The story of Bobby and Martin…

Solo gig with Bobby at The Cellars – many moons ago..

My Dad told me he first put a guitar in my hand when I was about 3. He had always be in bands when he lived in London and always wanted to give his kids the opportunity to be musical. I don’t remember that as a three year old, but I do remember Dad always had an old 12 string in the house, covered in magic roundabout stickers, and as a small child I used to lie at his feet when he played it.

I remember always being fascinated with Dad’s guitar and ‘playing’ with it at every opportunity. If it was anything like what my god children currently do with instruments I give them (and by that I mean force on them), I largley banged at it inanely.

My First Guitar…

Anyway, yadda yadda, when I hit my teens, Dad bought me my own guitar. It was second hand, Hohner from the Freeads, £90. Whilst that is not an insignificant amount of money, particularly then, guitarists amongst you will know it’s not a lot of money for a guitar.

I loved it.

Sorry – I mean I loved him.

I named him Bobby after Bob Dylan who was a huge influence to me musically at the time. I took him to bed with me, carried him around all over the place, took him on the train, cuddled him while I watched TV, and played him every opportunity I got. I really learned to play, and developed a passion for playing guitar with Bobby. I have always had small hands, and still do; Bobby is a full sized guitar, but the body is narrow and the neck is slender, which took some of that additional pain out of playing when you’re first learning, as it fit in my hands more easily, and was comfortable for me to play. I’ve never come across another guitar that could have been more perfect for me as a young player. I’m sure they’re out there, but Bobby just came along at the right time for me.

With my Dad’s encouragement, I played all through my formative years, spending many happy hours jamming together, playing along with records we both loved and generally putting the world to rights. The first time I performed totally solo, accompanying myself, I played a Bob Dylan song (of course) called Shooting Star on Bobby. He was with me when I first stepped out into the real music scene, started playing in bands, writing and recording songs, and spreading my wings as a real musician.

Bobby is a manifestation of the spirit of my Dad and I’m going to be buried with him (Bobby, not Dad).

Much as I love Bobby, he wasn’t really up to being a working instrument. He was old, the pickup was knackered, and live he became a bit unpredictable. I’d been thinking about getting another 6 string, but couldn’t really decide what I wanted. Still, I was emotionally attached and whilst I had other guitars I used live, I always returned to Bobby even when I shouldn’t have.

A Victorious Fall…

Bobby at Victorious (and me still bleeding)

A couple of years ago I was playing at The Victorious Festival, (a UK festival in Hampshire, near where I live). To be completely honest I was stressed to the eyeballs that day. I had two gigs, in two different towns and had to get to the airport 2hrs away to be on a flight that evening. I’d been working flat out to be able to get the time off, and was run ragged. I was walking from the carpark to Victorious with Bobby in a soft case on my back, and it was drizzling (that’s light rain in England). I was rushing, just because I’d been rushing for about a week, and I had new gladiator sandals on in preparation for my holiday. Victorious was in an old part of town in Portsmouth, so I was rushing in new shoes on wet cobbles. Guess what happened.

I slipped on the cobbles and fell to the ground, bashing the neck of my guitar hard on the old stone wall. I was convinced as I collapsed to the floor that I’d broken Bobby. Never mind that I’d ripped a hole in my knee and was bleeding quite seriously. I sat there thinking – that’s it, I’m never going to play again, I’ll get a job in a supermarket, and if I’ve broken Bobby, I never want to hear, play or sing music again. Okay so that’s a bit extreme perhaps, but it’s the truth. I sat there for so long, some kind hearted stranger ran over to me yelling ‘are you alright?!’ Bless her heart. She helped me get up, and I thanked her and hustled off, a bit more carefully, very embarrassed and now aware I was bleeding. I eventually found the stage manager for where I was playing and reported for duty. I immediately got Bobby out of the case and thanked the heavens he wasn’t hurt. I did my duty, played my set and headed off to gig two of the day. I called my other half on the way, who was planning to meet me at the second gig anyway. I asked him to bring plasters for my knee and told him what had happened. He patched me up as best he could, (a little shocked at the state of my leg), and looked Bobby over also. Second gig down, we strolled along the beach nearby and he told me how rediculous it was to still be working an instrument that held such sentimental value to me. We agreed that I’d retire him and get a new working guitar when I got back from holiday. So that was Bobby’s last working day.

With my knee patched up, Bobby went home with my other half and I went to the airport. I went to Tunisia with a girlfriend, and we slept and sat at the pool bar for a week.

Blind Shopping…

Photoshoot with Martin at Thurtlepower Photography

Still with my Tunisian henna tattoos, playing Martin on his first day at home.

When I got home, my other half took me shopping. We went to our local guitar shop and he sat me on a stool with my eyes closed. Incidentally, I discovered this is the best way to buy a guitar. Completely free of my preconceptions of make, model, look and price, I made my entire judgement based on feel and sound. He gave me everything to try from the cheapest models in stock, to the models of several thousand pounds. Most things I gave up within a minute or so of playing, (including a couple of rather expensive models – what can I say? I guess I’m just not fancy on the inside), but there was one that felt good and sounded great instantly. I did actually think I knew what it was, and therefore how much it was, and sent it away once. I played a few more, but then asked for a second go with the one I sent away. We fitted together, and I played and played before even opening my eyes.

When I finally admitted I’d chosen this one, I opened my eyes to discover it was a Martin (DX1ae). I’d actually dreamed of having a Martin for many years, having played one on a recording session many years ago. I always felt it was the kind of thing you should hanker after your whole life, and then buy when you retire. I couldn’t have been more thrilled with my choice, and it wasn’t stupid money. The boys in the shop managed to get it off me long enough to put it in a hard case and we all went home. The plan was, I was not to get emotionally attached to it. I haven’t done so well with that part of it – rather unimaginatively he’s been named Martin. However, when all is said and done, devastated as I would be if anything happened to it, I could get another one.

Bobby remains irreplaceable, and has been retired, hanging pride of place in our hallway. I still write on him, and he remains an inspiration, but I keep him safe now. Martin also inspires me, and other people alike. Everyone that plays Martin comments how lovely he feels and sounds, and a few people have gone on to buy one of their own after playing mine. We’re into the next chapter…

So that’s it, the story of Bobby and Martin..