the liveliest, most dimensional clean channel EQ profiles can sound downright sizzly in lead mode. And while power-chord riffing can drip with sass, top-end content can sound a little crisp even at modest treble settings.
The Verdict
The Classic 20 does a lot for just less than 900 bucks. It’s powerful enough for gigging with a band, and its modest size, attenuator, and XLR and USB outputs and speaker simulator make it a practical solution for all kinds of recording, practice, and writing situations—even in small quarters. It would be interesting to see whether a switch from the Peavey’s Sheffield 1230 speaker included in the Classic 20 (which is loosely based on a Celestion V30) to another type would tilt the Classic 20’s characteristics more completely in an English or American direction. And indeed, some of what might be perceived as a relative lack of dimension and stiff top-end output could be down to the stiffness of a brand-new speaker. In general, though, the Classic 20 offers a lot of satisfying, growling, and sparkling tones, flexibility, and practicality for the price.
Peavey Classic 20 Demo | First Look
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On That’s the Price of Loving Me, “We’re Not Finished Yet” is a love letter to Wareham’s 1968 Gibson ES-335.
The singer-songwriter, 61, has crafted many such moments—most famously during the late ’80s and early ’90s, helping cement the dream-pop genre with cult-favorites Galaxie 500. Take the tenor saxophone, by Ralph Carney, that elevates the back half of “Decomposing Trees” from 1989’s On Fire, or the Mellotron-like atmosphere that bubbles up during “Spook” on This Is Our Music from 1990—both of which, notably, were recorded with journeyman producer Kramer, who’s part of Wareham’s rich sonic universe once again with the songwriter’s new solo album, That’s 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 again—but it took the weight of mortality to make it happen.
“[Kramer has] been saying for years, ‘It’s crazy we haven’t made a record together,’” 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 Fassbinder’s 1975 drama Faustrecht der Freiheit. “He 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 can’t just say, ‘I’ll get to it’ forever. Not to be morbid, but we’re not gonna be here forever. We’re not getting any younger, are we?”
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 (.010–.046)
- Dunlop Nylon .88 mm picks
- Truetone 1 Spot Pro CS12
In 2020, Dean & Britta recorded a covers album, Quarantine Tapes—the perfect opportunity, amid the agony of lockdown, to finally get Kramer involved. The producer mixed their hazy version of the Seekers’ “The Carnival Is Over,” which planted the seeds for a bigger collaboration on That’s the Price of Loving Me. At first, though, Wareham didn’t have any songs, so he gave himself a hard deadline by booking some time at L.A. studio Lucy’s Meat Market.
“What is it in a song that makes people cry? What is it that moves you? It’s something unexpected.”
“I don’t write songs every day—sometimes I don’t write songs for a whole year or something,” he says with a laugh. “The only thing that gets me to do it is booking studio time. Then I have to write some songs because it’ll be embarrassing if I show up with nothing.”
The space itself—decked out with a jaw-dropping amount of vintage guitars and amplifiers and keyboards—helped animate his sleepy-eyed and gently psychedelic songs. “I thought I had a few nice instruments,” Wareham says, “but I showed up, like, ‘Oh, your Les Paul’s from 1955? I think I’ll play this one. Your Martin is from the ’40s?’” Speed and spontaneity were essential: They worked six full days, with Kramer guiding him to capture every performance without overthinking it.
Wareham’s 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.
“[That’s] how I worked with Kramer back in the day too,” he recalls. “Maybe it kinda spoiled me—he was always like, ‘Yep, that’s it. Next!’ I got lazy about going back and redoing things. We’d make the decision and move on: keep that drum track and bass track. Maybe Britta [bass, backing vocals] would change a few things. Sometimes you’re with people who think every single thing should be replaced and made perfect, and you don’t 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: ‘Do it again a little differently. That’s it. That’s good.’”
“I thought I had a few nice instruments, but I showed up, like, ‘Oh, your Les Paul’s from 1955? I think I’ll play this one.’”
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. “You Were the Ones I Had to Betray” has the baroque-pop sweetness of late-’60s Beatles, partly due to the sawing cellos of L.A. session player Gabe Noel, who also added some boomy bass harmonica to the climax. “It’s an instrument you’d mostly associate with the Beach Boys, I guess,” Wareham says. “It kinda sounds like a saxophone or something.”
Wareham, his 335, and Mesa/Boogie California Tweed at a recent Luna show, with bassist Britta Phillips in the background.
Photo by Mario Heller
It’s easy to get wrapped up in the warm hug of these arrangements, but it’s also worth highlighting Wareham’s lyrics—whether it’s the clever but subtle acrostic poetry of “The Mystery Guest” (“I’d never done that before, and it’s not that hard to do actually. Sometimes it’s just to give yourself a strange assignment to get yourself thinking in a different way”) or the hilarity of “We’re Not Finished Yet,” which scans as carnal but is actually a love letter to his semi-recently acquired 1968 Gibson ES-335.
“Sometimes it’s just to give yourself a strange assignment to get yourself thinking in a different way.”
“I read this poem about a guy polishing an antique wooden cabinet or something,” Wareham explains. “I thought, ‘That’s funny—it’s vaguely sexual, how he’s like rubbing this thing.’ I thought it would be funny if I wrote a song not about a piece of furniture but about the guitar—the experience of buying this. The lyrics in there: ‘I waxed you; I rubbed you; I reamed you.’ It all sounds like a dirty song, but it’s like, ‘No, I had to get the peg holes reamed!’ It works kind of as a love song, but that’s what it’s really about.”
Which brings us back to that idea of the unexpected. The most beautiful touches on Loving Me, crafted with his ol’ producer pal, are the ones that appear out of nowhere—like the blossoming guitar overdubs of “New World Julie” and “Dear Pretty Baby.” Kramer, he says, liked to “run two or three guitar tracks at once, where it becomes a symphony of guitars.”
These surprises, indeed, are the moments that stick with you.
YouTube It
Luna’s four-song performance on KEXP showcases Dean Wareham’s sparse, low-key indie rock vibe as well as his simple and sweet guitar embellishments.
