Andrew believes that a key part of his performances and talks is the use of interesting and authentic guitars. Not only do they present a talking point about the old-time blues and the instruments they used, but - says Andrew—they play better!

 

Here’s a page about some of his guitars, and a little bit about the story behind the guitars the old players used, and how they came about.

I  believe I am actually in love with this guitar—it’s so gorgeous.

I bought it in 2003, and have used it almost exclusively for gigs ever since—I just can’t find a guitar I enjoy playing as much. There are those who say such ancient and precious things should be cared for and protected from harm, but my view is that if they play so well (and that’s what they were made for) it’s almost an insult not to use them. I paid dearly for this opinion—after only two weeks I played it in a street gig in stormy weather: the wind knocked over the pathetic gazebo we (Barrelhouse Blues) had been given: the leg knocked my banjo stand over, causing a domino effect—ending with the top of the Gibson being smashed. Luckily,  a good insurance policy and a genius of a repair man called Jim Macey ensured that it lived to fight another day.

 

 

Orville Gibson started making guitars in the first few years of the twentieth century: his mission was to apply the same skills to guitar-making as the great violin builders adopted. This principally meant tops, backs and even—initially—sides, were carved from single slabs of wood. As a consequence, Gibsons were not cheap—a reputation which continues to this day (although not, perhaps, with such justification in more recent years).

 

Despite this price differential, Gibsons sold in hundreds of thousands (not just guitars, but also mandolins and banjos), thanks to some very modern-sounding and revolutionary sales methods. The company (without Orville himself—he was essentially an inventor and craftsman, and handed the company over to other businessmen within only a few years) hired a team of “salesmen/tutors”, who gave lessons and helped form performing groups, in exchange for rental and eventually purchase schemes for their vast range of instruments.

 

Some of the early blues performers were photographed playing Gibsons, but they were still relatively expensive, so many players used cheaper alternatives, such as Stellas and Washburns. The famous photograph of the great Robert Johnson shows him playing a Gibson L1, but his was a later model made with a flat top and a fixed bridge—datable from about 1922.

 

My L1 has an arched top, and the label appears to be authentic—dating it around 1918/19. The finish, bridge and tailpiece are not original.

This is not just a great guitar—it’s quite important and rare. I bought it in 2004, and it is now the guitar I use nearly all the time for slide playing.

Guitarists and nerds like me take the principal of these guitars for granted, but maybe a little explanation is needed. It is a fine and very early example of a “resonator” guitar, developed in the search for more volume in the late 1920s (dance band and jazz guitarists were increasingly called upon to play solos—particularly in the wake of a craze for Hawaiian music in the States). Guitar bodies had got about as big as they possibly could, and it was another 15 years before electric guitars began to appear. Three immigrant brothers named Dopyera, together with an already-established guitar and electronics engineer called George Beauchamp, came up with the idea of amplifying a guitar mechanically from within.

Their solution was to place a spun aluminium cone inside the guitar, with the strings pressing on a bridge resting on this cone. The vibrating cone would then act as a loudspeaker, and pump the amplified sound into the guitar itself. The guitar body itself would then not need to vibrate, and so could be made of metal, which would bounce the sound around inside, being so much harder.

 

The first models produced by the newly-named National company were beautiful , shiny and very expensive instruments, with three small cones placed upside down to pump the sound into the guitar body. Before too long, a disagreement started about the patents for a new, cheaper single-cone version, with the cone facing upwards. The company split, with  a new company called Dobro (DOpyera BROthers) making the new wooden-bodied single-coners. It wasn’t long before the differences were patched up, and National started to make a cheaper compromise model—a single-cone steel guitar. Ever since then, Dobro and National have been marketed or owned separately, with National tending to produce more of the metal and three-cone models, and Dobro more of the wooden-bodied single-coners, who’s warmer tones have always been favoured by country music players.

 

The very early single-cone Nationals were made out of steel to save costs: the steel was then painted or coated to make it more attractive. The first such model was the Triolian, which came in either a walnut “sunburst” finish, or this very peculiar “polychrome” finish, with random spots of colour sprayed on to a sickly yellow background, and a pretty palm-tree picture on the back. The prototype model had three small cones (hence the misleading name) and a wooden body. These were very quickly ditched—probably due to cost.

The bright, loud, ringing tones of the first Tri-plate (three-cone) Nationals made them a huge hit with Hawaiian-style players, and virtuosi like Sol Hopii “lapped” them up (Hopii actually became one of the first ever guitar endorsers). The itinerant blues players, however, couldn’t generally afford them, even though the volume and ability to slide without rattling was exactly what they wanted.

 

It wasn’t really until the cheaper single cones came out, and—a little later—electric guitars sidelined the resonator market, that blues players appeared more and more often with Nationals.

 

Mine is a very early post-prototype steel Triolian Polychrome—serial number 44—and is clearly all-original.

This a fairly modern Dobro, and shows how Dobro and National crossed over into each others’ specialist territory as the years went by.

 

The steel on this one is thicker: this, together with the thick blue paint job (not my choice!) give it a slightly warmer tone than the National. I take it to gigs so that I can keep two in different tunings (open G and open D). It also has a very nice Highlander pick-up in it, so I can plug it in if needed.

 

I recently got so fed up with the blue paint that I stripped off a bit at the back, to see if it would look better without the blue. The paint underneath was gold sparkle!

This is a weirdo!

 

Made in São Paulo, Brazil, it is a resonator—in that it has a metal cone set into the body. However, the components look to me as though they came off some 1960s kitchen units!

 

It doesn’t have a good loud sound (which invalidates the resonator principal), and plays like a standard Spanish guitar.

 

Despite all this, they are quite rare and collectable—mainly because Del Vecchio never exported them.

 

Mine was bought by my dear old friend Professor Peter Harris from São Paulo: he brought it over on a visit, and left it with me to “look after”. I recently did the honourable thing and bought it off him.

 

I never play it!

I think this is probably the best all-round guitar ever made.

 

CF Martin introduced this model around 1934, and it hasn’t really changed since then. The “D” (for Dreadnought—named after the battleships) series came out in the early thirties, and featured a new squarer shape, which, along with Martin’s interior bracing arrangement and carefully-selected woods, produced a thunderous tone and volume. These guitars set the pattern for large steel-strung acoustics, and most “flat-top” acoustics nowadays look like this (but not many sound like it!).

 

I bought this new in  1994, and it was my first real extravagance.

 

Up until then, my “best” guitar was a Harmony Sovereign I had bought 25 years earlier. I don’t tend to play this one for blues gigs these days, as the Gibson is so much more fun. I do use it, though, for more jazzy stuff or for recording. It also has a pickup, so this is the one I take if I know I’m going to have to plug in.

I don’t really play or like electrics, but this is so lovely and typical of the ‘sixties style—lots of knobs and switches. When I was a kid, nobody could afford Gibsons and Fenders, but luckily lots of companies like Harmony and Hofner produced good affordable alternatives. This one’s based on the Gibson 335 series: I doubt if it plays and sounds as good, but for the amount I play it, I reckon it’s pretty good.

I bought it off Kev Hall from Blues DeVille in 1997. It’s been got at—the finish is certainly not original (the fingerboard has been painted!) and someones hacked a bit off the headstock, to try to make it look like a Gretsch White Falcon.

It’s got a great sound though, especially for slide playing.

Yes, yes, I know… these aren’t guitars. I do play them, though—mainly with Barrelhouse Blues.

The banjo is a fairly unexciting Epiphone. I actually play it with a slide—the only person I know of who’s ever done this was the great jugband leader Gus Cannon.

I don’t know anything about the banjo-ukulele (banjo body with ukulele strings and tuning). I play a lot of gigs at a great pub by the canal in Honey Street. You get a really good crowd in there –many of them off the boats.

One of the regulars saw me playing a ukulele with Barrelhouse Blues, and said “I’ve got one of those on the boat”, and promised to bring it along next time. When he did, I asked if I could borrow it. He said “you can have it!”. My conscience wouldn’t let me, so I paid him something for it (he wouldn’t take much). Nice chap.

Whoa!!  Just when I thought I knew all about these old Triolians—this came along and blew everything! I said above that the very first Triolians had wooden bodies and three cones. Well, the first few did: but after only a few, National decided to try their new single cone in a wooden body. After a couple of dozen try-outs, with no serial numbers, a full production run followed between February and October 1929, when the steel ones replaced them.