Not five minutes ago I called Brawer Guitars to check on The Maton, and
IT IS READY. The guy said that the repair, and I quote, "turned out
beautifully" but I reserve judgment until I've seen the work. With
luck, this Friday will be The Day I Pick Up The Maton. Stay tuned.
I am not a parent. I wish I were, but for the time being, I am not. However, yesterday I think I must have felt an inkling of what parents feel when they first leave a child at day care. Because, when I dropped off The Maton at Gary Brawer's repair shop, I was definitely Concerned. And no matter how many times I told Gary or his shop manager how deeply important the guitar was to me, I felt they somehow weren't getting it.
To make matters worse, Brawer's business is, um, aesthetically challenged. Outside, as you can see from the photo, it looks like a great place for the mafia to have little talk with a wayward soul who has forgotten the meaning of Omertà . Inside, it's not much more inviting. You enter through a doorway clearly optimized for keeping people out rather than letting them in, and you are immediately presented with what appears to be a garage sale, except a) you're not in a garage (well, technically you are, but it's complicated), and b) the merchandise is not crap but a rock and roll bazaar of basses, amps and guitars. "Have I died and gone to heaven," you ask yourself. Nope. You are at the Pearly Gates of Real Guitars, the best, if not exactly the cleanest, place for used gear in SF. And in the back of Real Guitars is Brawer's shop, which is always bustling, dusty and brightly lit (so that the repair dudes on staff don't accidentally repair their fingers, I'm sure.)
To get to Brawer's, you have to walk past gorgeous Strats, vintage Marshalls and battered Tele's by the dozen. You worry, will my guitar's self-esteem suffer among all these gifted graduates (many of the guitars in Real have been set-up by Brawer's shop)? Once at Brawer's glass counter, which is more cluttered than the most sentimental of grandmothers' attics , you lay your guitar on a cheap piece of remnant carpet, where the shop manager and Gary appraise, er, examine it.
Clearly, The Maton was not of sufficient lineage to elicit the oohs and ahs I know it deserves. But no matter, I guess, for Brawer's place takes all comers. And despite the constant nagging in the back of my mind -- "Do You Really Want to Trust These Guys With The Maton?" -- the shop talk kept me calm and focused. Gary explained how his wood guy (who built a bass for Tori Amos' bass player, by the way) would steam the joint loose, clean out the old glue, adjust the angle of the neck ever so slightly and then reattach it with such skill and precision that not only would neck problems be a thing of the past for the Maton, it would also play better than ever. Of course, he also explained how the backwards mounted tuners could eventually snap the nut. He was cool about it, but I could tell he was thinking, "This guitar, a proletariat thing though it may be, deserves better than you."
Then came the Really Bad News: It would be month before the guitar would be ready. A MONTH? COULD I LIVE WITHOUT THE MATON FOR A WHOLE MONTH? This wasn't dropping off a kid at day care, this was more like summer camp. Bummed, dejected, resigned, I nodded, made one last attempt to convince Brawer that caring for The Maton was an honor and a privilege and that the guitar deserved, neigh, should INSPIRE, special attention, I left.
Already, I'm counting the days until The Maton comes home.
Yesterday (Tuesday), I was plucking out ideas on The Maton and I noticed that the intonation seemed a bit more off than usual (hey, the thing was rescued from a dumpster, it's cool if it sounds a little less than perfect, even on a good day). First I fiddled with the tuners, then I tried different places on the neck, then I sensed that maybe the action was a touch higher than normal. Then, and with great trepidation, I slowly turned the guitar over and examined the neck joint.
The horror.
The horror.
Sure enough, there was a very narrow, but very real gap between the neck and the body, meaning only one thing: the glue was giving way. I immediately emailed Brad, who loaned me the guitar, and apprised him of the dire straits The Maton was in. He gave me the go-ahead to find a capable repair dude forthwith, and I emailed Gary Brawer, The Dude to take ailing guitars to in San Francisco. Gary has already emailed me back and assured me that he would put his best wood-to-wood guy on the job; all I had to do was call Gary first and make the arrangements.
Stay tuned.
