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.
Sometimes the joy performing brings can pay dividends greater than money—and fried shrimp and sausage, too.
As I’ve written, I have a passion for exploring the special spaces where great American music in its unadorned form is still made—juke joints, honky-tonks, dusty farm fields. And while I never want to impose on the authenticity of the music with my presence, sometimes I do get to show up by invitation with a guitar in hand. So, a story—about the kindness, gratitude, and community that comes with playing live music.
In 2005, West Coast-based blues and roots music promoter and manager Mindy Giles dropped a gift in my lap: a string of dates up the California coast for Scissormen, the Mississippi-hill-country-informed blues duo I had at the time. Back then, I lived in Boston, and with just an EP out, there was no practical reason to tour the other side of the country, even if SiriusXM was playing it. But I was eager to gain a toehold anywhere and I love to perform, so … off I went, with the great drummer Jerome Deupree (Morphine, Joe Morris) riding shotgun.
Many of the dates were depopulated, although a little place in the pines outside of Santa Cruz that had once been a firehouse and Constable Jack’s in Newcastle, where we opened for West Coast blues-guitar master Chris Cain, were great. But in a way, none of that really mattered for me, because our final destination—and the real hook for me wanting to do the tour—was Eli’s Mile High Club in Oakland, a legendary juke joint John Lee Hooker had told me about, where Muddy Waters, Charlie Musselwhite, Bobby Rush, James Brown, and so many of my heroes had played. I never thought I’d get to see this storied place, let alone perform there. I was thrilled!
We arrived at Eli’s, a humble room in a rough part of town, at the appointed time for load in, to find the door chained and padlocked on a Saturday night. When I called the manager/booking agent, it sounded as if I’d woken him up, but he told me to come back in two hours. We killed some time touristing in Jack London Square and got back to find the doors open and the manager and a bartender at their stations. After a quick soundcheck, we reveled in the dressing room, where Bobby Rush, Hubert Sumlin, Etta James, and a host of other notables had left signatures—including John Lee Hooker’s rough-drawn J.L.H.—on the wall. I was inspired, and didn’t care if only a handful of patrons were there when we started our first set.
“The real hook for me wanting to do the tour was Eli’s Mile High Club in Oakland, a legendary juke joint John Lee Hooker had told me about, where Muddy Waters, Charlie Musselwhite, Bobby Rush, James Brown, and so many of my blues heroes had played.”
Then magic happened. Slowly, people began filing in, until the audience of mostly middle-aged Black residents of the neighborhood and local collegiate hipsters packed it standing room only. And we caught fire. In addition to our originals and tunes from the canon of Fred McDowell, R.L. Burnside, and the Hook, we improvised a handful of tunes on the spot, complete with hooks, turnarounds, and lyric choruses. I’ve never done that as well again, and I could tell our freestyle-slide-guitar-and-drums combo was hitting the mark by all the dancing, laughter, and ardent shouts.
After the set, many people told us our music had spoken to them, including one man who tearfully explained he hadn’t felt as at home as he did while hearing us since he’d left the deep South years before. Moments like that make you feel like you’re actually doing something right with your life.
And while the cover charge was low, we’d managed to bring in more than $400—which was our biggest take of the tour. (Ouch!) Only after he’d handed me the money and shaken my hand did the manager tell us the staff hadn’t been paid by the owner in weeks, and that he’d taken pity on us and opened the room despite the labor dispute.
Jerome and I quickly conferred and decided the best thing to do was to split our take with him and the bartender, in gratitude. Suddenly, we’d made new friends. And they cooked up a heap of andouille sausage and fried shrimp, and we laughed and ate together for hours.
At about 4 a.m., I had to take Jerome to the airport, so he could fly to a wedding, and I began a four-day cross-country solo drive home. But the joyful energy of the night kept me going past the sunrise toward Truckee and into the desert, where I enjoyed watching nightfall turn the rocks and sand dark red before I started getting tired, finally stopping for the evening near the Great Salt Lake.
A while after that, Eli’s ended its 30-plus-years as a blues room, but it’s reopened as a punk rock club today, where, I hope, other musicians can still have their hearts as well filled—and the staff always gets paid!