In my epic quest to replace my stolen L6-S, the closest I came (in spirit anyway) was when I arrived on Vancouver Island in the summer of 2005 and discovered, in a vintage guitar shop, a tobacco sunburst Gibson S-1. Never having played one myself, I was nonetheless intrigued by what I considered a ‘sister guitar’ of the L6, in that it was another of the ‘lost years’ Gibson concepts that never seemed to catch fire in the guitar community – despite some high-profile endorsements.

The S-1 has a great-feeling neck, taken from the ‘Flying V’ (complete with pointy headstock), Les Paul jr. body, and oddly, the sound of a Fender Stratocaster (and the weight of two or three of ‘em). I especially dug the decadent swirling pickguard and the funky see-through epoxy single-coil pickups. As with the L6-S, it screamed ‘ROCK!’ I traded in another guitar immediately and paid the difference. After having it around for 2 years, however, and not having used it on a single session, I thought about getting rid of it… the sound was too thin, and though I understood that this was supposed to be a bright, “Fender-inspired’ guitar, I just wasn’t convinced. When I wanted to get a Strat sound, I would just use a real Strat.

But then it hit me: here’s a guitar with a wicked cool look (mine looks like the bottom one in the picture to the left), perfect feel, and ultra-cool Bill Lawrence-designed pickups. I figured if something’s wrong with this guitar, it’s probably none of the above. Then I remembered the last Strat I’d played: a new Stratocaster Deluxe owned by my friend Dean that sounded killer and had 5 extra settings available, courtesy of the patented Fender S-1 switching system. And I thought… Gibson S-1… Fender S1… the unholy union of these two namesakes could perfectly complete Gibson’s (rather ill-considered) attempt at capturing the Fender mojo in one of their guitars. And once again, we’re not talking about one of their untouchable classics here. So I ordered an after-market S1 system off of a guy selling them on Ebay (who as it turns out was being sued by Fender doing just that), and a newly cut pickguard to replace the broken original, and gave the whole mess to the guys at Renson Guitar in North Hollywood to straighten out. They also replaced the low & wide ’70s style frets with some nice chunky ones.

What I got back in the end made me relieved that I hadn’t sold it. The crazy S-1/S1 pairing worked out; the Lawrence pickups sound killer through the new Fender circuit, and the 5-way Strat selector and push-in volume control, while not as hip-looking as the original chickenhead switch, provide a wealth of tones unavailable on a regular Strat or a stock S-1. I used it on the intro to ‘Rock & Roll Days’ on the Lonnie Jordan album, and got a nice juicy Stones rhythm tone, as well as the various Hendrix references throughout the song (the solo, however, is the L6-S).

Also… here’s the diagram for the Fender S1 switching system in PDF format if you’re interested. Click here to view or download

And some more details about the guitars in their original state… (click to enlarge the picture).

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I was 16 when I got my first guitar – a used mid-’70s Gibson L6-S. I didn’t know anything about guitars, so I didn’t know what a strange specimen it was… the L6-S has the smallest neck of any Gibson ever made (or any other guitar I’ve seen), and some of the strangest tones as well, via the 6-way chicken-head switch that can put the pickups in series, out of phase etc. And I especially didn’t know that the paint job on this particular L6 made it even more rare – a black sunburst, which seems to slim down the body shape and give it a smoky old-school vibe. All I knew was that this guitar, to me, embodied rock & roll, in a circa-1973 Keith Richards sort of way. It simply couldn’t have been any cooler. (In fact… that’s Keith playing an L6-S! —->)

I never had another guitar for the longest time. It was my constant companion through my 6-month stint in Mexico at age 17, on my first gigs, my first recording sessions, and writing my first songs. People identified me with the L6 because you just didn’t see these guitars around, and if you did, they sure weren’t in a black burst. As my guitar obsessions started to zone in on Jimmy Page and Carlos Santana, the L6 seemed made to nail Page’s clucky, somewhat filtered tones… and as for Carlos, I was confirmed to find out that he actually played and endorsed the L6-S during his white-suit Devadip period.

Fast forward to when I was 23, when I moved to Los Angeles and my beloved guitar was stolen the first day, right out of my living room while I was out for a hamburger (everyone I tell this story invariably blurts out ‘Welcome to L.A!”). I sat there on the couch, staring at the broken glass and the brick in the middle of the floor. I knew I would never see my guitar again, and I had the feeling that since it was really the only material thing in the world I cared about, I was supposed to detach, let it go, move on. But it cut pretty deep anyway, and I can’t say I ever truly got over it.

I searched pretty hard for an identical black burst L6-S for years. Never found one. It became something of an obsession for my brother, who treated it as though I had lost a limb. We even thought about buying a ‘natural’ finish L6 and having it repainted. But after 15 years, a casual search on Ebay yielded the impossible: an exact copy of my old guitar, in killer shape, only a few serial numbers off… and here’s the kicker: the seller was in my hometown of Saskatoon, Saskatchewan. Of course, it was destined to be mine. After a nervous day of struggling with my attachment to the outcome – okay, after a manic day of Smeagol-like hand-wringing and conniving about ways to interrupt the bidding – I won the auction at less than a grand. Truth be told, the guy could have taken me to the cleaners. I was so paranoid something might go awry, I had my cousin Blake physically drive over (with cash) and pick it up in person. But anyway!

When I got the guitar, it was like seeing myself walk into the room, but as a teenager. A little creepy. We got re-acquainted pretty quickly: I used the guitar a lot on the Lonnie Jordan record, whenever some nasal chicken funk was called for (which was often, especially on the song ‘Get That Feeling’). I currently have the L6 set up to play slide, as an incentive to practice. The strings are a bit close together for slide, but the tones are definitely rootsy. Check out this diagram for the switch:

So… the Gibson L6-S. One of the ’70s ‘Lost Period’ Gibsons, when the company was in the midst of an identity crisis, managed and owned by a third party that was out of touch with its illustrious history, trying to compete in the market place with Fender and others by ‘modernizing’ its lineup. Most of the new models, which strayed too far from the Les Paul/ES-335 mold that had created the Gibson legend, were commercial flops and didn’t see the end of the decade. But here’s the thing: in their desperation to sound like Fenders without actually copying any of the Fender technology to get there, Gibson inadvertently created a bunch of funky, individualistic instruments that sounded neither Gibson nor Fender, and because of my early association with the L6, I will always have a soft spot for these guitars.

I find that in many of them, there are elements that are just a bit off, not as harmonious and perfectly balanced as the Les Paul and its siblings. Bill Lawrence, the pickup guru who conceived most of these instruments, was never truly happy with the results because of budgeting constraints and a bureaucratic decision-making process within the company at that time. But, true to the mod-it-yourself spirit of the ’70s when every guitar had a few extra switches and replacement parts, I find that if you spend some time dialing these guitars in to your own specifications, the results are very rewarding. I mean, they’re still Gibsons, right?

(Also, I have a hunch that Santana has a closet full of them, so one day I may try to talk him into parting with one or two…)

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When you’re still awake at 8 A.M after staying up all night, things are not right. Everything is a bit surreal, objects are closer than they appear, and you really should be asleep. But there are certain situations where it does happen, and the last day of mixing an album is one of those situations. The sky outside the studio gets lighter and your head starts to take the shape of a large peanut in the shell. Suddenly you’re craving pancakes.

It had been a long project, one of those ones where the producers actually need to become de facto members of the band for awhile in order for that band to make anything resembling a record. And since we had effectively joined the band, the drama of their project had infiltrated our world. Nerves had been on edge, budgets had been tight, and editing software had been pushed to its absolute limits. As we sat there with our blueberry pancakes, watching the well-rested people come and go in this historic Hollywood breakfast joint, we were filled with a dubious kind of tradesman’s pride: unsure whether the thing we had just created would have any useful purpose in the world, like a huge monument to an unloved leader, we still had to stand back at our work and say, “Damn. Not too bad.”

But it wasn’t a particularly soulful feeling. We were looking for a bit of soul in the form of this restaurant, and in each other’s ragged company. No one else in the room could possibly understand where we were coming from, and I raised a breakfast link with my fork and quoted the old axiom: ‘Pop records are like sausages… they’re much better if you don’t see how they’re made.”

And then he walked in.

Out of the corner of my eye, I noted the appearance of a leather-clad motorcyclist with an old military-style biker helmet as he walked in and took a place at one of the diner barstools. Then my partner murmured bluntly, “That’s Daniel Lanois.” I kind of thought the guy looked familiar, but I just cackled “yeah, right” and stirred my coffee. But he was insistent: “I’m telling you, dude. It’s him.”

A few nights earlier we were killing precious studio time watching an episode of the great music TV show Sessions at West 54th, in which Lanois, playing in a duet with drummer Brady Blade, put down some of the most terrifyingly awesome electric guitar I had ever heard. It was a force of nature; it sounded like Hendrix if he’d lived to the mid-70′s, combined with a gale-force Gulf Coast wind. And while it hurt me to know that there was, once again, a sound in my head that had been perfectly realized by someone else, it was somehow fitting that the man who generated the sound was (a.) Canadian, (b.) not really well-known as a ‘guitar hero’, and (c.) the consummate producer’s producer who had made the only albums in the entire 1980s that still received regular rotation in my CD player. Daniel Lanois was at the helm of, among others, U2′s The Unforgettable Fire, The Joshua Tree and Achtung Baby, Peter Gabriel’s So and Us, the Neville Brothers’ Yellow Moon, Lanois’ own incredible solo record Acadie, Emmylou Harris’ Wrecking Ball and a ton of groundbreaking ambient records with fellow musical genius Brian Eno.

And now this patron saint of producers walked into our 8 A.M. peanut-headed universe, wearing clothes that could only go along with a vintage Indian motorcycle parked outside, as if to say, There is more out there, lads. And yes, I play the guitar sound that you hear in your head. And I will get on my Indian bike after breakfast, and hit the open road until I reach the jungles of Chiapas, near the Guatemalan border.

I told him it was great to see him, and that he would serve as an omen of good fortune due to our skewed perspective on life that morning. He was gracious. We talked about how much effort it takes to sort out your papers as a Canadian in the States (curious – you bastards should be so lucky! Lanois?), things like that. I got out of his face pretty quickly and allowed him to continue his day.

My own day was to end in less than an hour due to exhaustion, but I decided that as soon as I woke up I would drive all the way to the Golden Gate Bridge . And I did.

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Everything is getting ready for the final mix. I didn’t listen to the project for awhile so that I could come back to it with fresh ears when it was time to finish up… and here it is. Basically I’m going over all the tracks one last time and the same thought keeps coming to me: more guitar. So each song is getting a little guitar love before heading down to LA. This music, which was done over a long period in three different countries, relies heavily on my voice and guitar for continuity, and I can always count on guitars – especially gritty electric or ‘low-fi’ acoustic – to bring a sense of spontaneity and rawness, which is always a good thing.

A friend of mine said the guitars on these songs were a bit understated, in a good way, but there’s nothing wrong with some good old guitar solos either, is there? I don’t know if there’s much room for the big ol’ face-melting weedly-deedlies here (not that I know how to do that), but you can’t let Guitar Hero III players have all the fun. So I put a Blue Dragonfly mic in front of the Lonestar Special, plugged in the Gibsons and some pedals, and started looking for sounds.

My first victory was on the song ‘Ruin Your Life’ which already seemed pretty thick with texture and melody, but when I put a slightly psychedelic 335 solo in the instrumental section, it really came to life. Someone asked if it was recorded backwards… I guess it’s a keeper! Between that and a sizzly single-coil riff on the choruses, I felt the song was done. That is, after I slathered both of the new guitars with some old-school tremolo.

I posted the instrumental part as the intro music for the site’s homepage.

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I remember playing at the Grant Street Dance Hall one time down in LaFayette, Louisiana. This was the mid-90′s, and it was my first time hanging out in the Deep South… it was a particular thrill for me to be playing in Cajun country, and I managed to sit in at a juke joint where some local bluesmen were doing their thing after hours. Someone was talking about Sonny Landreth, and I asked the one question you don’t want to ask a musician in LaFayette or maybe anywhere else in Louisiana:”Who’s Sonny Landreth?”

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I received an education in short order. He’s only the baddest slide player in the world, they told me, the Hendrix of bottleneck, former right-hand man of Zydeco superstar Clifton Chenier and official Native Stepson of this proud part of the world. His lyrics tell the story of these people, and the moan of his slide guitar embodies all the mystery and mojo that’s conjured up when you hear the word Bayou.

Whenever you hear guitar players talk about Sonny, it’s always in hushed tones and superlatives. He’s even Eric Clapton’s favorite guitarist. So… what’s the huge deal? Is it how he invented a way of opening up the fretboard to slide guitar by fretting notes behind the bottleneck, creating chords and runs that live well outside the usual open tunings? Is it his tone, which seems to combine the perfect balance of Stratocaster sting and Dumble creaminess? Is it the fact that he can play rhythm like a Cajun accordionist and wail out leads that sound like Bessie Smith at 3 A.M. on a Friday night?

All of the above. Like everybody else, I can’t shut up about Sonny Landreth.

I recently decided to get over my fear of slide guitar playing, which began when I tried to nail Ry Cooder’s song ‘Feelin’ Bad Blues’ at the age of 16. In retrospect, I actually did OK, but for some reason I never really got up the nerve to embrace slide as a serious undertaking. 2 things changed that: one was when I decided to put a slide solo on the ‘Trash Can Song’ from my album, and felt like it was one of the coolest things I’d ever recorded. The other was when Eric Dozier and I began the Moanin’ Sons project, which needs slide guitar like biscuits need gravy.

I did a little research online to see if Sonny had ever given any advice on the subject, and sure enough, Guitar Player magazine had done a whole series with him geared towards people in just my position. But the news wasn’t good. He said you have to learn to mute each string with each finger of your picking hand until it sounds as seamless as someone playing scales on a piano, lifting a finger off as the next one goes down… but inversely, because you’re plucking instead of pressing. It does make sense, because your fret-hand string muting, which is kind of what separates the men from the boys on guitar and takes 10 years to learn, is suddenly out the window the moment you put a glass tube across all 6 strings. Brutal! But there it is. I’m trying, Sonny. I’m trying.

The good news is that my online search wandered into his current touring schedule, and he was playing here in Portland that night, in a tiny venue that was almost sold out. So I ran out of the house and drove the way I learned to do in Mexico, and got there just in time to be the last guy they let in. It was meant to be, of course. What better way for a slide newbie to get initiated than to have your face melted off by 2 hours-plus of Mr. Landreth’s Strat/Dumble onslaught, all at a distance from which you can measure his string gauge?

Between that and catching Warren Haynes a few days later with Gov’t Mule, I had enough inspiration to walk around the house for a month, playing muting patterns with my right hand while making coffee and breakfast with my left. I figured once I got the inverse piano-action trick down, I could worry about little things like slide intonation and re-learning the whole fretboard in three different open tunings.

So Sonny, if you’re out there… and I know you are… I am officially ready for my lesson. I will come to you. Just send me an email and name your price.

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It took me years to decide on a main guitar amplifier. I had a few Fenders and Marshalls over the years, and a Vox that I liked a lot, but I needed one workhorse tube amp that was a virtual tone factory – truly inspiring to play in any style, with any guitar, and small enough to throw in the back of the car without slipping a disc. I wanted an amp that would let me play around with gain staging, power tube distortion at low volumes, and radical EQ to get different types of sounds… but without sacrificing those great, rootsy amp tones you hear on Black Crowes records.

I finally decided on the Mesa Lonestar Special. I had a few moments messing around with them in music stores over the course of a year or so, and it was hard to tear myself away from the amp every time… so when the moment came, I found a really special one with gorgeous mahogany on the front and did the deal. I can honestly say I’ve played a lot more electric guitar since buying this amp; the hours just fly by. It seems to flatter all my guitars, bringing out their individual personalities almost to the point of exaggeration, and it loves pedals, like the Fulltone Soul-Bender and the Keeley compressor – though most of the time I just want to hear it by itself. With a bit of its own saucy spring reverb hovering in the background.

I wasn’t drawn to Mesa amps that much over the years because I associated them with ultra-saturated Metallica type tones, and even though we recorded Santana through his main Boogie many times and heard it on lots of gigs where it sounded great, I was looking for more of a mid-gain, juicy sound with old-school attitude. Maybe what I was looking for was Class A power, like an old Matchless. Anyway, the Lonestar Special gives up the Class A grease in globs, and I can easily smooth out the top end to get those coveted Cream-era Clapton type sounds or goose the power tubes into straight Fuzz pedal territory. Messing with the gain stages has taught me a lot about amplification and the differences between types of distortion, and I find the EQ accesses a lot of different kinds of dirt in there too.

I’m using the stock speaker, a 12″ Black Shadow, and the original Mesa tubes. I’ve heard of people doing all kinds of swaps and little mods on these amps, but I really feel like Mesa nailed it for me ‘as-is’ with this design. The only modification I’ve had done on it is something that should have been there in the first place: the ‘Drive’ switch on channel 2 is now foot-switchable, effectively making it into a 3-channel amp (or eliminating the need for an overdrive pedal). The guys at the Mesa store on Sunset Blvd. did this mod for me, and I use it all the time because it’s right there on a standard footswitch.

I feel like I’m still discovering what this amp can do. The clean sounds were a little too transparent for me at first, but I’m finding that it can get a lot funkier and ‘amp-y’ if you ease off the Presence quite a bit and crank the Treble control. Turning the mids down adds a bit of ‘squish’ to the feel of it as well. Power-wise, 30 watts seems like more than enough headroom for the kind of sounds I like, and I generally run it all the way down to 5 watts anyway unless I’m on a louder gig.

Any complaints? Well… no tremolo on the Lonestar… that’s about it. And it doesn’t make espresso, though I haven’t called the factory yet to see if they can’t add it as an option…

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