By Max Rovazzi

There are not many inanimate objects that feel as alive as an electric guitar. The first time I held one in my hands was when I was seven years old. It was used and abused, with dents, pick marks and chipped paint all along the body. The neck looked like it was about to snap. My uncle told me that the guitar was from when he was a kid and was in a band. I hooked it up to an equally old and decrepit Fender amp and much to my surprise, it was sturdy and sounded better than anything I had ever heard. I treated the thing like it was made of solid gold because to my uncle it may as well have been. He kept the 1971 Gibson Les Paul in a sleeve in his gig bag to keep it from getting any more scratches and marks. One time I asked him if he took care of the guitar because it was expensive. He said yes, but also that there was no amount of money that he would accept for his guitar (even though today it’s worth is probably well over 10 thousand dollars) and that selling it would be like selling an arm or a leg.

He played it like he was talking to an old friend, reliving glory days on a stage in a high school gym. I see my uncle a lot, and over the years he has talked a lot about his pride and joy “Lucille.” “Lucille” was the name of blues legend BB King’s guitar, and BB King was a major influence on my uncle. The guitar didn’t just have a name, though; it had character and a way of sounding so distinct that no matter what else was going on, it was all you could hear. The warm tones would cut through background noise like a hot knife through butter. Conversation in the house would stop as we listened to him play. He could be playing Mississippi delta blues or he could be playing 80’s dance pop, it didn’t matter what you were doing, you had to stop and listen.

He had a story for every imperfection along the sunburst body and maple neck. One of them was from the time he had dropped it down a flight of stairs in his college dorm. Another was from when he played a school talent show, tried to swing the guitar around his waist during a particularly energetic performance and sent it cascading into a drum set. He had even smashed it before and put the whole guitar back together again. My 2011 Epiphone Les Paul may not be as old or as weathered as my uncle’s Gibson Les Paul, but whether I’m playing “Hey There Delilah” by the Plain White Tees or “The Trooper” by Iron Maiden, it fits like a glove in every describable way.

My Les Paul has been with me through many of the important events in my life, and in a lot of ways, it is one of my best friends. And I know that one day I’ll be telling my kids about each and every scratch on the cherry burst body.