Another Note About That Guitar

I now buy and sell guitars. I have a little little little business. Small. So guitars come and go. I have the opportunity to hold them and play them. That is a delight. But that Sigma. That old Sigma has more music in it then any other guitar I have ever owned. I am quite surprised. One would think that these delightful but lifeless objects were just the recipient of inspiration and not the cause of it. I would think that there are many objects that are ultimately interchangeable. A shovel? A rag? A blender? But this guitar enables progressions and combinations that I swear I did not think of. My fingers go to the chord it wants to sing that moment. There are fingerings it demands and rhythms it prefers. This morning I played a B 7th chords at the, what, sixth or seventh fret. As God is my witness I have never played that before. Then to other locations on the fret board that I have not visited often and with little success. I am amazed. I am surprised. And I don't get it. There have been mystical moments in my life. Not a lot and easily pooh poohed ( that is a damn odd phrase ) by people. There is the incident f the Dove soap. Connie, you never met her, was murdered. That was the exclamation point of her life. I cared for her. I affaired with her. I assumed affection on her part. Decades later in an uncomfortable chair at a CLUB that, under normal circumstances, has only just let people of Hebraic origin to propose membership and perhaps be accepted, someone with very blond hair and blue eyes told me how much she loved me. Let us all say hello to Ted the putz. There I was at the store I was running exhausted and exhausted and thinking of her for some reasons. This was decades later. Decades. My co-manager walked in with two bars of Dove soap and told me she thought I would want them,. She was at a loss to explain why I would want them. I asked her how she came to that conclusion As I mentioned she was not up on that one. She was clueless. Then there is the Erik Satie incident. I went to the graveyard/cemetery to dampen my eyes on the day that my first wife, Melissa Ann Lopez deLeo Delaguna (love the whole thing) died. As I left the place I turned on WQXR the classical station in NYC and on came here favorite piece of music. Not her almost favorite. Not my imagined favorite. But her fucking favorite piece of fucking music. Erik Saties' Gymnopedie No. #1. Riddle me one Batman.Now there is the wooden thing with strings. I miss holding right now.

Rode Hard And Put Away Wet - Mojo Magic - The Sequel

Went ahead and posted it. I did. Then, this morning, I cancelled the sale put a new strap on it and played the drek out of it. It is such a damn fine guitar.

Rode Hard And Put Away Wet - Mojo Magic

Somebody else said this....

"Mojo or MoJo comes from the mystical religion of voodoo, a catch-all phrase for most beliefs blended from African and Christian beliefs. Over simplified, mojo is the meta-physical magic a voodoo practicioner uses to influence the physical world.

When used in reference to a guitar or other musical instrument, it refers to the supposed magic the instrument has gleaned from being played by talented, soulful musicians who coaxed sometimes incredible music from the instrument.

Usage example: "That beat-up guitar I scored for twenty bucks from a pawn shop sure looks like ass, but MAN, when I play it, it's like the mojo in it is playing ME! I NEVER sounded so good!"

I buy and sell guitars. I would rather just buy guitars and not sell them. I have pangs of immediate regret each time I list a guitar for sale on Ebay. I get a feeling in my gut of intense potential loss of the thing. It is a thing isn't it? Inanimate. Dead. Lifeless. Of course it is. I know that. But when you interact with a guitar in anyway it is something else. It is not the only object that has this attribute. Any tool becomes something else. A hammer sitting in a tool box is something else five minutes later when it is your hand removing a nail or knocking off stubborn piece of wood from a collapsing structure. It becomes an extension of you. We know that. A musical instrument becomes a means of expression and not just a tool. A guitar in my hand is more than a guitar in a box. A guitar I look at and admire is more than just a construct of wood and other components.I recently acquired a guitar I have decided to sell. The reason being is that I got it for a good price and I can turn around and sell it at a reasonable price and make a profit. I bought it and took it home to photograph and slap up on EBay. But I wasn't able to put it down after bringing it home. This morning when I got up I went into the room I keep guitars in and played it for a few minutes. It is a piece of work and I want to write a bit about it.

It is a Sigma made in Korea somewhere between 1984 and 1993 maybe 94. So at it's youngest it's 17 years old and at its oldest its 27 years old. Not a kid as guitars go. Not ancient but not a kid. It sounds great. Really. I was surprised at the tone. But that is not what fascinates me most although if it didn't sound good I wouldn't be writing this I suppose. When is interesting and romantic is how steadily someone played it and for how long. It is not a walking skeleton like Willie Nelson's guitar. But the wear on the frets is evidence of serious playing. The rosewood has held up well. There are no real grooves worn into the fingerboard but the initial oiled and finished Rosewood is worn away so that the color is lightening. The area above the sound hole has some pick marks made with energy but not a mass of them. The pickguard has some scratches but, likewise, not a huge amount. There are some scratches to the neck.  It appears as if a strap screw was placed into the side of the heal at sometime. There are remnants of a strap still there. Let us now be forensic.  The wear of the frets is almost equal on all the frets from the first to twelfth. So someone was up and down the guitar neck often. Therefore the player must have been a bit more than competent to use the whole board. That requires dexterity and talent and a mess of musical ability. The lack of more than a few scratches above or below the sound hold would indicate a lot of finger-picking in comparison to a lot of strumming. The addition of the strap screw in the heel of the neck would seem to suggest that whoever played it played it standing up. In addition having the strap attached below the fretboard lends credence to my idea about competent use of the fretboard top chording and/or playing a playing notes with a sort of Tommy Emmanuel talent.There are few scratches on the back so, once again, the biped who played it took care to remove the belt buckle from contact with the guitar.

Choosing an early Sigma would, possibly, also indicate a knowledge of guitars because a cheap Martin product is still a Martin product.

So someone played it a lot. This worn guitar. If playing a lot "opens up" a guitar this guitar is wide open. It fingers and chords well and sounds just fine. Just fine.

You shouldn't buy a guitar on looks. I say that a lot. No point really. Sound and character. Sometimes the two are the same thing.

I love this guitar. I do. I do. Will sell it because that is why I bought it but I will miss it when it goes.

Well...shit...maybe I won't sell it.

It has way too much mojo.

It's red and it sparkles.

I have this idea I can make money selling guitars. I probably can. Not a great deal you understand but enough to make the process worthwhile. The problem with the idea, and modest success, of the thing is my emotional ties to some of the guitars. I have never cared about "things" as anything more than "things". I have a certain residual affection for a few cars. My first, a TR-4, of course. Cool wheels. A particular copper colored 1969 American Motors Javelin. I have attachment to things my son has given me, That makes sense. But at no time did the emotion regarding these things become something that one would have for...well..your dog or your cat. That is not the best analogy but it is the one that just arrived. I have never had an ache for a thing. Never. But I am finding as I age, like a smelly cheese, that I have definite and undeniable attachments bordering on the clinical for certain guitars. Well...that's putting it too narrowly...all my guitars. This has become delightfully melancholic of late with my purchase, with full intent to sell, a solid body electric guitar made by Gretsch. I don't play electric guitars. Never have. I have a few that are ACOUSTIC electric. I even have a cheap ass Squier acoustic/electric that looks a bit like an electric is supposed to look. Hell. I have an amp!! But from the moment this guitar was mine I couldn't take my eyes off it. I couldn't put it down. I couldn't stop putting my left hand on the neck as if it wasn't a guitar but Nefertiti herself. I have changed her strings and polished her. I have cleaned the humbuckers and polished the knobs. I never want to be without it and yet I am selling it. Perhaps the things that we most value are those we can "sell" the best. Perhaps. I really don't don't know. But this is a beautiful, beautiful inanimate living thing. I guess. I have the oddest impression that gad I had this thing earlier in my life (maybe 18 when I was at an alternative college with a bunch of alternative students studying in alternative ways) the chapters after that acquisition mighty have bee different. Did I tell you it's red and it sparkles? Did I tell you about it's neck?