Dear Mary,
Please tell us about your guitar. At first I was thinking "she needs to get it fixed," but I reckon there's story there?
- Sally
Dear Sally,
Yes, my guitar has a story. I purchased it to console myself after a romantic relationship ended badly. I showed up to a guitar exhibition on the fairgrounds in Nashville with a broken heart, knowing this would be the day I'd lay down the money I had saved for a rainy day. I was going to buy a guitar, no matter what, and kickstart my healing.
At some of my earliest performances, I played in Boston/Cambridge with a black Everly Brothers Gibson with a double pickguard. I bought that guitar because I saw Steve Earl playing one, and it replaced the round back Ovation I had as a teenager. One night, the black Gibson fell off the stand and the neck broke. I had it fixed, but I could never trust it. I worried that the neck would pop off again. I traded it for a brand new, blue, Taylor C112 cutaway. I bought that guitar because Nanci Griffith played one. I liked both of those guitars, but I can’t say I ever truly loved them. I told myself I didn’t want to travel the world with an irreplaceable vintage guitar that could get destroyed by an airline or stolen on the road. Looking back now, I lived with a fear of loving wholeheartedly and losing, so I settled for expediency.
This fear pointed to deeper issues, but I did not know that, yet.
I also still didn’t know what appealed to me about different guitar sounds or what guitars felt right in my hands. I had no idea which instrument made my heart sing, or which one matched the music I was making. I went for what I thought looked good, what appeared to be the right choice. I had a similar problem when it came to picking romantic partners.
I just didn’t know myself, yet.
Over the years, something inside me smiled when I played someone else’s old Gibson. I could feel the reverberation of the wood and strings in my body, not flashy, but deep and instantly familiar. Much like the acoustic guitar songs I loved on the radio as a kid in the 1970’s. With age, these Gibson acoustic guitars get lighter. The wood releases its moisture and the varnish peels off, which seems to make the bass strings resonate more deeply.
After my breakup, I needed a hard reset. A brand-new old Gibson guitar would help me restart my life.
My friend and producer, Ray Kennedy, and I walked into the guitar exhibition. We saw old Gibsons everywhere, a handful at every booth. Having played a few, including several from Ray’s recording studio collection, I was sure an old Gibson was what I wanted. Ray calmly spoke with the dealers and asked to play the guitars that were in my price range. After a few hours, we made our way around the show and narrowed it down to three guitars that we both loved. Several musicians and songwriters gathered around to help; I remember Jim Lauderdale and Gary Nicholson, specifically. We played the three finalists, Ray inspected the inside with a mirror and flashlight, and the bystanders offered their opinions. In the end, I chose the most beat up, but best sounding instrument. It was very lightweight, and the low-end absolutely boomed.
It made my heart sing - I loved it so much! The day had come when the risk to love fully was less frightening than the pain of loving halfway. Yeah, losing it would crush me, but playing it brought me so much joy! I also picked up a great traveling case and never looked back. It’s the guitar I play to this day.
It is a 1950 Gibson J-45 with a sunburst finish. It was beat up, bruised, scarred, and kinda tight because it hadn’t been played in a while. Ray figured it was sitting in a case under someone’s bed for a few years. He said it would open up more once it was loved again. After traveling with me for a bit, it surely got better (and more beat up, as I’ve added to the nicks and cuts.) My hand fits perfectly around the neck, and the low-end still makes me smile when I strum a big fat open E chord. My guitar and I are kindred - We’ve both seen a lot of miles, been through a lifetime of love and loss, taken blows, been ignored, kicked around, taken for granted, left behind, then, amazingly, cherished and appreciated again. My guitar is older than me by 12 years (her: born in 1950, me: born in 1962), a well-travelled, wise, beautiful old music maker.
My star guitar strap also has a story. I treasure it as much as my guitar. During a connecting flight to Dublin, Aer Lingus misplaced my guitar for a few days. I was booked to open two weeks of shows for Willie Nelson in Ireland and the UK, but when I got there, I had no guitar! Bee Spears, Willie’s bass player, took pity and walked me to the local music store to rent one for the show that night. Bee had provided a solid backbone to Willie Nelson’s behind the beat phrasing and guitar acrobatics since 1968. He wandered around the store while I talked with the manager to work out a rental. As I turned to leave, Bee was already outside with a bag in his hand. He handed it to me, I opened it and smiled when I saw a black guitar strap, covered with big orange and yellow stars. Bee said, “I bought a star strap for you, ‘cause honey pie, you are a star!” His kindness in that moment steadied me.
He sadly passed in 2012, but the star strap he gifted me is the only guitar strap I use on stage to this day.
I learned a lot about love through finding this guitar with the help of my friends and here’s what I now know: It’s better to love wholeheartedly, even though it’s a risk. My guitar is a part of my being now, a part of my body, like an arm or a leg or…
A heart.
And I can’t imagine wanting it to be any other way.
- Mary