A lot of great guitars have back stories. The men and women who played them used them to play epic, unforgettable concerts, made the music that became the soundtracks to our lives. My guitar is no exception. Here is it’s story.
What you are about to read is 100% factual
The Legend of Punkscaliber
A long time ago, in a sleazy, corporate, multi-conglomerate guitar store far, far away, I saw it from across the room, enamored by its shining, cream colored pulchritude and refinement. It called to my soul as a beacon calls to an imperiled ship upon the rough seas.
I was the only one of hundreds of unworthy young men who was able to pull it off of its wall hanger, dodging mountains of amplifiers to run out the door faster than the salesman, down the grimy city street, hurdling over drunken bums, pushing past drug peddlers into a waiting getaway car that whisked me away to my secret punk lair.
That night, a spectral, Darby Crash appeared at the foot of my bed as I wiped the sleep from my eyes. He told me of the legend of Punkscaliber. That it is actually a vintage guitar that was rumored to have been played by the mighty virtuoso and idol of all modern rock guitar players, the Godly Jimi Hendrix as well as the eccentric anti-hero Panthur Martin, but could not be confirmed or denied. It then passed into many ingenious and masterly hands of punk guitar legends and was wielded by the likes of the consummate, jam kicking Fred "Sonic" Smith of the MC5, the raw power of Ron Asheton of the Stooges, the trenchant anarchist Steve Jones of the Sex Pistols, the sonic reducer himself, Cheetah Chrome from the Dead Boys, the angry elephant-like wailing of Greg Ginn of Black Flag, Darby’s own untutored but adept friend and band mate Pat Smear, the superlative speed fingers of Dr. Know from the mighty Bad Brains, the sardonic, talented, ridiculing insults of Lee Ving of Fear, the stinging, reverb bathed tones of East Bay Ray of the Dead Kennedys and on and on, passing successively into the hands of many infamous punk rockers, some very well known, and some that time chooses never to reveal. He said its power is too great to be wielded by one man or woman alone. Punkscaliber is like the Michael Myers of guitars. You cannot reason with it. It cares not who gets in its way. It is a force of nature, like the man or woman who wields it. Punkscaliber knows no boundaries. Punkscaliber had in fact chosen me that day. Not the other way around.
The blue-hued phantom Darby continued his chronicle and apprised me of my responsibility to play music that would destroy the status quo, challenge all mainstream conventions and through mischievous melodies, speak to disillusioned and outcast youth living on the fringes of a society that disposed of them like yesterday’s garbage. On that summer day so long ago, the mighty Punkscaliber passed into my hands to care for it, love it, and make obnoxiously aggressive music with it. And when my time on this cesspool of a tortured planet ends and my day comes to be the world’s next forgotten boy, I’ll go to that filthy, piss-stained punk rock club in the sky with a crappy PA system, and reeking of stale beer, Punkscaliber will pass into the hands of another worthy young punk rocker.
Gloria Punkscaliberus!
Sicut eat, in principio
Et nune, et semper
Et en sacula sacalorum.
Glory to Punkscaliber!
As it was in the beginning
It is now, and ever shall be
World without end
What you are about to read is 100% factual
The Legend of Punkscaliber
A long time ago, in a sleazy, corporate, multi-conglomerate guitar store far, far away, I saw it from across the room, enamored by its shining, cream colored pulchritude and refinement. It called to my soul as a beacon calls to an imperiled ship upon the rough seas.
I was the only one of hundreds of unworthy young men who was able to pull it off of its wall hanger, dodging mountains of amplifiers to run out the door faster than the salesman, down the grimy city street, hurdling over drunken bums, pushing past drug peddlers into a waiting getaway car that whisked me away to my secret punk lair.
That night, a spectral, Darby Crash appeared at the foot of my bed as I wiped the sleep from my eyes. He told me of the legend of Punkscaliber. That it is actually a vintage guitar that was rumored to have been played by the mighty virtuoso and idol of all modern rock guitar players, the Godly Jimi Hendrix as well as the eccentric anti-hero Panthur Martin, but could not be confirmed or denied. It then passed into many ingenious and masterly hands of punk guitar legends and was wielded by the likes of the consummate, jam kicking Fred "Sonic" Smith of the MC5, the raw power of Ron Asheton of the Stooges, the trenchant anarchist Steve Jones of the Sex Pistols, the sonic reducer himself, Cheetah Chrome from the Dead Boys, the angry elephant-like wailing of Greg Ginn of Black Flag, Darby’s own untutored but adept friend and band mate Pat Smear, the superlative speed fingers of Dr. Know from the mighty Bad Brains, the sardonic, talented, ridiculing insults of Lee Ving of Fear, the stinging, reverb bathed tones of East Bay Ray of the Dead Kennedys and on and on, passing successively into the hands of many infamous punk rockers, some very well known, and some that time chooses never to reveal. He said its power is too great to be wielded by one man or woman alone. Punkscaliber is like the Michael Myers of guitars. You cannot reason with it. It cares not who gets in its way. It is a force of nature, like the man or woman who wields it. Punkscaliber knows no boundaries. Punkscaliber had in fact chosen me that day. Not the other way around.
The blue-hued phantom Darby continued his chronicle and apprised me of my responsibility to play music that would destroy the status quo, challenge all mainstream conventions and through mischievous melodies, speak to disillusioned and outcast youth living on the fringes of a society that disposed of them like yesterday’s garbage. On that summer day so long ago, the mighty Punkscaliber passed into my hands to care for it, love it, and make obnoxiously aggressive music with it. And when my time on this cesspool of a tortured planet ends and my day comes to be the world’s next forgotten boy, I’ll go to that filthy, piss-stained punk rock club in the sky with a crappy PA system, and reeking of stale beer, Punkscaliber will pass into the hands of another worthy young punk rocker.
Gloria Punkscaliberus!
Sicut eat, in principio
Et nune, et semper
Et en sacula sacalorum.
Glory to Punkscaliber!
As it was in the beginning
It is now, and ever shall be
World without end