MY GIBSON LG1

I will have owned my Gibson LG1 acoustic guitar for 50 years today. I bought it in New York, from a shop called We Buy Guitars on West 58th Street, on Boxing Day 1975 when I was Melody Maker’s US editor based in the Big Apple, the best job I ever had. I’d spent Christmas Day on my own, hung over after a party the night before, and since no one had bought me any presents I figured I’d buy something for myself. 

I’d always wanted to own a Gibson. The first one I ever played was a 335 at Gargrave Village Hall in, I think, 1966. It belonged to the guitarist in a group from Barrow-in-Furness who came on after my group, The Pandas, opened the dancing on a Saturday night. I can’t remember the name of the group that came on after us but they were far more accomplished than we were. Their lead guitarist used a Fender Strat, their rhythm man the Gibson and the bass player a Fender Jazz. After they’d played our bassist John Holmfield and I chatted with them and, a bit gingerly, asked if he could have a go on their guitars. The rhythm man handed me his 335 and for five minutes I was in heaven. I owned a Futurama III, a cheap Strat knock-off with a dodgy action, and until that moment didn’t know what it was like to play a top quality guitar with a low action, with strings that were millimetres away from the frets so you didn’t have to press hard to make the note ring. I wanted a guitar like that and although I bought and sold a few others in the meantime, it would take me another nine years to get one.

It was crisp and chilly on Boxing Day 1975. I woke up bright and early and decided to walk from my apartment on E78th Street, down through Central Park and over to West 58th. I tried Manny’s – New York’s most famous guitar shop – first but all they had in the Gibson acoustic line, mostly J45s and J200s, were a bit too pricey for me. We Buy Guitars was more down market and inside I found the LG1, which was just what I was looking for. It cost me $165, plus $13 tax. On the back of the headstock is number 126577 which means it was made at Gibson’s Kalamazoo Plant in Michigan in 1963, according to the website that dates guitars from serial numbers. I still have the receipt, below. 

It has lived with me ever since, my most loyal friend. I brought it back from America, via Amsterdam to Leeds-Bradford Airport, in 1978, and down to London the following year. Foolishly, I lent it to a minor-league rock musician (who shall remain nameless) in the mid-1980s and when he returned it there were loads of scratches around the bridge and sound hole. Two other (bigger) stars, Elvis Costello and Alan Hull, have also played it and both offered to buy it but I turned them down. It now lives with me at our home in Surrey, propped up against the wall in the room that used to be our daughter's bedroom, which I now use as my office. 

A few years ago, I noticed a crack in the back and, having seen him on the TV show Repair Shop, I took it to David Kennett at Flame Guitars in Sutton. For £200 he repaired the crack, fitted a new bridge and generally spruced it up a bit but he wasn’t able to eliminate all the scratches. No matter, it still plays beautifully. Last week, as a 50th birthday present for my faithful old guitar, I restrung it with expensive D’Addario (custom light, 11-52) and it sounds as good as new.

         My son Sam, who will one day inherit it, started learning to play on this guitar about 15 years ago and is now streets ahead of me. Although I love guitars and the sound they make, I was never much good as a guitarist but I wish I’d had a Gibson to learn on when I was his age. 

        You are never alone with a guitar. I’ve played my old Gibson when I’ve been drunk and when I’ve been sober, when I’ve been stoned and when I’ve been straight. I’ve played it when I’ve been happy and when I’m sad. Indeed, when my sister rang to tell me that our dad had died – not unexpectedly – in 1997, the first thing I did was take the guitar of out its case and strum a few bluesy chords; I did the same thing at the end of a love affair in 1987 and when an old and dear friend died in 2020. Eighteen months later, when my great pal Johnny Rogan died, I played 'Mr Tambourine Man' Byrds-style on it is his honour. I have never played in public but if I was called upon to do so I would probably play the riff from 'Substitute' or maybe 'Waterloo Sunset', two of the handful of songs I’ve perfected over the years. 

    

        My faithful old guitar is sitting here in the room where I’m typing this. If it could smile at me I think it would, and if it could hear me I’d tell it that it was far and away the best thing I’ve ever bought for myself in my entire life – fifty years ago today.