After years of losing Allen wrenches on my locking nut, I finally replaced them with thumb screws. If anyone else wants a set, I can put a package together, shipped and everything for 15 dollars total.
Tag Archives: guitar
Just bought it, and it is a tremendous improvement from the Line 6 Mobile IN which broke after 2 months. Feels more robust, it’s nice to have a cable to allow the Ipad to move around a bit, and having Garageband now support stereo input is perfect for me. I run my PODHD500 to it, so I don’t use many of it’s settings.
I want as little time as possible between me and recording something, and this Sonic Port does it.
I keep this review short because it’s all I needed. Also, 80 bucks wasn’t too bad for all of the things that comes with it.
Now it needs to write the next White Album…
Honestly, I’m writing this as an experiment to see what kind of traffic comes up to this website just for writing a few sentences about a piece of pop culture. Also to see what kind of people go to a Guitar Tech’s website for information regarding television.
I watched a lot of that show, and it was great.
Quick, Jeremy, say something about guitars.
Dexter would’ve been awesome with an axe.
Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. I’ll be here all evening. Try the fish.
Seriously, I am very good at my job.
Non-sponsored promotion, though if they sent me a few sets of these Planet Waves Auto trim tuners, I wouldn’t put up a fight…
I have installed these on a few acoustic guitars, and it slowly came to pass that these Auto Trim Tuners are one of my favorite guitar inventions. They were the first guitar product I’d ever encountered that shocked me due to quality and convenience.
1. The string locks with the knurled wheel on the bottom.
2. The first half rotation of the post cuts the excess string with a hardened steel tuning post leaving no nub or sharp string parts.
3. It takes maybe an extra quarter turn of the post to get the guitar in tune, so no excess winds to tighten.
After dealing with a set of Grover tuners this week with strings slipping out of them, I realized how much I valued these Planet Waves when I installed them on other guitars, so I bought a set. Now I just have to pick a guitar lucky enough to get them.
I am excited about tuners. Must be labor day.
It’s a peculiar thing to realize that one of my favorite activities is make musical instruments easier to play. Peculiar may not be the right word, but it’s got enough syllables for an opening sentence. I like making something easier for someone, especially if it’s the barrier between playing and not playing music.
If you have any musical instrument, tell to me about it. I want to know what, if anything, is getting in the way of you making music?
The wonder of San Francisco is an integral part of my life; I’ve lived here for 9 years now. Mostly ups and downs, plateaus few and far between. I left the familiarity of the San Diego nest (not “Socal”. No one called it that, ever) for this phenomenon-behemoth of a city. I went to college here, graduated with a degree in Industrial Arts after 4 years of gymnastics on the uneven bars of sanity. Music was a constant. I was never away from a guitar that was stashed in my car, bedroom, or strategically located at friends houses so I had something to do at parties that didn’t involve small talk.
Ever since I picked up a guitar, I always had this image of sitting downtown in a metropolitan area, just playing. Even just practicing scales in public. I was always so afraid to do it for a multitude of reasons: My guitar will get stolen, someone will mug me, someone will cut my strings, the millions of dollars in my guitar case will blow away and other reasonable thoughts.
Two days ago I purchased — for the first time in my life — a book from the “New Age” section. It’s called “The Four Agreements” (It’s quite popular, but I’m knew to this game) and was a quick read. It contains much of the usual “live each day like it’s your last” parrotry, usually met with my contrarian “I hope I’m dead after all of those prostitutes, drugs, crimes, and burned bridges.” Oddly, I decided to try not saying the smarmy comeback (to myself in my head…)This book, chock full of good-natured nonsense, actually flipped a switch. Mid read, I took a post-it note, and wrote “If you could play music downtown on Thursday, would you?” and stuck it on my door frame. It was a neon pink post-it. I knew it wouldn’t clash with the see of day-glo colors in my room.
Thursday hits, just like the post-it predicts.
The post-it note is torturing my peripheral vision with its disco color sensibilities. It’s haunting. I roll out of bed, grab a guitar bag, throw in my cheap gypsy jazz copy, and start walking to a BART station. I get about 500 yards from my house and say “It’s going to be windy, maybe another day” and I turn around. I think “Dumbest excuse ever” complete the 360, and keep walking to the station.
As I sat in the BART car, whizzing deeper into the center of Liberal mecca (their words, not mine) with a guitar case between my legs, I couldn’t help but feel a bit nervous that this image I had played in my head for almost 15 years now, was actually occurring, and on my own accord. Build up.
I get out of the Embarcadero station and start walking towards the Piers, scouting for places to sit and play guitar in public. It’s something I have always avoided, so it wasn’t a developed skill. I walked by a street musician playing bass over some pop-tune backing tracks, and we both knowingly nod to each other. “I’m one of you,” the nod implies. I walk by the ferry building, looking for a comfortable place to sit. By comfortable, I mean anonymous enough to manage my self-consciousness in the daylight, but still a stretch of confidence to be in a place open enough to be heard. There was pacing involved. I finally found a place with a bit of wind blockage, and sat down. It was also when two pretty girls were walking by selling jewelry, and I figured I could be playing before they were out of hearing range:
The thought “I’ll play 5 miraculous notes and they’ll fight to the death over me” seemed reasonable.
I put the case down, fumbled to get a pick out of my pocket and nervously started to play. A few looks, some smiles, some Ipod volume controls turned up or down, amused infants, bemused tourists, jumpy joggers, texting teenagers, pedicab peddlers, melancholy homeless, camera fumblers, drug stumblers, workers walking home on the sunny side of the street, hippies, yuppies, gays, straights, whites, everything-but-whites, tots, kids, pre-teens, tweens, teens, youth, young adult, adolescent, adult, middle-aged, over the hill, older, old, aged, elderly, hipsters, cops, monks, whores, rich, poor, obvious, hidden.
San Francisco. You get it.
Fast forward 45 minutes no change, no money, nothing dropped in. I didn’t really care. Before I left my house, I was debating putting a “No Tips” sign in front of me as a way to brandish my sense of defiance in a city full of panhandlers.
Remembering they were all tourists, I realized I would like to take as much money from them as possible so I could continue to afford living here after they had long (in)digested their clam chowder.
Along walks a young guy carrying a music case I recognize as a clarinet. He stops for a few moments, eyeballing my gypsy guitar. Wearing jeans, a black hoodie and sunglasses doesn’t exactly scream “Django”, so I understood his possible confusion. I stop playing and say “That a clarinet?” and he says “Yea.” “You want to play something?” He obliges. We exchange about two sentences, he informs me he just got off a train from Chicago 10 minutes ago, and it’s his first time in San Francisco. He asks “You live here?” Interesting question…I’ve occupied housing in San Francisco for 9 years, so I answer with shrug “I guess I do. You know Tiger Rag?” Musicians have a certain eyeball look, like a hard drive loading information. Lights are blinking, not much is going on, but the query registers. A cock of the head to jostle the neurons into proper order, and he says “Yep”.
Before the hyperbolic part of me kicks in, I will say this: I was outmatched. He was tremendous, and I was a shaky human earthquake of anxiety trying to impress this new human. Luckily, I was struck with a wave of “Who cares! Enjoy this dammit” and happily got out of my head. The territory is familiar, comfortable, and I don’t care that this guy is the first clarinet player I have ever played music with. We just met 30 seconds ago.
Now we’re having a real conversation. This isn’t idle chit chat, this is syncopated chatter of increasing depth. This is an active discussion of the history of music, personal backgrounds, muscle memory, improvisation, assumption, expectations, rhetoric, and familiarity all conveyed without words.
In terms of actual words, there were few. Moments of verbal communication to see what we could do, and then back to it.
The set list: Tiger Rag, Stardust, Be Meir Bist Du Schoen, and a gypsy jazz cover of Let it Be by the Beatles. Total take? 7 dollars and some change.
I say thanks, hand him the money and start to pack up my guitar. He says “You staying out here? I’ve got to go.” I said “Nope, I can go home now.” He says “You do this often?” With a sly smirk I said “I’ve been planning to do this for 15 years. This is my first time, and I can cross it off my bucket list. Thanks for helping.” I gave him my business card, partially hoping I’d hear from him, partially hoping not. A truly poetic flourish to close a brief moment of friendship. I suspect he’ll be famous one day. His name was Dan, I think.
My favorite part was probably him saying “I’m a saxophone player” because I don’t like saxophone, and this would’ve been a story of musical prejudice rather than triumph.
The world is all right.
My aspirations for main purposes in owning a home revolve around two major themes, the limits of space and volume, both sonic and spacial interchangeably. As I watch that Vince Gill video, I have no idea what type of squalor and or grandeur his house may embody, but that guitar room is some sort of dream sequence.
As a young guitar player, if you asked me to imagine the future and where I’d be living, “Guitar Room” was always part of it. The first thing I usually reference is the montage at John Entwistle’s house where he goes down the stairs with a guitar case (with a record breaking [watch the video on Youtube to see what I mean…] Thompson submachine gun inside) and there are guitars everywhere.
As a Californian, it stirs up my fear of earthquakes. I hope my house is in tune.
I’d like a music store version of the show Survivor. Lock a few musicians in a store and see what happens. Lateness would decrease, but not as much as you’d expect…
I’d make a guitar string hammock for a bed. Nylon strings, of course.
Music stores contain a seemingly infinite amount of potential — energy, creativity, emotion, you name it. Like an art supply store, but a different flavor of pretentiousness. Instead of the snarky paintbrush aficionado, there’s the drumstick guy, brand sycophant or the amplifier guy. Same essence, different clothing.
Music stores are usually poorly organized, an interesting nuance to something so arrangement driven. Temperamental objects and people crammed into a small room.
A silent cacophony at night. Dog pound chaos by day.
I want to live in that. I imagine it in the middle of nowhere, in my head it’s usually a 5000 acre Nebraska field so I can play as loudly as I want and not worry about neighbors calling the cops.
Almost forgot about tornadoes.
Until 3 weeks ago, the email I had associated with TheGuitarist (The collection of words and letters you are currently reading) was one I hadn’t had access to in 5 years leftover from an educational institution that deleted my internet existence 6 months after graduation. Now that this account is associated with me as a person in real life with a real business, and not an anonymous internet entity, I am experiencing some fear.
The people of the internet frighten me, and I am one of them.
Yesterday an article about the zeitgeist of internet negativity (Psychology and Online Bullying) was enough to remind me that I was guilty (is there such thing as excessive guilt? ++guilt?) of the “online disinhibition effect”. I abuse the internet from my throne of anonymity, spewing opinions under the assumption that my unique and valuable (eyes currently rolled, crying sarcastic tears) opinion of whatever I’m opining will change the world. Is there a megalomania clause in the Terms of Agreement for the internet?
I put a post on here titled “Why I Hate Guitar Center”. I seriously put that I hate a business? A need fulfilling mixture of people with a goal? Hate?
A verbal extremist reflects: Hyperbolic speaking is the best thing on earth. Ugh. It’s a shame moderation and being reasonable hasn’t my first inclination for the internet, but rather a divisive, active attempt to rally the battle cry and shun something I spuriously disapprove of. I question why I can’t merely pose a question and let others decide for themselves. Although I did reflect on why “I” didn’t like something, it’s still a testament to where I put my priorities.
I pause to trademark the phrase “Comment Section Phenomenon”. I’ll be waiting for a stipend for the rights, National Institute of Health.
I realize hatred is the go-to response for most internet opinions. Positivity and gratitude — rarefied air that is hard to make funny. The question I ask of myself (rhetorically, of course) is whether I want to continue this onslaught of words intended to spark strong opinions. I’m not a fan of trying to get people to care about things that have no meaning. Gossip, fashion, music reviews, movie critics, sports, and to a greater extent, political punditry are are somehow responsible for inciting fierce debate? Is that the writing style I look to? I have to make a concerted effort to not write that way any more. It’s too easy, and I’m doing it right now in a way. I feel my difference is that I don’t want people to hate anything anymore. What a useless sentiment.
Back to guitar: For a long time I’ve had a desire to write how much I dislike acoustic guitar pickups (Such controversy!) and realized I was radicalizing my feelings because I felt it would get more attention. I like having an opinion on things; it’s a real testament to creativity and free expression, but I really would like to eliminate extremist, all or nothing, black or white, smooth and crunchy from my blog about such lofty topics as strings and capos. I write this as a reminder that I’d like to write about things I like and don’t, but not turn the things I don’t like into exiled thought lepers. Internet opinion is sadly slanted towards the incitement of riot, and realizing that this is a blog about guitar, I’d rather stay out of it.
I look to the Fender Stratocaster vs. Gibson Les Paul debate as my template. There is no better. “Better” is not the word. Choice is the word. I would like to continue trying to create a culture where your mind is your bed: don’t get hateful at the way I make mine up. Dialogue v. Monologue.
As for my opinion on the matter of Strat vs. Les Paul?
I used to try and write reviews for guitars, but now I’m just going to write my personal experiences with them. Paul Riario does enough work for everyone.
This is my Takamine EG334SC. There are many others like it, but this one is mine. For 4 years running, this is a guitar I have always had handy, and it’s also the guitar I will never sell. It’s a 600 dollar guitar that was a correction of a mistake: I drunkenly purchased a different acoustic guitar the day before and in a bit of generosity the salesman gave me a “Learn from your mistakes” deal. I still think the guitar feels good to play no matter how hungover I was. Here are some unrelatable facts about it.
The Specs: Laminate ovangkol back and sides on the body, I don’t have to worry about the back getting broken. The spruce top is as memorable as any top on a sub-1000 dollar guitar (it’s not memorable). I have taken it with me to be the “Guy in the park with a guitar” many times, and the only thing that’s ever happened to it was a guy with a mohawk, Black Flag t-shirt, and studs everywhere put a sticker on it. (Sticker application is apparently a territory marking statement for Punk Rockers, but I’ll save that for my anthropology blog.) Luckily the finish is a thick coat of gloss Polyurethane, so it can stand up to some stronger solvents like acetone.
The Neck: 20 frets with cutaway access, an average C-shaped neck profile, Grover tuners, rosewood fretboard, dot inlays and all other standard neck-related things for an acoustic. Acoustic necks need to be a bit more robust to handle the extra tension of acoustic strings, but this one fits me fine. Reminds me a bit of my Telecaster neck. It’s not a well built neck. The fret tops are level, but the fretboard isn’t. It looks crappily made, but it plays fine. It adheres to my rules of guitars being played/heard and not seen. It’s an acoustic guitar, any more talk about it and I’ll end up convincing myself it’s worthwhile to buy a 6000 dollar acoustic guitar…
What I did to it: This is the fun part: it came with a big set of electronics (Stay tuned for an anti-electronics-in-acoustic-guitars post…). It was a large black plastic box with a built in tuner and some equalizer junk cut right into the side of the guitar. Like any reasonable guitar owner, I removed it and threw it away, leaving a large hole in the side. I had read about sound ports in guitars, but I have never been gutsy enough to cut one into my own (I’ll happily do it to yours. and by ridding my guitar of the extra weight of cheaply made electronics, I got an added bonus: it sounds great. The sound comes straight to me as a player, and I get more nuances. I also put a microphone near the accidental hole for recording. Makes me feel like I’m Jimmy Page doing some weird recording voodoo.
After removing the “box of gross” I needed to put a new saddle in the bridge. I wanted something fast and cheap so I spent 3 hours making the slot bigger and lowered the bridge so I could use a piece of water buffalo horn. That sentence is nonsense, but truthful nonsense. I wanted water buffalo horn in my guitar, dammit. So I made my wish come true. I noticed no difference in sound, but I felt great about my choices in life. I would love to say I could hear the differences in all of these things, but I’m not Eric Johnson, and I might even doubt that Eric Johnson is Eric Johnson.
More to the story: I leave this guitar out in my apartment in hopes that someone I live with might pick it up and start learning. It’s also a conversation piece to see a big ugly hole in a purely utilitarian acoustic guitar. It’s my campfire guitar (by the fire, not in it) that I can take with me. I’ve had the same frayed Elixir strings on it for 2 years, and it’s still a dream to play with its “almost-too-buzzy” action. It’s the guitar I keep around in hopes that when I’m famous, I can sign it and sell it for charity and get a gigantic tax write-off. It may be the next Blackie hanging in a billionaire’s music museum. That would be a shame, I want it played. Alright, I’ll keep it.
If only guitars could talk. Wait.