Gain is fun in all its forms, from overdrive to fuzz, but let’s talk about a great clean tone.
We’re all here for one thing. It’s the singular sound and magic of the stringed instrument called the guitar—and its various offshoots, including the bass. Okay, so maybe it’s more than one thing, but the sentiment remains. Even as I write this, my thoughts fan out and recognize how many incarnations of “guitar” there must be. It’s almost incomprehensible. Gut-string, nylon-string, steel-string, 12-string, 8-string, 10-string, flatwound, brown sound, fuzztone…. It’s almost impossible to catalog completely, so I’ll stop here and let you add your favorites. Still, there’s one thing that I keep coming back to: clean tone.
I’ve had the luck and good fortune to work in the studio with Robert Cray, and it was the first time I watched how a human being could split the atom with tone so pure that you could feel it in your blood, not just your gut. It’s a piercing voice like heaven’s glass harmonica. Now, I’ve had fellow musicians turn up their noses when Cray is mentioned, but that’s their problem. I love a saturated guitar—my Analog Man King of Tone cranked way up high in the clouds—but it’s a power trip. I know it’s scarier to get it right when down low and tight. Fearless Flyers tight.
It’s not that I don’t like distortion. I’ve chased saturated and singing sustain all my guitar life. I’ve experienced it all, from big amps with quads of Mullard bottles glowing brightly as they approached meltdown, to tweed combos turned up to a sagging and farting 12. There have been racks full of effects piled upon effects—hushing, squashing, squeezing, chorusing, echoing, and expanding my guitar’s output like some Lego sound transformer. The good, the bad, and the relatively unknown. I even tried building my own amp line with a friend when I was 17 years old just to get what I heard in my head. But when I’m honest with myself, the stinging clean sounds of guitar strings are what move me the most.
When I started playing guitar, clean was about all you could get. If an amp started to distort or feed back, we worried that the amp might burst into flames.
When I started playing guitar, clean was about all you could get. If an amp started to distort or feed back, we worried that the amp might burst into flames. I didn’t understand how it worked, but I learned fast. The instruments didn’t ignite, but the sound did. That buzzing, clipping tone hid all my bad finger technique, and I was on my way, squealing and spitting fire from the speakers. The neighbor lady complained to my parents, so, clearly, I was doing something right. It was the power I was looking for in my young life. Clean tone was a thing of the past; long live the square wave on the throne of 16 speakers piled high above the stage.
Many of us have clamored for that thick distorted sound we’ve heard on records and in concerts. Guitarists still curate their collections based upon the building blocks we all discovered during our formative years. It started on the early rock ’n’ roll recordings, when small combo amps got turned up loud to compete with the horns. Bluesmen dimed their amps on Chicago’s Maxwell Street to be heard down the block—good for business. The Brits cranked it up a notch and we players took notice. To some degree, clean was being pushed out. Then, in 1978, “Sultans of Swing” and “Roxanne” came clean. Alongside the slow burning rise of metal, the chiming clarity of the guitar returned to the fray. I’m not trying to build a definitive timeline history of popular guitar sounds here. I’m just merely acknowledging that they ebb and flow. But I always come back to clean.
Even the apex of thick, fat, beefy tone—the PAF humbucker—was and is built for bold hi-fi tone. Its shimmering, articulate clean highs are often lost on period recordings or lousy playback systems. If you doubt it, listen to Michael Bloomfield’s piercing tone on “Albert’s Shuffle” found on the Super Session album. His contemporary, Peter Green, also made extensive use of the clean tones available from his PAF-loaded axe on seminal Fleetwood Mac recordings. Humbuckers can play sweet and clear. It’s worth contemplating that some of the most revered guitar sounds ever committed to record were, in fact, cleaner than we remember. Don’t even get me started with country music.
A lot can be said about practicing guitar with a frighteningly clean sound. Strip away the fuzz and echo and bask in the glory of that stringy, popping, slicing tone that will reward your progress but punish your carelessness. Even after all these years, I’m a sloppy player. But getting it right when all the distortion is put back in the toy box is a scintillating high you can be proud of. It’s just a different addiction. The best part is that when you dial up the dirt again, it feels like flying.
Sanding blocks are just one of the many things you should probably be keeping organized.
The stereotype of the messy artist is a tired old meme. Get it together and get organized.
It’s hard to admit that you’re a slob. Lack of organization is pretty much looked down upon in most professional arenas. It’s also hard to imagine successful people waking up on stained futons and stumbling through a minefield of snack wrappers while looking for their cleanest dirty shirt. That is unless that wealthy schlump is a famous rock star. Is it the artist’s way, or letting go of the illusion of control? Either way I think it’s a stereotype—and one that cuts both ways.
Like a child who is repeatedly told they’re not good enough, sometimes we talk ourselves into playing a part that doesn’t let us spread our wings. Maybe you think that cleanliness and order get in the way of creativity and performance. I used to think that, too. Then I read an article about Roger Penske, one of the most successful racing team owners of all time. Even from the time he was a rookie driver he was known in the paddocks for having immaculately prepared cars. Other drivers and teams were amused by Penske’s mechanics, who kept his cars sparkling clean top and bottom, inside and out, for each and every run on the track. They thought it was some kind of show or blamed it on his ego. But that fastidiousness meant that Penske’s team could spot a tiny leak or potential part failure that might have otherwise been hidden by grime. A well-maintained machine allows the driver to do what they do best—drive. You can roll your eyes, but it’s hard to argue with 18 Indianapolis 500 wins, and 16 season championships.
If you imagine that keeping a race car clean is different from organizing the wiring on your pedalboard or keeping your workbench tidy, you’re running uphill in lead boots. Concise and well-ordered workspaces allow problems to stand out and are therefore easier to diagnose. Reduction of clutter allows you to attend to the creative stuff, which is the whole point. For those who say that friction is fodder for the creative endeavor, I challenge you to write a song about hunting for a screwdriver in a cluttered drawer. On second thought, that’s something that people can relate to. Another thing we can all relate to is having our guitar cut out in the middle of a gig. It’s easier to fix quickly when the signal chain is clearly routed and marked. I know a guitarist who has an emergency bypass pedal that circumvents his entire board directly to the amp via a redundant cable for just this purpose. Maybe that’s a little over the top, but the show must go on, right?
For those who say that friction is fodder for the creative endeavor, I challenge you to write a song about hunting for a screwdriver in a cluttered drawer.
In the workshop, it’s much the same. You don’t need the headache of searching for something in a disorganized bin when you’re in the flow. Concentration is doing one thing at a time, so endlessly looking for tools or parts in a place that resembles a war zone breaks your attention. Preventative protocols can keep things on track. When I visit or see photos of workshops with piles of parts and tools everywhere, I feel sorry for the employees and the customers.
Visual systems are priceless. Whether it’s your workbench or your signal chain, it’s helpful to color code stuff. It makes things easier when you’re in a hurry, or just trying to finish on time. Wire ties come in a rainbow of colors and, aside from anchoring cables down, can serve as guides. Determine a code and start with simple things like white means in, red means out. This makes it simple to troubleshoot a problem. If you have multiple systems or paths, use more colors. Laminate a legend on the gear reminding you or a tech what’s what. In the workshop, tools and jigs can be color coded. I have small sanding block racks that have different grades of abrasives loaded on each block. The slots on the racks are colored to each grit, which is also marked on the blocks. I know which grit goes with each color, so I never reach for the wrong block. It takes a little time to get the hang of it without resorting to looking at the numbers (also stamped on each block), but guitarists are good at remembering sequences.
Musicians have often been pictured as shambolic, but the vision of a painter’s studio piled high with half-squeezed tubes of paint and rags soaked with mineral spirits is a tired old meme. The truth is that buying into the myth of creative disarray is not helping any cause. Instead, a dose of tidiness can really work to your advantage. So, stop painting yourself into a false narrative and revel in the freedom that neatness neurosis provides. Now, where did I leave my label maker?
All artists copy, but reinterpretation is where the magic lies.
While I have a special place in my heart for the classics, I yearn for reinterpretation that wears its reverence for the past on its sleeve but doesn’t just feel like an imposter. In my own instruments, I try to pay homage to the vintage guitars that inspired me to play, design, and build. That will never change. But it also doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate and even adore new things. This sentiment is true for both guitars and the music they make. Hybrid mashups have existed forever, and a lot of what people think of as original musical examples are in fact reinterpretations of something they just didn’t know previously existed.
One famous example is the saga of Led Zeppelin. I sincerely doubt that when they first “borrowed” musical themes from their heroes they imagined that they’d soon be the biggest act on the world stage. They were just doing what blues and rock musicians had done for ages—played the sounds that they loved, regardless of where they came from. Under the critical microscope of copyright law (magnified by the huge sums of money involved), these reinterpretations were deemed unsavory and even illegal. I don’t think most fans saw it that way. I feel the same way about guitars.
At some point, we all take a stand regarding the derivative nature of new things. Some of us revel in the discovery of an artist or band that seemingly breaks free of any recognizable influence, while others may feel more comfortable with an obvious nod to what has come before. I’ve endured arguments about both camps and have found it curious why it even matters. Certainly, as musicians, we all had to start somewhere.
A lot of what people think of as original musical examples are in fact reinterpretations of something they just didn’t know previously existed.
Usually, it begins with a sound that catches your young ear: a song in a TV show, on the internet, or played to you by a friend. Maybe it was your uncle’s record collection. Music is so ubiquitous it can almost disappear into the background like the hum of passing traffic, so it takes something special to get your attention. It might have even been a photograph of a band—one that piques your curiosity as to what they’re all about and what their music sounds like. No matter what draws you in, if the music delivers, you’re hooked. That sound is catalogued in your gray matter and becomes a touchstone for future encounters. It’s up to you to decide if you just want more of the same or the taste of a different flavor.
I think it’s the same with instruments. Perhaps your head exploded when you heard Van Halen for the first time, and that wacky red, white, and black striped guitar made an indelible impression that was forever linked to the sound and feeling that intoxicated you. This permanent scar in your brain fused those two elements until they were the same, and you’ll forever know it’s your benchmark for everything that came after. This is why guitar companies seek artist endorsers—influential musicians who can vouch for the virtue of their products. Like signing a check, popular guitarists put their stink on products, and, in return, the gear puts its sweet smell on them. In turn, we are attracted to the fragrance like bees to a pretty flower.
We’ve all seen guitar collectors whose interests revolve around one model or one manufacturer. Others may run the gamut of “blue chip” legendary instruments—the foundations of electric music from the last half of the 20th century. I’m always surprised when guitarists cut off their willingness to look at newer takes on the instrument—or music for that matter. People can’t help but compare new things to what has come before because that’s how the human brain works. We see something new and the mind searches for a reference to make sense of it. It’s natural.
What comes next is purely up to you. You can deride something for being a copy of a copy, or you can accept that art, in all its forms, stands on the shoulders of what has come before. Sometimes it’s a tribute, sometimes a rip-off, and, occasionally, it’s a tasteful homage to its influences. As time passes, it becomes difficult to create something totally new. I consider all these things before I sit in judgement, but, in the end, it’s the reinterpretation, not the copying, that counts.