Looking at the outside of the old orange hard shell case, you can tell that what’s inside has been around for a while. Scratches run deep like a road map of the places it’s been.
Opening the three worn brass latches unleashes a waft of cigarette smoke that gently hits the nose. When the lid folds back, you can see the crushed orange velvet that encases a dark red sunburst 1939 Gretsch, Hawaiian-style guitar.
The floating tortoise pick-guard is held together by a small brass bracket that violently protests when it’s strummed too hard. The neck tapers from the body to the headstock and suits my small fingers as I press down the silky-smooth strings against the ebony fret board. But best of all is the crisp sound that’s made when it’s strummed. It’s harp-like heavenly.
Musicians spend a life time looking for that perfect sound. It only took twenty years for me to find mine.