Silver and Cold

Suggested listening - Deftones “Tempest”

“The wand chooses the wizard, Mr. Potter.”

New York City, NY. 2015 - 2017

(Some names have been changed)

I don’t have an addictive personality, but I would say I can become a bit obsessive. The target of 26 year old Max’s latest obsession was a 1980 Gibson 335-S electric guitar in an aged Silverburst finish. In the late 70’s to early 80’s Gibson guitars was in the middle of their “Norlin” era. It was a time of strife among guitarists and Gibson purists, when Gibson attempted some non traditional, weird designs that were a financial and critical failure to the general public. People generally dislike guitars from that era, except for people with weird tastes. Like me.

At the time there was only one of these guitars readily available to purchase in the country. As it was a vintage guitar it couldn’t be shipped online, and it just so happened to be in New York City. A place where conveniently, my sister and my old college roommate had just moved to. A few of my Miami friends also lived in the city. I had multiple reasons to go, so I planned a quick weekend trip.

I left early Friday morning from LAX and landed at La Guardia close to 4pm. As someone in their early 20’s is inclined to do, I went straight from the airport to a bar in Manhattan’s Upper East Side. For the next day and a half, I wandered the streets of New York, taking in all the culture and history of the city, weaving in and out of traffic and sobriety.

But now it was Sunday, it was game time, I had seen my friends and wanted to do something for myself. That something, was finding that guitar. It was located at the Guitar Center near Union Square. 25 West 14th St. Of course I had the address memorized, I would look at the listing on the Guitar Center website everyday. I had the page bookmarked on my work computer and would check it first thing every morning.

I walked into the store from the New York cold, into the industrially treated, and heated Guitar Center air. The differing contrast in temperature made the experience feel all the more magical. As if pulling me from beyond the void, I knew exactly where to go (but also the large signs saying “Platinum” helped too).

There it was, the Gibson 335-S, staring me right in the face. Excalibur. I waved down a clerk, and asked if they could unlock the guitar from its hanger. I sat down, plugged into an amp and let loose.

There’s a stereotype about guitarists at guitar stores that, they are unnecessarily loud, play too fast, or too poorly, and are generally just annoying to be around. They know better than the people that work at the store, and they’re not afraid to let you know that. As a guitarist, I hate guitar players, but at that moment, I was unashamedly “that” guy.

I ran through all of my go-to’s, Led Zeppelin riffs, “Eriatarka” by the Mars Volta, “Say it Ain’t So” by Weezer. It’s a Silver-burst guitar, so I had to play some Tool. I ran scales, and played early versions of All Systems Know songs. Everything sounded great. No, everything sounded “better” because of that guitar, and that guitar specifically. The guitar practically played itself. There was only one problem, the price.

$1,500. Not overly expensive for a vintage guitar, but not exactly cheap for a 26 year old working an entry level job at a mega corporation, record label or not. I had to be responsible. I waved over the clerk and handed the guitar back to them. I left the store and headed to the airport, tail between my legs.

Back in Santa Monica, and in my cubicle, I resumed my daily routine of checking to see if the guitar was still available. Every morning I’d check, it was still there, in New York City staring at me beyond, space, time and pixels.

An entire year would pass, and my college buddy’s birthday was coming up. A few other college friends wanted to make the trip for it too, as we all hadn’t seen each other in a while. I booked my ticket knowing full well, that the guitar was still there, and that I was going to play it again.

It’s Saturday, to celebrate my friend’s birthday we all go to the “Smorgasburg” open air food market in Williamsburg, Brooklyn. I invite some old high school friends to come along, and an old college buddy takes the train down from Boston. We go bar hopping through the Brooklyn borough. The food is good, the drinks are strong, and the company is jovial.

Enter Noelle. Noelle is someone I was never particularly close with. In the Venn diagram that is my social life, she ran in opposite circles with some mutual friends. I’d see her around at house parties but our interactions began and ended there. Noelle was “too cool for school” and carried herself that way. Effortlessly pretty, she looked like Audrey Hepburn if she listened to too much Deftones.

Noelle made the rounds, greeting everyone and somehow wound up sitting next to me at the large cocktail table. It could have been the alcohol, or the allure of the city, but I wanted to know more about this mysterious femme fatale who I hadn’t seen in years. The drinks and company continued as we found ourselves wandering the streets and various clubs of Brooklyn well into the night.

Waking up in Noelle’s apartment the following morning, I’m a little disoriented. I think I’m still in Brooklyn, or was it Queens? I recall crossing a lot of bridges the night before. There didn’t seem to be any cabs around, so I decided on the train. The weather was nice and I could use the walk.

“Hey, uh. Which train takes me to Union Square?” I asked Noelle.

“I’m actually headed that way. It’s the same train I’m taking but you’re a few stops after me.”

Seeing that guitar would be the final touch on a perfect weekend.

As I walk through the store doors again I beeline it to the guitar. There it was, in the exact same place I left it, as if I was the last person to play it a year prior. I wave down the clerk, they unhook it, and hand the guitar to me.

Playing it again felt like resuming a conversation with an old friend you hadn’t seen in a while, not unlike the experience I just had with my college buddies. I was the stereotypical guitarist again, running through songs, and riffs, at loud volumes. After about an hour or so, the clerk, clearly annoyed came over to me.

“So what do you think?”

“I love it, it’s perfect, there’s nothing like it and it sounds incredible.”

But I couldn’t do it. It’s a lot of money, and I already have a bunch of electric guitars. I hand the guitar back to the clerk, apologize and walk back out into the city, but not before taking one last look at the guitar hanging on the wall before pushing the doors open and exiting the store.

Back in my cubicle in Santa Monica, I resume my routine of checking the web listing of the guitar every morning. I do this for a few months until tragedy struck.

One December morning, I finish making coffee and sit at my desk. I wake my computer up from its sleep and log into Windows. I check my emails, and open up a new tab, I go to my bookmarks list and click on the Guitar Center web listing.

We’re sorry, this item is no longer available.

Pain.

I have no one to blame but myself. I had two opportunities two years apart to purchase the guitar but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I needed to be financially responsible, I was doing the right thing, but why didn’t it feel good? The rest of the day a dark cloud would hang over my head and I’d go through the rest of the work week in a daze.

Later that month I’m back in New York City for New Year’s Eve. We ring in the new year by going to a warehouse party in Brooklyn where Titus Andronicus was playing, and pregaming with Absinthe. New Year’s Day I spent on my friend’s couch trying to feel human again. The hangover is unrelenting, and has me in the fetal position. I also, have no one to blame for that but myself.

When I felt like existing again, we go out for my last dinner in the city before I have to fly back to Los Angeles.

“Is there anything else you want to do while you’re here Max?”

“Nah man I think I’m good. We went to the Strand and Forbidden Planet already so I’m alright. I usually go to the Guitar Center out here to check out this one guitar but it’s not there anymore.”

“Which guitar?”

“It’s kinda hard to explain, let me show you.”

I pull out my phone and pull up the old web listing for the guitar to show my friend.

Wait a minute.

For Sale: 1980 Gibson 335-S

Item Location: Hollywood, CA.

We switched places?!

That can’t be right. Why would the guitar be in the Hollywood store? Is it a glitch? An error? Is it a joke that God, or the universe is playing that specifically targets me? Cruel cosmic sense of humor aside, I had to find out for myself. If I left New York City on January 2nd, I was walking through the doors of the Guitar Center on Sunset Blvd. January 3rd.

This particular Guitar Center location was as much an instrument shop as it was a museum. In the very front of the building is their “Rock Walk” their version of the Hollywood “Walk of Fame” where famous rockstars and bands would have their handprints molded for eternity.

At the very back of the Guitar Center was their “Vintage & Used” section. Since it’s just as much a tourist destination, the room itself has very high ceilings. As I walked in, my eyes had no trouble finding exactly what I was looking for among a sea of guitars hanging on the walls.

I asked the clerk to take the guitar down for me. No sooner did he hand me it did I realize it was the same guitar. The same scratches, marks and checking on the body. It was like wearing a perfectly fitting T-shirt. I asked the clerk if this guitar had by chance come from their store in New York.

“Yeah, the higher ups had the guitar shipped here because they think it would sell. It was at the New York location for years and no one bought it.”

Guitar Center is a massive franchise, they could have shipped it to any other store in the country. But of all the stores they decided to ship it to, they chose one in the city I lived in.

Call it divine intervention, or an absolutely insane coincidence but I truly believe this guitar has a mind of its own and followed me home. Like Buzz, or Woody. This was the third opportunity presented to me to buy this guitar and considering the context and circumstances, this seemed like fate.

Two stores, two thousand miles, and two and a half years later, I walked out of the store with a new friend.