Our columnist’s pursuit of guitar lore brought tears to the eyes of the late Japanese builder Yasuo Momose, who became nostalgic for his designs like the one featured here.
Once upon a time, yours truly was a young journalism major who hated to read! Yep, I wanted to be a sports writer, and was only really interested in that endeavor. But alas, young Frank was forced to read about two books/novels a week, for about two years. It was good for a backwards weirdo like me because I was exposed to history, culture, and philosophy to the extent that I was actually becoming a little worldly. Just a little. Out of those experiences, I learned to appreciate telling stories, especially through interviews and firsthand accounts.
When I began to research guitars, I just simply reached out to people and asked all the questions I could think of. Man, I talked to musicians, studio people, factory workers, guitar designers, and company owners. Almost all of them were a bit surprised at my interest in them and my wanting to know about mostly forgotten guitar history.
I’ve interviewed people from all over the world, from the U.S. to Italy to England to Germany. At one point, I had so much information that it was depleting my hard-drive space and my brain, to the extent that I had to take a breath and organize all this stuff! In that process, I found that I cared for all these people and felt the need to tell their stories. Like any good journalism major, I realized the historical implications and the human element. So, for this month, I wanted to highlight a guitar design by Yasuo Momose. He worked at the famous Fujigen factory in the early 1960s, and later moved to a smaller factory called Hayashi Mokko, where he let his creative notions flow. He’s responsible for all the ultra-cool late-’60s Kent guitars with the racing-striped bodies!
Japanese guitar designer and builder Yasuo Momose.
Photo by Tadashi Ito
This particular model borrows from the “violin” guitar craze, mainly perpetuated by Paul McCartney and his Höfner bass. Dubbed the 834, this Kent was only produced for two short years, from 1967–1969. Priced at $125, the 834 was described as:
“The best of both—all in one! The free-sounding acoustics of a violin-shaped body, plus the charged up excitement of Kent electronics! This semi-acoustic body has an arched top and back, two pickups, two tone and two volume controls, toggle switch for pickup selection, rhythm-solo switch, compensating damper bridge and Kent tremolo tailpiece.”
Ah, to be an ad writer back in those days! In reality, this guitar was supercharged because of those Kent pickups, which are hot as hell, and could drive a small tube amp into the red zone! This is one of the guitars I wish I had never sold, because it’s light but also over-engineered and rather sturdy. Oh well. It has a wonderful headstock and body, “Kent” inlays, and of course, the cool side binding which had a dual purpose: to cover up the wood joining and to act as rally stripes. So cool!
As I was researching my book, I could never figure out which factory made the 834, along with all the other Kents from that era. So, on one of my visits to Japan, I was encouraged to visit Momose-san, who was then working at the Deviser factory in Matsumoto City. He was still making guitars, but they were all high-end electrics and acoustics, sold under the Momose name. I was led back to his workspace and there he was, toiling away at five guitars! He made all of them from scratch and was treated with a certain reverence among the other employees. In Japan, they respect their elders!
“Almost all of them were a bit surprised at my interest in them and my wanting to know about mostly forgotten guitar history.”
We got to chatting and sat down for an interview. At the end, I showed him some pictures from my book, and when I came to the Kent guitars, he started to tear up. He said, “These were my first designs,” and went on to tell me some more history and anecdotes. I tell this story again because Momose-san passed away recently, and I wanted to highlight him once more. He was the same age as my dad, both born in 1944. It turns out there is really only one reason to write about history. Get it straight before it disappears.
While the lap-steel guitar may have been surpassed in popularity by the pedal steel, this humble instrument makes a brief but meaningful appearance in Wu-Tang: An American Saga.
During a recent battle with a nasty stomach virus, I laid in bed for three days binging all sorts of shows and movies. One show I discovered was so interesting that I watched the whole series in a day: Wu-Tang: An American Saga. Peeps, I know I talk all the time about punk and blues and guitar-driven music in my column, but I really enjoy old hip-hop, and the Wu-Tang Clan is one of my favorites! The show is a semi-fictionalized story of the group and the collective members.
So, why am I bringing a hip-hop group into a guitar column? Well, because of a scene in one of the last episodes. The idea of the Wu-Tang Clan was primarily the vision of RZA, who produced most of the music and came up with so many of those raw beats. As RZA was thinking about a new direction for the group’s second album, he was shopping at a music store and stumbled upon a lap-steel guitar—a vintage Japanese Guyatone model. That scene highlights how RZA wanted to use more live instruments, and how he wanted to experiment with different sounds. I just love the idea that something like a vintage lap steel caught the imagination of RZA.
Lap steels had a relatively short run but were incredibly popular from the 1930s into the early 1950s, when larger, more sophisticated pedal-steel guitars became the rage. When you think about that era, the 1930s was the dawn of electrical amplification. With this came lap steels and (often) amplifier combos. This was also the same time Hawaiian music became incredibly popular. Soon, lap steels were found across a variety of genres, such as country, blues, gospel, and Western swing music.
“I just love the idea that something like a vintage lap steel caught the imagination of RZA.”
In the early days, there were so many models with interesting designs, flashy colors, and chrome galore. American manufacturers like Fender, Rickenbacker, and Gibson had fine lap-steel guitars. Japanese builders, mainly Teisco and Guyatone, were really cranking out varied and interesting lap steels and amps, and the two companies were primarily selling them to American service members stationed in Japan after World War II.
One of the very first Japanese lap steels, and one of the first products ever made by Teisco, is this one pictured here, built sometime around the late 1940s. I found this unnamed model in a super cool shop named the Tinicum Guitar Barn here in Pennsylvania. (The owner of the guitar barn is one of us—those who do the weird and interesting.)
And at the headstock, a logo fit for a baseball jersey.
During one of my trips to Japan, I met with some of the original Teisco employees and they remembered this model and, in particular, the logo. This original Teisco logo was also the same logo used on the uniforms of the Teisco baseball team. If you think about it, lap steels are kind of like a dressed-up 2"x4". But I’ve always marveled at how creative some of these instruments can get, often featuring art-deco touches and elaborate pickup covers. This Teisco represents some of the simple artistic touches that make lap steels just way cool. The pickup has some sort of “built-in” echo that makes for a wonderfully eerie sound. Paired with a boost or mild distortion, you can get sounds like you’d never get anywhere else.
Lap-steel guitars totally have a level of comfortability with us “regular” guitar players. These lap steels are flattened out like a flounder, but it’s a relatively easy instrument to play, and once you get the hang of the sliding steel bar in your left hand, you can create some strange and ethereal sounds straight out of Hawaii. Tune these darn things to just about any open chord and you’re halfway there.
I’m always talking about different guitars and how they can act as a new palette or a new brush to create music, and lap steels can act as that springboard to creative heights for all kinds of artists, like RZA and Wu-Tang. “Protect ya neck”!
The background of Elk Guitars is as intriguing as its oddball models, which are now rarities on the vintage market.
Okay, so what if I told you that the intersection of a love for country music, a hunter’s magazine, and a dentist led to the start of one of the legendary Japanese guitar lines of the 1960s and ’70s? Well, read on good people, and let me spin the yarn of Elk Guitars!
“He liked the simple name and realized that the word ‘elk,’ written in English or Japanese, is only three characters. And so, the ‘Elk’ brand was born.”
Started in 1963 by Yukiho Yamada, the company was originally called Miyuki Industries and focused on the production of electric guitar amps. Yamada was a fine guitar player and was fiddling around with amp designs for his own onstage use. The company gained a solid reputation by making 35- and 45-watt amps using the “Echo” brand name. Then, around July 1965, they started making electric guitars, which coincided with the electric guitar boom and the Beatles creating musical shockwaves around the world.
Yamada had a passion for Western-style music, and had an older brother who would play records for him like “Oh My Darling, Clementine” and the theme from Stagecoach. He also grew up during American occupation and was influenced by music played on the Far East Network radio station, or FEN. His taste for country music matched his love for the outdoors and the idea of hunting, and, while perusing a foreign hunting magazine, he came across a photo of an elk. He liked the simple name and realized that the word “elk,” written in English or Japanese, is only three characters. And so, the “Elk” brand was born.
Yamada was adamant from the start that his guitars be of professional quality, and he researched everything from tonewoods to pickup designs to truss rods. Before he started electric guitar production in earnest, Yamada bought a Fender Jaguar, which was a very expensive purchase in Japan at that time. His aforementioned older brother happened to be a dentist, and, using X-rays, he helped study the truss rod and other components of the Jaguar without having to destroy it (as was done to a few Mosrite guitars at that time).
Armed with this knowledge, Yamada began producing some fine guitars. Rather than mass-producing, he kept production low to maintain quality. One of the first solidbody electrics was the Elk Country, which arrived sometime in 1966. In our photo, we can see a few of the hallmarks of Elk guitars. The shrimp-tail headstock and the Elk vibrato are common on many of the models. The vibrato was an in-house design that was made at the amplifier factory. These units work so well, and pair up nicely with the adjustable bridge and tuners.
Now, check out the Jaguar-ish pickups, which are relatively good copies of actual Jaguar pickups. Yamada’s uncle, who was working at an electronics factory in Haneda, took apart the original Jaguar pickup and discovered the use of alnico, which is what gives Elk guitars a great sound that’s full, percussive, and clear. The Country guitar was one of the weirder offerings from the catalog, and didn’t have a very long production run. But you can still see the Jaguar influences in the electronics array that had a volume and tone knob, and two mini switches for the pickup selection. The body has a slightly offset design combined with some exaggerated contours, and this guitar just speaks to my love of the oddballs.
Elk guitars were only really sold and marketed in Japan, so finding a good example is difficult. Adding to the rarity is that almost every one of the Elk or Miyuki logos have simply disintegrated over time, leaving only an oval-shaped bare spot on the headstock. The first Elk guitar I ever came across was a very fine straight-up Jaguar copy, which suffered from the missing logo. It took me a few years to figure out the origin of that guitar, and I suspect some of these Elks puzzled others as well.
Elk electric guitar production continued on through the 1970s, featuring mostly copies of Fender, Mosrite, Gibson, and Gretsch designs. The company was endlessly experimenting with ways to improve the product. There are so many funny stories that have been shared with me, mostly by the excellent author Hiroyuki Noguchi. He interviewed some of the original engineers of the day, and they told him about how they used maple slats from old bowling lanes to experiment with laminate, and how they studied public bathhouse soap dishes to learn about celluloid and pickguards! But perhaps the funniest story is how Yamada came upon the “Elk” name. How’s that for a convoluted tale?