And we still kept coming back to the Ashdown amp I didn’t have.
Curiosity Shop
Through the barter system unusual instruments find their way into my possession and I often have a cluster of a certain type accumulating in the same week.
Lap Steels
I traded a steel guitar for a hand-made lap steel currently worth about £500. I think its owner probably didn’t like it; there’s something cold about it but people do find lap steels bizarre in the way the body, though curved, is small and it also has to be played horizontally. The strings are high above the fretless finger board and you press hard down with a metal bar and there it is: the unmistakeable Hawaiian sound.
I had another one up my sleeve: a 1937 Gibson lap steel. It’s a nicer looking instrument made from a solid piece of mahogany and sounds altogether sweeter than the 1947 instrument. Again, there are no frets because you don’t press as far down as the finger board but the finger board is marked so the musician knows where to put the slide. This one is worth about £600. People are surprised that such old instruments are not worth more but few people want them.
What Does A Dobro Hound Dog Have In Common With A
Single-String Violin And A Wind-Up Gramophone?
In early spring 2007 I acquired, by a circuitous route, a1972 Dobro Hound Dog which will retail at £800. In some circumstances it could fetch £1,200 and to the right person it’s worth the money. Dixie had phoned to tell me about it being in Route 66, Hanley. I turned it down. Then Reg from R&B on Nantwich Road phoned me saying he had it and was I interested? Like Dixie, Reg knew my tastes and this time I succumbed and did a deal. He relied on me to know the going price for the instrument. I gave him a little Washburn plus £200. This gives an insight into the inner workings of the trade: people having knowledge of other people’s specialist interests, the existence of some trust in fair price-setting and a system of bartering.
The Dobro Hound Dog is a lap guitar with a square neck and very high action. Everything about this instrument is associated with dogs – the bar I use is called a “Lap Dawg” and you’ve just gotta play country, not blues on it. I decided to treat it as a toy for a while – all I had to do was develop a liking for bluegrass!
Lap Dobros were developed as long ago as the 1920s for the Hawaiian music aficionado. It’s easy to produce the echoing Hawaiian refrain: melodious and resonant and warm, through complicated picking and key changing. The sweet tones and volume levels were just right for this music, which is produced using a bar to alter the pitch of the notes by applying pressure on the strings. The strings do not touch the frets and the ‘wobble’ or tremolo effect is only achieved by pressurising the strings with the bar. It is possible to get a similar effect using a slide but it’s never the same.
The Dobro Hound Dog resembles the ordinary Dobro in having the trademark resonator which meant it would easily stand up to other instruments on single notes. Before the resonator it was impossible for single lap guitar notes to be heard above the sound of the other instruments, hence its popularity until the advent of electrical amplification.
The steel resonator has fan shapes and openings for the sound. The curvilinear shape of the wooden body is a little flattened across the top and there are two holes with steel mesh for sound to come through. It works on the same principle as a wind-up gramophone. With the Hound Dog the bridge acts the same as the stylus and the web takes the weight of the strings, transferring the energy from the strings to the resonator whilst at the same time supporting the strings. The sound comes out of the body of the guitar, which acts as a ‘horn’. Some have more holes, thus greater volume and tone than others.
The Hawaiian equivalent of the Dobro lap guitar does not use the same principle to produce volume. For example, the Weissenborn Style has a hollow neck, tapered to the top to maximise sound. There are some examples in Acoustic Guitars by George Gruhn and Walter Carter. The photographs show beautifully made guitars: decorated and carved, not by computer but by hand: an art form in their own right.
I have an extraordinary piece of equipment: a single string violin. The bridge acts as a stylus and the string sound, played by a bow, is amplified by the metal horn which has a small resonator or diaphragm where it is joined to the rest of the instrument. With a wind-up gramophone, vibrations are picked up from the needle onto a diaphragm and into the horn, which amplifies it. Then, in the cupboard there’s an extension of this horn effect whose volume is controlled by the opening and closing of the cupboard doors.
My innovations in sound amplification in the Seventies were based on the same principle.
Brown Is The New Black
Sometimes the form an instrument takes is to do with technical innovation; sometimes it’s about image – there are fashions in musical equipment as in anything else. For speakers and amplifiers the conventional colour is black – the colour most associated with power – so amps that are not this colour stand out. When I serviced Des’ two Sherwood acoustic amps and a Laney acoustic amp, people noticed them. Apparently, brown amps are produced for the acoustic market; wooden ones are currently in vogue as it looks a bit more folkie.
I also have a Marshall amp, unusual in that it is covered in blue – French navy – to be exact. Every now and again Marshall produces limited edition coloured amps. This one is four years old and worth about £295.
One Of Those Orange Things
Orange amps originally built by Matt Matthias are worth a lot of money now and are still being made. Orange was actually a shop in Denmark Street, London and it was painted orange, hence the amps were called Orange Matt amps and the orange was the company logo perhaps to parody Apple.
Me and Dunc were looking in the window – we’d be thirteen/fourteen – and saw a great big orange thing, a great big bright orange thing with a white front. It was called “Orange” and there was no writing: just symbols. Size of a microwave: tall and fat – not like Marshalls which are long. We honestly didn’t know what to make of it because it was so strange and we didn’t like to go in and ask because the place was always steeped in mystery – like one of those shops that kids pass and it’s full of cobwebs and the beginning of some adventure and we didn’t like to ask as well because Pete would say, sternly or grumpily, “It’s an Orange…” whatever and we’d have to cover our ignorance and slink out saying, “Yeah, we thought so…”
Jim Farmer. (9)
There isn’t very much you can do about speakers: they’re just big black boxes but the manufacturers do try to make them distinctive. In a corner near the back of the shop stands a tall tower of a speaker, rather art deco in design. This is a WEM as used by Pink Floyd: and can be seen on the Ummagumma album cover.
The shop is frequently dominated by monolithic bass bins and horns. Each set would have cost £800 plus new but will fetch only £100 a set these days because everything is being scaled down in size.
Zob Stick
The Zob stick I have is a piece of rough-hewn wood, four feet long with piles of bottle tops attached by nails and a biker’s boot at the end. The top of this rhythm stick is carved as a phallus – originally embellished with a pair of red PVC balls which fell off at an exuberant moment. The Skunk Band made good use of it: it’s an effective percussion instrument and makes people laugh.
Displaced Tuba
Another thing that can’t help being humorous – preposterous – is the tuba. I swapped a sousaphone for mine. It’s been painted maroon, navy blue and bottle green with jaunty pale blue highlights on the pipework and primary red and yellow on the valves. It looks festive in a faded kind of way and has obviously seen some action. I think it has probably appeared in a pantomime.
Toys
In some respects music shops are like toy shops: full of shiny objects laden with the latest gadgetry and as much to do with fantasy as with reality. You only have to look at some of the expensively produced brochures supplied to the trade – they don’t bother with information – it’s all image! I would expect
this if it was aimed at the customer but they must think that the retailer is equally susceptible to impulse buying. As a retailer I require hard facts.
Desirable Object
Speaking of which there’s a Paul Gilbert white horned guitar with F holes painted on. The volume knob looks awful; there’s a switch in the middle you can’t see and with three pick-ups there’s nowhere to play it! Normally there’s space for your fingers between pick-ups but no matter where I put my hand I’ve got £50 worth of pick-ups interfering! It has upside down machine heads and I think it’s naff but there are people who would like it and put up with the annoyance for the novelty.
But the persuasive power of the world of the guitar as desirable object is all there in the catalogues’ words and images. The instruments have virile action movie names: Revolver, Shredder, Fastback, Liberator, Apocalypse Special Bass, Paul Stanley Dark Star; or names that proclaim supreme expertise: Sovereign Special, Sovereign Pro, Blues King, Session Master Special and so on. There’s a style to suit every performer: Traditional Double Cutaway, Aggressive Double Cutaway, Aggressive Carved Body are all on offer and necks can be Bound Set, Sculpted Bolt-on, or have a Select Spruce Top. Then, if this advertising copy doesn’t get you, you might be tempted by an endorsement from a rock god such as Paul Stanley of Kiss. Or surely the sight of a black shiny guitar outlined in white, decorated with mother-of-pearl, sporting aristocratic Seymour-Duncan pick-ups, lying in the black velvet bed of a pristine guitar case, actually within reach in the shop will do the trick?
As favoured by Motorhead and all yours for £600.
The Economy
If I Were A Rich Man
For me wealth creation started as soon as I could ride my bike. Aged six I’d collect some jars, cycle down Weston Road to the marl pits and catch minnows, red doctors, frogs and newts, to sell to my mates for pennies – a penny ha’penny for a red doctor. Later I’d do paper rounds to fund my growing interest in music. I didn’t hoard my money – I put it to good use: musical equipment, racing bike, nice guitar, scooter, big motorbike, sports car. All through spotting the bargain, doing things up, wheeling and dealing: the pattern of my working life.
When I started Custom Amplification all the right conditions came together: my business acumen and innovative skills, the explosion in pop music, a young generation with money and the desire to play loud music, the growing interest in vintage instruments.
So why am I relatively poor? Leaving aside the vagaries of the economy, the simple answer is I’m not a millionaire because I’ve spent my money!
A friend of mine treated himself to a red Porsche for his sixtieth birthday. Why wait so long? This should happen when you’re young enough to enjoy what money buys – then you won’t have any regrets in old age.
And that’s what I’ve done. I’ve invested my money in hedonistic experiences. I always had enough money for the guitars I wanted, the sporting equipment I needed and the vehicles: terrestrial, marine and aerial I drove, and through this I met all sorts of people. These opportunities sustained me far more than the security of a large bank balance and because I experienced things when I wanted to, I have no regrets that I am now poor.
Of course, there were other contributory factors. The good luck in my life has been offset to a certain extent by those occasions when the timing has been out, when someone has let me down, when bureaucracy trampled over me or when a tiny detail had the power to dominate everything. Perhaps I was never single-minded or ruthless enough to be a millionaire because I split my focus: losing time in an abortive career as a white-collar worker, and then when I did get my own business I divided my time between that and playing music. Music – not money – was at the core of things and I chose the type of music that was never going to be commercially successful. In this I knowingly followed my heart and not my head – with no regrets.
I also have ethical reservations about wealth creation and the way commercialism pervades everything. I have respect for wealth that has been earned through hard work over a period of time but not for celebrity wealth that comes easily, overnight and for slender talent. There’s something wrong when a footballer says he can’t manage on forty-seven thousand a week. There’s something wrong when the florist’s bill exceeds what a hard-working ordinary man can earn in a year. There’s something wrong when naturally talented people can’t afford the instruments their skill deserves because vintage guitars, like vehicles, have become investment items, divorced from their purpose and kept in bank vaults to accrue unearned wealth.
I have lost money by refusing to sell vintage guitars to people who were not musicians.
My life has been punctuated with the deaths of people I have known, worked with and loved. Seen through the filter of grief, some of life’s problems have seemed petty, including making money.
I’m a survivor because my lifestyle has always been underpinned by hard work and a stable business. I’ve taken some risks but all my decisions have had a basis of calculated wisdom. I’ve accumulated some assets because I’ve always needed and had a safety net. This has moderated my hedonism – if that’s not a contradiction in terms – and that’s why, in spite of her scorn for my conservatism, I fight Zoe’s desire for me to sell up.
Bricks And Mortar
Having a business means you need suitable premises: space and security for the stock, a working area, room for development and The Nantwich Road shop had all this as well as being in a prime commercial position. Business went very well in the Seventies – so well that I opened another shop in Hanley in 1973. But times became very edgy when the economic climate in Britain took a downturn in 1976 and from banking three to four thousand pounds a week, I was only taking a few hundred pounds. The Hanley shop was the casualty – that went in 1976. Within three months of me deciding to sell Hanley and consolidate Crewe, I had notice to quit Nantwich Road: there was to be a road widening scheme. Thus began a period of unrest which took me to the edge of bankruptcy until I had established the Edleston Road shop as a going concern.
No matter how good at business you are, you have little power over the big boys whose plans ride roughshod over individual hopes. My shop on Nantwich Road was compulsorily purchased: my end of the block was to be demolished for the wider road into Mill Street. Preston’s the chemist and post office (number 41) was on the corner of Mill Street and Nantwich Road: that was going. Gasket Breakers and a couple of other shops were the premises in Mill Street that were going. Next to Preston’s was Stancie Cutler’s antique shop, (number 43) then Custom Amplification, (number 45) then Mr Bright’s chemist shop, (number 47): all going.
When I asked for alternative premises in what has now become a chip shop on the corner of Nantwich Road and Mill Street, my request was refused. The next issue was that some of the designated places were not demolished after all and some of the businesses given notice to quit were allowed to remain. Why was my claim for part of the rebuilt block rejected whilst others were not? My success as a businessman was not in question. Years later when I was talking to the former manager of the local bank (he did some drumming and liked my music) he said, “If I’d still been there you’d have had the old bank.” He had faith in me, you see; he had watched me establish my business and make good profits; I had an American Express Gold Card; I banked with him – he should know! He also knew I lived at a prestigious address with good credit rating. No: it had nothing to do with my entrepreneurial status. I feel almost certain that my lifestyle went against me. The police had their eye on me: every time I went out of the country it was logged. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised – some of the people who came to my shop had dubious reputations and criminal records, and when searched my business cards would be found on them. I have committed minor drink and drugs offences myself. But I’ve never deserved to be treated like an outlaw.
I had a proper tenancy agreement with the council so I received just under four thousand as compensation for the broken agreement. But for me the loss of the Nantwich Road shop
represented an economic downturn and I wanted to remain on this main road where there were so many good memories. The premises to which I moved in Edleston Road were in a less dynamic position and reflected the setback in my fortunes. What I got in compensation couldn’t compensate me.
I gradually built up the Edleston Road business and reached a point in 1990 when I could stop renting and purchase the premises. I raised the mortgage and then met the sort of unfair circumstances I loathed: the price was increased by ten grand and I was told that if I was unwilling to pay that price, the shop would close for six months for refurbishment. In other words I was stuffed. Anyway, I raised the extra money but felt an enduring bitterness for the perpetrator of this exploitative opportunist act . It was legal but unethical.
Business has deteriorated since the glory days of the Seventies, not just because of national economic fluctuations but because fewer people are hiring these days. People used to be too poor to buy outright so they had to hire equipment or make an arrangement to pay gradually. Musicians now have more money and – until the Crunch – better access to credit so most established bands own their equipment. With the influx of Chinese goods it’s cheaper too. Because clubs and pubs are closing there are fewer venues and therefore fewer people playing music. Business has seasonal fluctuations as well. The worst months for selling have always been those without an ‘r’! Most people don’t choose to spend summer studying the guitar.
I went to Pete’s shop as a boy customer 35 years ago and Pete allowed me to have a drum kit and pay for it weekly. I couldn’t have had it but for his support. It was £350 – a lot of money in those days. A lot of young musicians would have gone by the wayside but for Pete Johnson.
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