As CNC machines have become more prevalent, how much have they changed the building process?
“The Ballad of John Henry” looms large in the annals of American folklore. Versions of it have appeared in a number of narratives, usually referring to Henry as a “steel-driving” man who dies from the effort of defeating a steam drill machine designed to replace his ilk. Henry, who cuts holes in stone for dynamite with his hammer and chisel or alternately pounds railroad spikes, represents a way of life threatened by a powered machine.
In this clash between man and rising technology we are reminded that the fear of progress is an age-old battle that humans have fought with every advance in tools. So goes the advent of computer numeric controlled machines. Commonly referred to as CNC, these machines can be routers, saws, welders, or any number of robotic machines programmed to do heavy, repetitive work—the kind that killed John Henry.
At first, these machines were so huge and expensive that only large companies could afford them. The software alone could run into five-figure sums, locking out even medium-size operations. In recent years however, the cost of smaller machines has dropped to the point where even hobbyist builders can afford to put one in their garage or basement shop. Yet in the minds of many guitarists, the purity of a handbuilt instrument elevates it to a higher standard. But what is really the difference?
A century ago, guitars were made primarily with hand tools. But by the 1940s, guitar factories used large cutting machines, like shapers and routers, to perform the basic forming of bodies and necks. A staple of the guitar-building trade was the overarm “pin” router. Along with its cousin the profile shaper, it simplified and accelerated the manufacture of instruments. The pin router is extremely flexible and can be used for hundreds of woodworking tasks. The tooling used to create repeatable parts can actually be made by the machine itself by copying an original form, such as an existing guitar body or pickguard.
Other advances in guitar manufacturing have included specialized machinery that followed physical templates to carve necks or create the archtops on bodies. Gibson famously used both these machines, which were originally conceived to make gunstocks and chair seats, respectively. Guitar factories employed multi-head drill presses to drill six tuner holes simultaneously, and mechanized glue spreaders replaced brushes and bottles. Each of these changes increased output and reduced the amount of hand skills required to make a profit. It also ushered in a new level of standardization that reduced human error. Today, a single CNC machine can do all of the above and more.
“Guitar factories employed multi-head drill presses to drill six tuner holes simultaneously, and mechanized glue spreaders replaced brushes and bottles.”
Just the same, there has always been a subset of guitar makers that rely mostly on hand tools. I find it to be the most satisfying part of what I do. For decades, small builders have existed alongside the behemoths as a way of providing the short run or custom work that a large factory couldn’t afford or be bothered to do. The rising success of small builders who focused on handwork paved the way for large companies to create their own in-house custom departments. Now, the versatility, lower cost, and smaller footprint of CNC milling machines allows both types of shops to do a variety of modifications easily and profitably. So, what does this mean for the customer? Do robot machines suck the soul out of an instrument?
The way I look at it, there is a similarity between all means of manufacture. In the case of the shaper and pin-router era, designs had to be drawn by pen and paper, then transferred using hand tools into physical templates. At that point, an operator loaded a wooden blank onto a fixture and muscled it against a spinning cutter along a path determined solely by the template. The creativity and craftsmanship ended before the wood ever saw the blade, and the operator was mostly muscle. In CNC manufacturing, the designer’s pen and paper is replaced by the mouse and computer screen. The nuance of the procedures are determined in the design and tool-path phase long before someone on the shop floor loads the blank and pushes the start button.
The truth is that every instrument is made using some kind of tool, and automated equipment only does a small part of the job. A seasoned builder can spot problems (and opportunities) before they occur, which machines can’t do yet. There is still a huge amount of handwork required to turn a CNC creation into a guitar. If you think that wood, plastic, and steel goes in one end of the machine and a finished instrument comes out of the other, you haven’t been paying attention. It’s just that now electric motors are the muscle instead of John Henry.
A vintage Gibson might have been a missed opportunity, but it inspired a pair of builders to reach for greatness.
Everyone has that “one that got away” story, and as a former small-time vintage-guitar dealer, I’ve got more than a few. The blue-chip examples that passed through my hands haunt me, but there were others that just spoke to my soul. I have fond memories of the hunts, catches, and the releases. Even the ones beyond reach or missed opportunities were exciting. Still, there was one encounter that sticks out maybe more than all. In fact, it led to my 50-year-and-still-counting stint as an instrument builder.
In the late 1960s, the Sound Post was a guitar shop in Evanston, Illinois, not far from where I lived. The owner, Rudy Schlacher, was a former violin maker who had cut his retail teeth at Chicago’s famous Guitar Gallery in the early 1960s before opening his own shop. One of my high school buddies, the late Greg Bennett (designer and founder of Greg Bennett Design) worked at Sound Post, so naturally, I was a familiar face in the store. Schlacher was always trying to entice customers to purchase music gear in novel ways and was the first person to extend store credit to me—a blessing and curse.
One day, while perusing the shop’s usual fare, I noticed an odd-looking guitar hanging on the wall. It was a pale yellow color and shaped like a mutant Dorito. The banana-like headstock had a Gibson logo and a sign that read $10,000 in big numbers. This was when a Les Paul Custom sold for $595, so, naturally, I thought it was a joke, but Schlacher wasn’t kidding. He explained that what I was privileged to see was an extremely rare instrument that few heard of, and even fewer had actually seen. I wasn’t sure if he was exaggerating, but he wouldn’t pull it off the wall for me to play. It made a big impression—I was obsessed.
Fast forward a couple years and a thousand life lessons later, I’d learned all about the Gibson Explorer and why Schlacher had put an impossibly high price on his. He didn’t really want to sell it—it was theater. Through the small community of guitar traders, I had made the acquaintance Chicagoan Jim Beach, owner of Wooden Music on Lincoln Avenue on the city’s North Side. Jim was an accomplished machinist and woodworker who made instruments in the back of his small store. He’d been crafting solidbody electrics of his own design but had also made a few Flying V and Explorer replicas as well.
“The banana-like headstock had a Gibson logo and a sign that read $10,000 in big numbers.”
My business partner, Paul Hamer, and I recognized an opportunity to create a hybrid version of our favorite vintage instruments, and we purchased a mahogany husk from Jim in raw state. The previous year, in 1973, we’d created a Flying V bass for me with the help of John Montgomery, a local repair guy who handled our shop’s more difficult jobs, like finishing and neck breaks, in his suburban basement. Montgomery had done some fine repairs on a customer’s Les Paul Standard and had put a flame maple veneer on a Les Paul Professional for the Dutch virtuoso Jan Akkerman, so we had the right ingredients to do something interesting.
What we envisioned was a unique guitar with a bound maple top—a cross between Schlacher’s Explorer and the vaunted ’59 Gibson “Burst.” The mainstream didn’t even know about vintage guitars yet, but that didn’t matter; we knew what we wanted. With some coaxing, Montgomery descended on the Beach husk while we collected the hardware and basically got in his way trying to help in his basement shop. Progress was slow but steady, and by December of 1974, the woodwork, binding, and paint was done at Montgomery’s, so the parts assembly and setup could be completed at our Northern Prairie Music store in Wilmette. We’d put an original PAF humbucker in the bridge position, and the guitar sounded remarkably good. We called it the Standard.
The next day, December 7, 1974, we brought a load of vintage guitars backstage to a Wishbone Ash concert at the UIC Pavilion in Chicago, including the newly minted modern vintage Explorer, which we showed to guitarist Andy Powell. He passed on the guitar, but bassist Martin Turner inquired about having an Explorer bass built. Turner and I sat down with pencil and paper and mapped out the specifics: Thunderbird pickups and bridge, narrow neck, 34" scale, and a gloss black finish with a small amount of metalflake, to look “like the night sky,” as Turner described. As we left the venue, Paul wondered out loud, “How the hell are we going to do this?” I just replied that we’d figure it out, just like we always did. We had our first “Modern Vintage” order, and the rest is history. Even the ones that get away can serve a purpose. And thanks to Rudy, for refusing to let me touch that Explorer.
When it comes to electric guitar materials, choose the wood that looks good.
Nothing raises the hackles of electric-guitar players like the subject of tonewoods. Maybe that’s why I like to talk about the subject. Unlike many, I enjoy being proven wrong, and believe me when I tell you that, despite my decades of experience, it happens on a regular basis. And despite what may appear to be factual science, there’s also something that can change one’s opinion on matters that don’t get discussed: The practical application of the matter at hand.
Of course, we can all agree on the importance of wood selection in the construction of acoustic instruments. Presumably, this is because there are no pickups involved. The difference between a Sitka spruce- and cedar-topped acoustic should be obvious to most ears. After all, there’s no electronic conversion happening there, it’s just the pure interaction of the wood and strings. On the other hand, when it comes to electric guitars, we’ve all witnessed the transformation that a great set of pickups can lend to a solidbody guitar. This allows us to focus on the nature of electric guitar tone, and where it actually comes from.
There have been endless discussions about how a particular pickup brand’s product has rescued someone’s lackluster guitar, turning it into their No. 1. The opposite is true as well. Either way, anecdotal evidence would suggest that tone comes from pickups. Tests have been devised to eliminate the wood of the electric guitar to prove that pickups alone are responsible for the frequency signature of steel strings. The test rig in question is the Dan Armstrong Lucite guitar. Unfortunately, the only pickups found in these guitars are—you guessed it—Dan Armstrong pickups. But I digress.
What I’m really driving at here is that I’ve come to the conclusion that tonewoods don’t matter. Not that they don’t change the sound of your guitar, but that they simply don’t matter, and that’s okay with me. There are so many elements to guitar tone (with no consensus on what is good, bad, better, or best) that wood simply doesn’t factor into it anymore.
“Tests have been devised to eliminate the wood of the electric guitar to prove that pickups alone are responsible for the frequency signature of steel strings.”
The fact is, many guitar makers assume that you are going to switch out the pickups regardless of what handwringing they do to select what goes into your guitar. This frees up builders to choose the least expensive path or lean heavily on name recognition when stocking their inventory. Or they can offer a smorgasbord of choices to their clients, allowing buyers to feel confident in their purchase. I chuckle at the hours of testing I’ve done to determine which recipe works with this or that model guitar, only to have the customer swap out the pickups anyway. This is, as a good friend of mine puts it, the buyer “putting their own stink on it.”
So, I think that we should look at wood selection for an electric guitar exactly like we would when purchasing (or commissioning) fine furniture. A dining room table works just fine regardless of what beautiful wood you select. It’s going to be the meals and the company of friends that you enjoy—the wood just enhances the mood. A handmade recliner will be just as comfy made from bubinga as it would be if fashioned from curly cherry. And so on. It’s the artistic expression of the builder and an aesthetic choice for the owner. It’s the exact same thing with a guitar.
So, it doesn’t matter if I tell you that a lightweight, chambered white limba guitar will have more air, or that a genuine mahogany will sound fatter. You are going to choose with the greatest, most important sensibility you have—your eyes. Then, after the honeymoon period is over, you can start swapping out pickups and finetuning the tone capacitors and bridge alloys.
You’d think that this might bother or disappoint builders, but I suggest that more of them just get over it and give the customer what they want, regardless of the why. In the end, this benefits everyone. Builders are relieved of the need to ear-test a zillion permutations of Strat, Jazzmaster, P-90, or PAF-style pickups and can focus on delivering a beautiful, well-crafted instrument that looks and plays great. So, there is my new take on the tonewoods and pickup debate. I was wrong, and still am. But at least I understand the new normal. And for those who still think wood makes tone, I’ll be here for you.
Paul Natkin’s The Moment of Truth and Fleetwood Mac in Chicago by Jeff Lowenthal and Robert Schaffner remind us of the importance of the rock ’n’ roll and blues photography that used to accompany our favorite releases.
The convenience of digital music files is undeniable. Whether you’re swapping tracks, adding overdubs, or even collaborating on songwriting, it’s hard to imagine living without them. When I hear about a new artist, the first thing I do is sample some of their work online. Then, if I’m inclined, I can buy their entire catalog with a few clicks, or just listen on a streaming service. As much as I miss making the journey to the record store, digital delivery is pretty magnificent. The one thing that it lacks is the tactile and visual presentation of the record jacket. Especially those ones crammed with photographs.
I love poring over photos of studio situations and live performances. As I would listen to a new piece of music, I’d stare at album cover collages, trying to put myself into the place and time and imagining the conversations and feelings that led to the music I was hearing. How cool would it be to stand in the front row as Ozzy hoisted Randy Rhoads and his polka dot Sandoval Flying V over his head. Imagine seeing the amp setups and microphone placements when Peter Green and Fleetwood Mac recorded at Chess Records in Chicago! Luckily, we have two new books of photography that can scratch that itch.
Firstly, there’s Paul Natkin’s The Moment of Truth, 288 pages of images that tell the story of live music on stage. Natkin has spent his life slogging through the trenches of every genre of music you can imagine, blending in and getting the goods. He once told me that to be a good photographer, you had to know that the right moment was coming, because if you waited to see it, you’d be too late. That skill, honed over decades of study, has allowed Natkin to capture the essence of the performance. It’s no wonder that his work has graced the pages of every periodical you can name, from major newspapers to rock magazines, both current and those lost to the ages.
You’ve probably seen some of these photographs before, like Mick and Tina ripping it up together, or Springsteen sweating on his trusty Telecaster. But that’s just the tip of the iceberg. He reckons he’s shot 10,000 concerts, and I believe him. We worked together to create catalogs and advertisements for Hamer Guitars, and I’d rarely go to a show where he wasn’t already backstage, ready to make introductions and watch the fun begin. My only complaint with this book is that Natkin’s exquisite portrait work isn’t fully represented here. The ability to catch the glimmer in Keith Richard’s eye, or the steady confidence of Buddy Guy’s expression is no mean feat. We can only hope that the publisher sees fit to issue a volume two. In the meantime, you can savor the moments Natkin knew were about to happen.
Another book that deserves your attention is Fleetwood Mac in Chicago by Jeff Lowenthal and Robert Schaffner—a must for early Mac fans. I’d known of photographer Lowenthal, primarily from the studio photographs on the cover of Fleetwood Mac’s album of the same name, recorded at Chess Studios in 1969. Lowenthal was hired to capture images of the session at the last minute, much like many of the musicians employed for the gig.
More associated with his photos of jazz artists and authors like Nelson Algren and Saul Bellow, Lowenthal stepped into an ad hoc session with a rotating crew of Chicago blues musicians surrounding Fleetwood Mac’s core lineup of Peter Green, Danny Kirwan, John McVie, Mick Fleetwood, and Jeremy Spencer—all unknown to the young photographer. Armed with his trusty Leica, Lowenthal shot about a dozen rolls of 35 mm film as the music coalesced around him.
Imagine seeing the amp setups and microphone placements when Peter Green and Fleetwood Mac recorded at Chess Records in Chicago!
During the day-long session, bluesmen, including Otis Spann, Shakey Horton, and Honeyboy Edwards, would arrive feeling out the British musicians, as Lowenthal captured the temperature in the room, which he described as “workmanlike—everybody was there to do a job.” The book also features Robert Schaffner’s interviews with well-known musicians who give their take on the significance of the recordings. For those of us who peered at the thumbnail black-and-white photos on the original record jacket, to see over 150 full-size photos (including 50 never-before-published, some in color) is a revelation of detail.
When I got my copy, I put on the recordings as I thumbed through the pages, finally imagining being in the room in high definition. It’s all there to see: the body language, as well as clear views of the guitars and amps. This book is for Peter Green and Danny Kirwan fans, or fans of blues music history, and Paul Natkin’s tome is a fine companion piece as well. I suppose these books will be available digitally eventually, but I cherish the tactile experience of turning the pages as the music washes over me. You can stream the music as you read, but buy the physical books and enjoy.
In the face of current events, we’ve witnessed the steady and resilient progression of the guitar industry.
Despite the tough times we’ve been facing over the past few years, the guitar world has kept on ticking. By all visible measures, the industry has been doing well, both for sellers of musical gear and for content creators. There has also been a resurgence of live shows, and even with the ebb and flow of infectious disease, the marketplace for live concerts is gathering steam. So, what has changed in our journey to the “new” normal?
For musicians, live music is the component that many enjoy most, so its return is a welcome catharsis. This is good news not just for musicians, but for all the supporting cast members who make the performance ecosystem run. Guitar and drum techs, sound designers, lighting directors, and all the ancillary venue staff needed to stage and manage a night out for a few hundred (or thousand) music fans are the lifeblood of the whole musical experience machine. It takes a lot of grease to make the gravy, which is good for people in the industry who have been sidelined for so long.
It’s going to take a while for the past level of venues to rebuild, I suppose. In the meantime, other outlets that have blossomed in the past few years will continue, with more and more emphasis placed on quality content like streaming shows. True, the format is hardly new, but the production values have improved significantly. Five years ago, you could get away with a shaky cell phone video of your gig or lesson. Today, the bar has risen to make well-lit multi-camera productions the norm. Video editing has become more sophisticated, and a lot of what I see looks more like real broadcast quality. The same goes for shop tours and builder interviews. On the gear side of things, podcasts and more in-depth videos from builders have reached a new level as well.
It takes a lot of grease to make the gravy, which is good for people in the industry who have been sidelined for so long.
Some of this has resulted from the plethora of information about how audio and video production works, and the huge amount of affordable video gear. Previously, only well-funded outfits could afford to hire production companies to create video content. The cost of making a 30-minute piece of broadcast-quality video could be five, or even six figures. Compare that to today, where a few thousand dollars’ worth of gear can get you into the game—and you start to understand why new videos are much slicker.
That’s not to imply that slick production is what makes the difference. Great content is at the heart of any great endeavor. Take a look at the in-depth YouTube series Archtoppery, featuring master luthier Ken Parker. Not that the production value is anywhere near Hollywood levels, but Parker’s guidance through the mesmerizing journey into the minutiae of guitar making is a must-see. What sets it apart is his depth of experience and his ability to verbalize the mechanics of the craft in a way that anyone can understand. You need a little patience to watch a solid hour of how to improve a wood gouge, but that’s precisely what makes this series superlative. Even though Parker is adept at building guitars in a factory setting, his love of the handiwork that he employs on his current instruments humbles even the most experienced among us.
This all brings me to the future of guitar-building on the individual level. If the first few years of this century was a gold rush to launch small-batch guitar brands, the pandemic years brought oversaturation. As we move into the next phase, the reality of the home-built market is setting in. I’m certain that a lot of the basement builders will continue, just as the home beer-brewing hobby does. My best guess is that a lot of the people who attempted to take their hobby to the next level may tire of the struggle to get enough traction to survive. At the corporate level, the Anheuser-Busch and Heinekens of guitar sales will still carry the day.