If you want to escape from the pressures of modern life, go pick up your guitar. Now. You’ll be glad you did.
As I write this, we’re a few weeks away from the election, and I’m feeling as nervous as a cat in a dog park. No matter how you’re voting, there’s a good chance you feel the same way. These are complex times.
But we have a source of respite that many do not: We play guitar. Lately, I’ve made it a point to carve out an hour or so nightly to play through some of my band’s current repertoire to keep the dust off between shows and to explore some fresh sonic options to work into songs. The practice is paying off musically, but that’s not the biggest benefit. I’ve noticed, after I shut down my amps and pedalboard, and put my guitars back on their stands, that I feel better. About everything. For that hour or so, I am simply lost in the joys and mysteries of playing guitar. Things start to reveal themselves, new ideas tumble out of my fingers, and suddenly I’m in a place where anxiety can’t get to me and my mind is largely clear. It’s a safe zone where I’m not judging myself or others, and I’m relaxed and present. It’s a place where polling numbers and attack ads, family members with difficulties, and other concerns don’t even exist. And while it may be temporary, it is also beautiful.
I’m certain many of us have the same experience when we’re playing at home or onstage. And if you’re reading this while voices in your head are nattering with worry, I suggest you immediately go plug a guitar—the one that plays like melted butter—into your favorite amp and play a little melody, or your favorite set of chord changes, or even a nice campfire chord. I’d be surprised if you don’t soon feel the sensation of tension trickling out of your spine.
This is the great gift of guitar playing and music in general: Its ability to transport us to another place—that zone of safety and delight. Under the weight of the world, it is often possible to temporarily forget guitar playing’s curative power, or be distracted from it, and that is why I am reminding you.
"This is the great gift of guitar playing and music in general: Its ability to transport us to another place—that zone of safety and delight."
For me, and I’m sure this is not just my experience, music has always been a refuge—a special thing that makes my heart fill with peace, joy, and wonder. I recall watching Johnny Cash on TV as a child, listening to his spoken stories and the tales in his songs, and feeling like I was being swept through time and space, to places and eras full of exciting people and things. It stretched my imagination and worldview, and made it seem that life’s possibilities were endless. I still cherish that feeling, and listening to, for a couple examples, Tom Waits, Pink Floyd, Merle Haggard, Lucinda Williams, Son House, Kevin Gordon, Coltrane, and the Messthetics, still delivers it. And the next step, playing music and writing songs, makes me feel like an occupant of a small corner of their universe, and that’s a place I cherish.
I’ll mention safety again, and pardon me if this gets too personal. Many of us, after surviving the pandemic and the last decade of turmoil, do not feel safe. Having grown up in a household with a physically and verbally abusive father, where a blow could come at any time without reason or warning, that’s long been an issue for me. And when the news of the latest mass shooting, for example, is fresh in my brain, I tend to map out places to hide or flee when I’m at a concert or a mall or a large public gathering. Maybe that’s just my problem, but my gut—and what I hear from others—tells me it’s not.
Oddly, one of the places I can feel safest and happiest is onstage, whether performing solo or with my band, when everything is flowing and the music is in my veins. And that’s the magic of guitar and music again. It’s given me a place to be in the world that I love and that makes me feel complete. If you get that feeling from playing and listening to music, don’t let anything get in its way. Sometimes, in these times, that can be challenging, but the first step to your personal oasis is simple: just pick up that special guitar and plug in.
Players and their favorite 6-strings have a special relationship that allows them both to shine. Our editorial director shares three examples—and wants to hear about yours.
Gibson recently unveiled a new version of its Les Paul Studio model called “The One.” It’s a lighter, more versatile take on the Studio, with a chambered body and coil-splitting, among other appointments. That guitar’s audacious name got me thinking. “The One” suggests an instrument with playability and tone above others—a holy grail guitar.
It also suggests a highly personal relationship between player and instrument, like those enjoyed by artists and 6-strings like Neil Young and Old Black, David Gilmour and his black Strat, B.B. King and Lucille, Alvin Lee and his “Big Red” ES-335, and Elvin Bishop and the ES-345 he calls “Red Dog.”
Really, the concept of “the one” is deeply subjective. One guitarist’s perfect “baseball bat” neck is another’s pain in the fretting hand. My “one” could be your “zero.” Tastes, technique, and intentions vary. But I suspect we all have our own version of “the one”—a special guitar we relate to above all others, that we feel elevates both our playing and our sound. And if we don’t, we’re probably on the hunt for it. Maybe your “one” was just perfect from the moment it dropped into your hands: easy to play, great-sounding, versatile, and handsome, too. Or maybe it took some modifications to get there. But either way, now you can’t live without it.
I’m lucky enough to have three guitars that I consider my “ones.” (Is that cheating?) The first was made in 2015 by a boutique company in Pennsylvania called Zuzu, and it has an extremely distinctive look, like a weathered old barn door. The odd green color is a shade of Behr house paint called fishpond, and the pickups—a neck humbucker made by Zuzu’s Chris Mills that has a bit of a cocked-wah sound thanks to a .0047 μF-rated capacitor, plus a Porter Overdrive in the bridge—have coil-splitting, which gives me Les Paul-like tones in positions 1, 3, and 5, and Strat tones in 2 and 4. The neck is a nice shallow C shape—my favorite flavor. It weighs about 7.5 pounds, and sounds and plays perfectly, for me. I named it the Green Monster, in honor of my years in Boston and my shameless Godzilla fandom, and I’ve used it on every album and show since it arrived.
“My ‘one’ could be your ‘zero.’ Tastes, technique, and intentions vary.”
Next up is the “Dollycaster,” named after my late, beloved dog, Dolly. It required some reimagining to reach exalted status, having started life as a humble made-in-Japan Esquire reissue that I got used for $180. It also came with Duane Eddy’s signature on its otherwise bland blonde finish, so I decided to use it to collect the autographs of guitarists who’ve influenced me, as I’ve traveled and crossed paths with them. First, I got rid of the awful-sounding factory pickup and had the late luthier Jim Mouradian install a pair of ’60s Gibson humbuckers he’d acquired. Then, I had Jim install jumbo frets on the front of its shallow C-shaped neck. The final bit of customizing was a sticker of Dolly on the pickguard. It’s a great sounding and playing guitar that not only gets compliments for its sparkle and punch, but has ignited plenty of conversations as it’s traveled with me across the U.S. and in Europe.
And the last of my “ones” is a 1968 Les Paul Standard, acquired just before the ascent of Slash elevated prices of the model. It looks a lot like the cherry sunburst ’68 Standard played by Dick Wagner, although the original tuners were replaced with more dependable Gotoh machines. Otherwise, it’s stock and it rocks, with gorgeous tone and feel. As you might guess by now, it also has a slender-ish C neck—which Gibson first employed in the late 1960s. There’s only one drawback to this delightful guitar: It weighs 12.5 pounds. I remember playing joints where four 75-minute sets were required, and putting it on my shoulder for the last set was painful. So, unlike the Green Monster and Dollycaster, it only travels to the studio these days.
I love these guitars the best because they look and feel great, and I play with more comfort and confidence when they’re in my hands. I’m guessing you have guitars that you love just as much—guitars that, as Adrian Belew said about his signature Parker Fly in our recent Rig Rundown, make you play better.
Now it’s time to share. Drop me a line and a photo about your “ones” and why you love ’em and play ’em. And don’t be surprised if they end up in a photo gallery at premierguitar.com. After all, in the universe of guitars, there’s a lot of great “ones” out there.
Creative Commons: https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0/
It’s a common misconception that Nashville, my adopted hometown, got its Music City nickname because of the country music industry. It was actually inspired by the Fisk Jubilee Singers, the Grammy-winning gospel-vocal powerhouse from Fisk University that was formed in 1871 and toured the U.S. and Britain over the next two years. As the story goes, Queen Victoria declared that Nashville must be a “city of music” to spawn such a glorious ensemble.
But there’s more to the tale. From 1935 to 1965, Nashville was arguably the epicenter of Black American music. Along the 30 blocks straddling Jefferson Street—Nashville’s own “Black Wall Street”—were a host of clubs, including Club Baron, Club Stealaway, the Del Morocco, and the Black Diamond, that showcased live music from 7 p.m. until 3 a.m. every weekend. And the roster of talent included a who’s who of national acts—Count Basie, Ray Charles, Ike & Tina Turner, B.B. King, Otis Redding, Etta James, Little Richard, Hank Crawford, James Brown—and formidable locals like Johnny “Blues Boy” Terrell, Gene Allison, Jimmy Church, Marion James, Charles “Wigg” Walker, Frank Howard, and two highly notable guitarists: Johnny Jones, the big dog of Nashville rhythm & blues guitar, and young upstart Jimi Hendrix.
Lorenzo Washington is the founder, guide, and curator of the Jefferson Street Sound Museum, where he provides a living introduction to the Black-music culture that first defined Music City.
But there’s stillmore to the story. In 1946, Nashville’s WLAC became the first major radio station to play R&B records, defying the city fathers and Jim Crow. Its signal reached 28 states and three Canadian provinces, making WLAC the platform by which Black music was introduced to the mainstream. WLAC’s impact on the sales of the indie labels recording Black artists at the time was tremendous.
Not only that. In 1964, Night Train, filmed at WLAC-TV, became the first syndicated R&B television show. Hosted and programmed by Noble Blackwell (who would eventually have an influential career in radio), and with an all-Black cast, Night Train featured local and national acts, and was the template for Soul Train.
“A host of clubs, including Club Baron, Club Stealaway, the Del Morocco, and the Black Diamond, showcased live music from 7 p.m. until 3 a.m. every weekend.”
After two years, pressure from the owners of the Grand Ole Opry caused WLAC’s owners to cancel Night Train, which the Opry perceived as a threat to ticket sales, according to Blackwell’s widow, Katie, and performers Church and Howard. And the radio station’s new management also pulled the plug on its R&B programming. At the same time, Nashville’s establishment—which had long waged a cultural war against the Black community along Jefferson Street—managed the coup de grâce they’d sought for decades by redlining and constructing Interstate 40 through the heart of Jefferson, where bridge abutments now mark the location of some of these historic clubs.
Today, most of the entertainers, DJs, and entrepreneurs responsible for Nashville’s—and therefore, in part, the nation’s—R&B revolution are dead, although on a lucky night you can still hear Walker, Church, or Howard turn back time onstage. But all of those memories and as much history as you can fit into the ground floor of a small house can be found at the Jefferson Street Sound Museum. For the past 23 years, the Museum at 2004 Jefferson has been the passion project of Lorenzo Washington. He secured the building in 2011 for a studio, but a year later felt a calling to create a temple dedicated to preserving Jefferson Street’s musical legacy—an urgency amplified as the local players who were there expired.
When you go to the Jefferson Street Sound Museum, you’ll find plenty of artifacts, from period-correct guitars to the old WLAC broadcast board, and handbills, posters, autographed photos, and ephemera. But the most important exhibit is Lorenzo. Beginning in the late 1950s, he was on the scene, as a fan and friend to the musicians, and even as a driver for songwriter and producer Ted Jarrett.
At 81, Lorenzo’s memory and storytelling skills are exquisite. Warm-hearted and welcoming, he can talk about Hendrix’s days as a maverick in the world of straight R&B, of the menus served while the musicians entertained, of B.B. King driving dancers to a frenzy, and even about the Nashville Stars, the city’s beloved Negro League baseball team that was bankrolled by Sou Bridgeforth, a numbers operator and the owner of the New Era Club, where Etta James recorded her blazing Rocks the House album in 1963. For his work preserving Music City’s foundational music culture, Lorenzo has been honored by the city with Lorenzo Washington Day and is the subject of a living legends exhibit at the National Museum of African American Music (NMAAM) in downtown Nashville.
So, if you’re coming to Nashville, you’ll want to visit Broadway, and the big attractions like the Country Music Hall of Fame and Museum and NMAMM. But if you really want to learn about the roots of Music City, go to 2004 Jefferson Street, and have a conversation with history.
One night, after a performance at an old inn in Pennsylvania, Ted saw a ghost—maybe. Oh, and happy early Halloween!
While this is our October issue, I know it’s a little early for Halloween, but why should Walmart and Target have all the fun? So, here’s a story about a haunted night on the road.
I used to play a chain of bars and inns in southeastern Pennsylvania, and the inns routinely put up the bands after the gig. A lot of those inns had a reputation for being haunted. One had photos of glowing orbs and whisps floating in mid-air taken in various rooms, and some were said to have spirits that played games with patrons, switching lights on and off, blowing in sleepers’ ears, playing tug of war with bedsheets, or the sound of long-gone steam locomotives whistling in the night. At the time, my band was a Mississippi-hill-country-inspired duo, called Scissormen, and several of my drummers experienced these things, but not me. I typically just slept as well as a chronic insomniac can.
Until one night at the Railroad House Inn in Marietta, Pennsylvania. During the gig, I noticed placards on the tabletops for regular meetings of the Pennsylvania Paranormal Association. After the show, I asked the owner, “Is this place haunted?” And he regaled me with ghost stories, noting that a couple staying in the room at the end of the second floor hall, where a gray lady dressed for an earlier century occasionally appeared, had a tug of war with this haint over their bed covers just the week before. Then he added, “I don’t even want to tell you what happened in your room.” Of course, I had to know. Turns out, over a hundred years ago a traveler had been brutally bludgeoned there for the contents of his purse.
Suddenly, I was less tired then I’d thought I was. So, my drumming compadre at the time, R.L. Hulsman, and I, thought it might be nice to sit on the second story back porch of this beautiful structure built in 1823 and enjoy the sweeping woodland view with a wee dram of Jameson—my other frequent traveling companion in those days. It was a warm but beautiful night, with the stars and moon filling the sky like poetry, and one hour quickly become another and another. R.L. and I could chew the fat for ages.
“I saw a gray figure wearing a bonnet, a Victorian skirt, and a frilled blouse go by. I was silent.”
Then, to my left, at the end of the porch, where the window to the haunted room stood uncurtained, I saw a gray figure wearing a bonnet, a Victorian skirt, and a frilled blouse go by. I was silent. Surely, John Jameson and his sons were playing tricks on me. But after about 20 minutes, Rob leaned in and said, gesturing toward that window, “Hey, did you see…?”
“Yes!“ I shouted back. And after a wee bit more liquid courage we decided to investigate.
The door to the allegedly haunted room was open, and we bumbled in, checking the closet, looking under the bed, tugging the bedcovers to see if we’d get a tug back, and checking for the cold spots that seem to be everywhere on paranormal-investigation TV shows. We sat on the bed for a while, but nuthin’. So, we left, and it was time for me to go back to my murder-scene room.
I changed into my PJs, put a glass of water on the bedside table, and spent some time reading a railroad magazine. (Yes, I am also a hardcore train nerd.) The breeze from the open window was delightful, and I soon fell asleep, waking up about 10 hours later, after one of the most wonderful rests I’ve ever had on the road. We lit out for the next gig, relaxed and ready to roll ’n’ rock, in that order.
If you expected a cataclysmic encounter with the souls of the dead, I’m sorry to disappoint. This doesn’t mean I discount others’ experiences, because I have seen and experienced some strange things, indeed. Maybe this spirit was kind, as well as playful, and gifted me the night’s sleep she knew I needed. And while I never played the Railroad House again, I do treasure this night and the memory of the sighting I either did or didn’t have—just another weird tale from decades spent on the road.
Traveling with a collection of spare essentials—from guitar and mic cables to extension cords, capos, tuners, and maybe even a mini-amp—can be the difference between a show and a night of no-go.
Anyone who’s seen a spy flick or caper movie knows about go bags—the always-packed-and-ready duffles or attachés filled with passports, a few weapons, and cash that’s ready to grab and run with when the hellhounds are on your trail. As guitar players, we also need go bags, but their contents are less dramatic, unless, maybe, you’re playing a Corleone-family wedding.
We need the essentials for gigs in our go bags, and that's somewhat subjective. At one point, for me, that included a bottle of Jameson, but no longer. I guess that’s a way of saying that our priorities change, so over time the contents of our go bags will, too.
Now, I have two go bags: a small one for local gigs or quick weekend runs, and a big, fat, roller-wheel bag for short tours or special event gigs, like album-release shows or festivals. The small bag is actually a silver box covered with stickers, and this is what it has inside: two sets of GHS Boomers .010 strings, a couple picks, a string winder and pointy-nose clippers for string replacements, two guitar cables, an extra clip-on tuner, a couple of 9V batteries, a slide, a capo, and a few 6" guitar pedal cables. If I’m not using a backline, I also tuck in an AmpRX BrownBox. (I’ve clocked 127 volts coming out of the walls in some Nashville clubs.)
The Big Black Bag, as it’s named, carries all of the above and a lot more. Ever been to a gig where an adequate number of mics were promised … and instead there were none? Or where a bandmate forgets a guitar strap or cables? Or the temperature’s pushing into the high 90s and there’s not a stage towel to be found? Those problems and more have fueled the packing of my Big Black Bag. Here’s what’s inside: six guitar cables, a half-dozen 9V batteries, six pedal cables, two guitar straps, an extra TU-3, five stage towels, a paint brush (for improv), four microphone cables, an XLR to RCA adaptor, an acoustic guitar soundhole plug, two rolls of duct tape, two SM58s, two SM57s, my BrownBox, four extension cords, a maraca (’cause why not?), a guitar multi-tool, pointy string-clippers, four sets of GHS Boomers, a wall-socket tester, string winders, capos, slides, two 2' instrument cables (for off-board pedal testing or emergency bypasses), $20, a flashlight, a replacement guitar-to-transmitter cable for my wireless, and several AC power cables should one be missing from an amp or other backline gear. And that doesn’t include the slides, capos, and vibrator I keep in my pedalboard case, along with an Ebow.
“When bandmates have forgotten cables, cords, capos, slides, or picks, I’ve had them covered.”
If that seems excessive … well, I’ve used all of it at one time or another. When bandmates have forgotten cables, cords, capos, slides, or picks, I’ve had them covered. When a PA went down in a funky little room—and I play as many funky little rooms as possible—I was able to plug a mic straight into an amp to finish a show. Mic or cable failures? I’ve had those covered, too, for the band and the house. No juice hitting the amp? Well, the wall tester showed a dead outlet.
I’ve played a lot of small towns where there either isn’t a guitar shop within an hour or simply isn’t a shop at all. And if there is, it usually closes at 5 p.m., just about when we’re getting ready to load into the gig. On co-bills, I’ve also bailed out other bands with cables, slides, capos, and even loaner guitars. ( I enjoy seeing other musicians play my 6-strings, to hear how different they sound on my very familiar gear.) All the times I didn’t have these extras and needed them over the years have taught me to pack like a Boy Scout.
There’s also the voodoo factor, which dictates that if you’re prepared for gear failures, they won’t happen. It’s only when you’re going to be caught off-guard that Baron Samedi sneaks in and fries a transformer or kills a switch in your favorite overdrive.
If you don’t have a go bag, it’s time to put yours together. It doesn’t have to be as extreme as the Big Black Bag, but I suggest you think about its contents carefully. A good go bag helps you keep going as a musician. And as you know, the show must go on—unless it really, absolutely can’t, and that’s sad for all the people you want to make happy, including yourself.