When I was five years old, my dad brought home a brand-spanking-new Guild D50. For those who aren't guitar geeks, the D50 was Guild's model similar to a Martin D-28, which is a pretty standard model in the guitar universe. The D-28 and its brother, the D-18, are pretty much the sound of bluegrass and the 1960s folk revival. Before anybody throws anything at the device they're reading this on or at me personally, I mean no disrespect to the Gibson lovers out there! The Gibson models similar to these instruments generally show up in the singer/songwriter world. They tend to be a little more round-sounding, perfect for solo accompaniment for a vocalist.
Back to the D50... for me, this instrument was what an acoustic guitar sounded like. It was my dad’s, so of course, I thought it was amazing. In the right light, it was beautiful too. The red hue of the rosewood and the depth in the grain that the lacquer brought out was just stunning! I knew it was valuable to my old man, and I also knew that it was a major purchase for my parents, as we squeaked by on a cop's and a school bus driver's salaries.
This instrument was the sound of my youth. It was a powerful instrument and it projected incredibly well. I would later find out that in the bluegrass world, an instrument like that is dubbed a "cannon." That was certainly appropriate for this one!
I heard this guitar every day of my life. I heard it in church. I heard it in restaurants. I heard it in bars, shopping malls, at the state fair, festivals, and even on the radio a few times. I couldn’t escape it if I tried, though I never did.
And let me tell you, Bobby beat the shit out of this thing too! My dad was heavy-handed. He pounded that thing into submission. As I began to play, I too would give that thing hell because the more you gave her, the more she gave back. It wasn’t until I got a little older and a little more sophisticated about instruments that I realized you had to give this thing the business—because if you didn’t, you were most assuredly going to lose the fight.
As my career was just starting and my dad was mostly retired from gigging, I kind of took pseudo-ownership of the old D50. I had already been maintaining it for years, and it was assumed one day it would be mine anyway. I’m not sure how many thousands of playing hours that old gal had on her, but it showed. The finish was completely worn off the mahogany neck. There were countless battle scars on her top and the top of the headstock.
When my dad unexpectedly passed, I became the rightful owner of the Guild. I was working a lot in an acoustic duo and was in an incredibly creative and productive period. Between writing constantly and gigging, I probably had that thing in my hands 50 hours a week. We got to know each other pretty well. That instrument, which I depended on so much, was my constant companion for the next 14 years. I couldn’t believe how many songs the two of us pulled out of thin air: Hard Times, Train Song, This Far Gone, just to name a few.
Then the strangest thing happened. One day, after doing some yard work and tree removal, I noticed a slight rash on my right forearm. It wasn’t a big deal, just a reaction to something in the brush. Some type of over-the-counter cream helped clear it up mostly, but it seemed to persist longer than it should have. After a couple of weeks, it seemed to return with a vengeance! I went to the doctor, figuring I’d get a prescription for a stronger steroid, and that’s exactly what happened. The diagnosis was that the rash wasn’t poison ivy but some type of irritation from an unknown irritant. After my round of treatment, the pesky rash disappeared but returned a couple of days later. This went on and on for a couple of months.
It was summertime, and I went on my usual week-long retreat to Leelanau County to relax on the beach and perhaps solve some of the world’s more perplexing problems while gazing out over Lake Michigan from the top of Pyramid Point. When I returned home... no rash! Hmm? I had finished my last course of meds the day I left and completely figured I’d be good and itchy by the time I got home, but not this time. It finally worked.
This time, it was gone. I settled in to finish the recordings I was working on and was tackling some harmony vocals and guitar stabs and solos that needed tending. I’m usually glued to my beloved Telecaster figuring those parts out, and after a couple of weeks, I was finished. I had some solo acoustic work coming up, so I jumped back on my old ride-or-die D50, and man, it felt good to be back picking the fiddle tunes I’d been working on before my vacation. I woke up the next morning ready to put in a little pre-work practice, and bam! Right there on my right forearm, the rash had returned. Shit.
I couldn’t believe it. Then it dawned on me... I hadn’t taken that instrument with me on vacation, and it had been three weeks since I’d touched it at all. It couldn’t be, could it? Then I grabbed the guitar out of the case and, sure enough, I could see it. Right there, where my forearm rests on the top—the corner where the top meets the side, actually—was a dull spot, just the shape of my arm. I decided right then I wouldn’t play her for a few days and see what happened. You guessed it: no rash. Shit.
The lacquer was leaching off of the top onto my skin. I had some decisions to make. I had long been wrestling with the idea of getting a different guitar, but maybe I could refinish this one? Nah, too much of mine and my dad’s DNA in that thing. Besides, I was starting to feel like it was time to move on. I started really reflecting on why I played that guitar in the first place and why I felt so attached to it. Anyone who ever played it will tell you that it was a bitch! You had to fight the thing constantly, and it wasn’t a particularly nuanced instrument. It could do its thing great, but wasn’t particularly versatile. Plus, it needed a fret job, and I knew that would really change the feel of it.
After a ton of reflection, and a ton of rationalization coupled with some hours of sobbing, I decided to replace it. I wasn’t just going to replace it; I was going to let it go to fund my next instrument, and I didn’t give myself a budget. I decided that I’d let the instrument come to me, and I would know when I found the right guitar to replace that Randall knife. (Go have a listen to Guy Clark’s “Randall Knife” and you’ll understand if you don’t already).
I’m sure some of you reading this will be very confused about why I needed to let the guitar go. It wasn’t the money; I had plenty. The truth is, I needed to be free from it. I needed to be able to create without it. I needed to be out from under its shadow, but probably more importantly, I needed to be out from under his shadow. I loved my dad, but I had been chasing a phantom, and no matter how hard I tried beating on that old box, he wasn’t coming back to tell me he was proud. He wasn’t coming back to tell me I’d won; the bastard died before I had a chance to.
The guitar itself wasn’t haunted, but it haunted me, and I couldn’t bear it any longer. Without too much hesitation or regret, I put it on consignment at Berkley Music Company, and it sold pretty quickly to another local performer. I don’t think he was able to tame the beast because she ended up back in the shop soon after. I was pleasantly surprised, though, that during a performance with the guitar, the new owner was approached by a patron who was curious if that had been my guitar, and he assured them that it was.
Last I heard from the boys at the shop, the Guild was purchased by a collector of sorts, and I’m sure he’ll treat her well.
The story of what replaced the D50 is complicated, but I’ve bonded with a Larrivee OM-2 that I’m hoping my son beats the shit out of on the road should my playing days ever come to an end.
Give her hell, son... I’m proud of you... you win.
Love,
Dad