Thank heaven I became a guitar geek shortly before my 12th birthday. If I hadn’t, I probably would have requested a minibike for my bar mitzvah present a year later, instead of my first electric guitar. And today I’d be an over-the-hill biker instead of an over-the-hill guitarist.
My schoolteacher mom had a colleague whose son worked at Fender in Fullterton, California, not far from where I grew up. (Sadly, I’ve forgotten his name). Shortly before my big day, we visited his mobile home (let’s face it: the musical instrument industry has never been lucrative) to audition some decidedly post-CBS guitars he was selling. I opted for a black Jazzmaster, though I was tempted by the paisley Tele. It was my sole electric throughout high school, though I sold it at exactly the wrong time: five minutes before new-wave guitarists such as Tom Verlaine and Elvis Costello made it cool again. (Though I shouldn’t complain, since I managed to procure my pre-CBS Strat around that time.)
The Fender guy didn’t have extra amps on hand, but I slavered over the oversized amps in the early-’70s Fender catalog.Which sleek silver combo would greet me on the big day?
To my horror, I received an ancient, teensy-weensy combo amp, an ugly thing spray-painted black. I was mature enough not to express anything other than delight, but my heart ached. I wanted an amp as big and loud as my dreams, not this sad relic. They told me I was a man when I turned 13 — but I didn’t feel like one without the Dual Showman of my dreams.
My disappointing amp was a tweed 1952 Deluxe — which makes it sound like this story will have a happy ending. Sadly, no.
