What is it about vintage guitars that fascinate collectors so much? Is it the feel, the craftsmanship, the sound, the backstory, or the desire to find the guitar that was made “just for you” . . . even before you knew it existed? If the answer to all these is yes, chances are you already have it. And what is it, you may ask? It . . . is the disease. The collecting bug and the willingness to go without food, clothing, or shelter to finance the next guitar or amp that you don’t really need but have convinced yourself that it is now the “best guitar/amp I ever played/heard.” A healthy addiction to vintage guitars and amps consumes every spare thought and action you have vis-à-vis your daily life and responsibilities. If you are a member of multiple discussion forums and have guitar-themed coffee mugs, house keys, T-shirts, and point-of-purchase memorabilia littered anywhere you can put it, you definitely have the disease. If you are married, there is normally a room dedicated to your addiction. And there you are, sequestered into your “man cave,” surrounded by items that many who enter may not understand. But you do! Is your idea of heaven cranking up a Tweed Deluxe rather than a beach in Tahiti? Sound familiar? The “disease,” this is the disease that has enriched my life ever since I bought a copy of Tom Wheeler’s American Guitars book and saw Dan Toler play a Sunburst Les Paul with the Gregg Allman Band circa 1983. It was in those days that I began to truly fall in love with electric guitars primarily made in the mid- to late-fifties. My whole life has been transformed by the love of vintage guitars and amps and the pursuit of the knowledge of the manufacturers and the inventors behind the scenes. It is so fascinating that (even in modern times) most of the guitar-buying community is obsessed with designs and technology that were developed back in the thirties, forties, fifties, and sixties. Think about it. What other industry uses antiquated quarter-inch Switchcraft connectors as the industry standard? Imagine if the automotive industry only made cars like they did in the fifties? It would be like living in Cuba! A world frozen in time. However, for the guitar player of today, the guitar design and technology of the past cannot seem to be improved upon, and these relics of yesteryear are all standard fare in the guitar community of today.
I am the son of a guitar dealer and music store owner. I was raised in upstate New York in the late seventies and eighties, where there was a wonderful little circuit of clubs that had bands playing every Friday and Saturday night into the wee hours. Add to this, the drinking age was eighteen at the time and this combination fueled a music scene that was vibrant enough for one to make a decent living playing Bob Seger covers on the weekends. In the early eighties, there was a ton of used, vintage, and new guitar equipment for sale in a bevy of mom-and-pop music stores that stayed in business by serving the local music community. This meant that you could find an old Les Paul guitar and a Fender tube amp and still have enough for dinner from your $1,000 bank withdrawal. My father was one of those musicians who loved to buy and sell guitars even before he turned it into a business. Always seeking better guitars, there were many deals being made and a lot of “I need to sell this to pay for that.” Being young and impressionable, I quickly learned from my father how cool it was to find something that had been hidden in a closet untouched for thirty years and learn its backstory. I learned how to turn one guitar into two by trading up. My dad would answer all the local classified ads that had any potential and I often got to go along with him on these “guitar safaris” because, like him, I was now addicted to the search for the illusive grails of guitardom. It was like a treasure hunt, and the best part was that we could make music with the things we found.
The Bonamassas never had a lot of money, and we lived a modest middle-class life, so it wasn’t like we could buy everything we found on sight. My dad would always say, “If the bills are paid and the heat works then we can justify $300 on this chocolate-colored Princeton amp, but if times get tough, we will have to sell it.” I always understood that and respected my father’s practical approach to collecting. The “hunt” became a true bonding experience for father and son. I loved the guitars and amps we found, and I was into it in a big way.
I remember the first time I held a spaghetti logo’d Fender Stratocaster in my hands that we had found during a weekend outing together. It was like I had been handed a Stradivarius violin. To Leo Fender, it was probably just a means to an end, but to me it was like Excalibur. I think I stared at it longer than I played it. To this very day I am a sucker for a Buddy Holly Strat. I mean . . . we are talking life-changing stuff here!
I met Norman around 1991 when I was flown out to Los Angeles to appear on the short-lived Into the Night with Rick Dees late night ABC program. I was part of a skit involving sixties rock-and-roll staple Billy Vera and a Barney Fife impersonator. That is all I will say on that matter. Anyway, during this trip to California my mom and my sister Lindsay decided to go sightseeing while my dad and I ventured off to discover the wonderful vintage guitar scene that was thriving in Los Angeles at the time. In 1991, both sides of Sunset Boulevard between Gardner and La Brea was packed with guitar shops full of old amps and guitars. It was sensory overload for this wide-eyed youth from upstate New York, and I remember vividly walking into these stores and seeing guitars that I had only seen in books. I particularly remember being yelled at by Lloyd Chiate at Voltage Guitars on Gardener Street for touching a tweed Deluxe he had on display. It was traumatizing at the time, but I came to learn it was a common occurrence at his shop. I remember my manager telling us of a shop in the valley called Norm’s Rare Guitars. He said that this was the best vintage shop in Los Angeles. So after shaking off my scolding and my severe case of overstimulation (including a quick lunch at El Compadre), we drove out to Norm’s for the very first time. This was the smaller shop before the Northridge earthquake. I will never forget that first visit. I was a nobody kid on his first trip to the “sunny place for shady people,” and Norm was this kind, generous, and passionate soul who broke out the good stuff even for a twelve-year-old on a $2 a week allowance. I always remembered that. He didn’t have to take the time with me and show me these beautiful guitars but he did, and I am very grateful for that. (BTW . . . he still has the signed eight-by-ten that I gave him that day . . . scary!)
I am really excited about this new book Norman is writing because it’s all based on the stories of how he found many of his guitars and the people behind the scenes. There is no one on this planet who has owned more cool guitars than Norm. He had then (and still has now) the best guitars in the world. That now-infamous guitar collection scene in Spinal Tap says it all. The best of the best . . . oh and . . . that surf green Fender Bass VI . . . don’t even look at it.
May the music be loud and the guitars “straight.”
—Joe Bonamassa
P.S. Norm . . . on a side note, I wanted to let you know that I’m honored to write this for you and even more honored to call you my friend.