Vintage Trouble

How do you know a man has a vintage guitar collection? More often than not, he’ll tell you. Vintage guitars are seen as the ultimate in the guitar world; the pièce de résistance; the crowning glory that befits someone who has dedicated their life to wood and wires, and people pay handsomely for the pleasure of owning such old slabs of dead tree.

There are rumours that the older wood used gives a better tone, or that years of being played and vibration mean the guitar sounds better in some intangible way. It’s completely subjective, and despite my best efforts, I myself have started to ascribe to the notion that older can indeed mean better. Recently, we began work on Cardinal Black’s second album, recording it in the picturesque town of Maur, just outside Zurich. PowerPlay Studios is set next to a lake and all the natural beauty that comes with it. Not only is it nestled in surroundings more befitting of a chocolate box, there’s some wonder and amazement inside the walls as well. Europe, the famed 80s rockers, wrote and recorded ‘The Final Countdown’ there, as well as being a favourite haunt of Prince. Stevie Nicks’ Neve console is nestled in one of the downstairs studios, and upstairs in the office sits a plethora of vintage guitars, basses and amplifiers that would make Joe Bonamassa’s underwear twitch.

I settled into the session with an army of four - a 1964 Fender Precision with roundwounds, a 1965 Fender Precision with flatwounds, an 1989 Japanese Precision and a 1969 Fender Mustang bass. Out of this line up, the one that will get the vintage brigade going the most will be the 1964 - the year CBS took over Fender (to split hairs, most 1964 basses had their parts built in 1963 or even earlier, and are considered Pre-CBS basses). And what a machine it is.

I’ve played many Precision basses in my time, and this one is the best I’ve ever played by a country mile. So what makes it good? First off, it feels stiff. The body and the neck feel like they are one solid unit, not two separate pieces joined by screws. As a result, the body resonates wildly into your ribs like a jackhammer. It’s a joyous feeling. The neck is slimmer than other Precisions, with dainty little frets and deep, onyx-like rosewood. It really is as slick, flat and fast as a racetrack. Lastly, the pickups are vocal, throaty and borderline aggressive, machine-gunning the signal through the output jack and into whatever piece of equipment is lucky enough to be on the receiving end. Small wonder that this bass ended up in a first rate studio.

So, how did the others compare? Well, the 1965 Precision was a bit dull and blunt; almost lethargic, with the thickest baseball bat neck I’ve ever struggled to get my hands around. It certainly has its place as a mean dub machine, but it wasn’t as well oiled or as slick as the ‘64 bass that preceded it. The 1989 Precision was at least in the same ball-park as the ‘64; it had that legendary Japanese build quality and felt solid, but the difference was still leagues ahead in favour of its older sibling. The Mustang was an altogether different beast; deft and quick in the hands, it was a Harley Davidson in a fleet of vintage of Muscle Cars, but more on the Mustang another time.

On a grander scale, how does the ‘64 Precision bass compare to every other bass I’ve ever played? Simply put, it’s one of the greatest basses I’ve ever had the pleasure of handling. The general rigidity of the body and neck is the most rewarding feature. Modern basses tend to remind you of their cumbersome size by way of a wobble or small flex in the neck. Even the best modern basses have a hint. The ‘64 feels military grade, appearing not to be made of such an inconsistent material as wood. It’s also exceptionally light, well balanced and hugs your body just so. Couple those features with the raw power of the pickup which excels in achieving the rockiest, crunchiest tone imaginable and you’ve got an absolute winner.

On top of all that, the body felt nicely worn and the sunburst finish displayed its scars with pride. Picking it up, it gave the impression that it had done great things in its life; it had mystique. It made you want to play at your absolute best, as though you needed to prove yourself to this old girl. After playing one, you can certainly see why so many people are chasing a Pre-CBS Fender, but at an estimated £15,000, it’s out of reach of most mortal human beings.

And that’s where the story becomes a bit less interesting, because it’s very rare you’ll find someone who will actually use it for its intended purpose after buying it. You won’t want to take it down the Dog & Duck - the pick guard alone will fetch over £900 on eBay. Heaven forbid you leave it resting on your amp whilst you enjoy your pre-gig pie and chips. Many people who are in the position to afford a Pre-CBS Precision bass will seldom play it, which is beyond criminal. Ultimately, they’ll end up as wall-pieces or sat behind a glass display in a collector’s repository where the new owners will be checking their Vanguard accounts as well as prices on Reverb to see how well their investments are doing. Wood and wires have transcended the very job they were designed and built for; promoted out of their skillset.

Is there a way of getting the best of both worlds; having the penny and the bun? Sadly not, but if you take the tangible aspects of the ‘64 and focus on bringing those to a more modern package, I think there’s at least a halfway house. Recently, I’ve worked with Bruce Hartley at Bassworks, a Leicester based luthier, who has made some pretty wonderful basses. I’ve been given the pleasure of road testing a Bassworks JPJ4: a Jazz-bass bodied, Bartolini PJ-pickup wielding race car of a bass, and what stands out to me is that is has the same stiffness as the ‘64 Precision. The raw finish on the back of the neck puts you in mind of the old vintage beasts without being too pitted or gouged. I like it a lot. I’d go as far to say as there are even notable improvements over the vintage offering, such as the more ergonomic body shape and Bruce’s trademark rounded fret ends (which are individually done by hand). The only thing it lacks is the mystery of a vintage instrument: old guitars are swathed in folklore in a way that modern instruments simply haven’t earned yet. It is, however, a good excuse to take the best modern instrument you can find out on the road and give it a few stories to tell, a couple of nicks on the body, maybe even a scar or two. So that’s what I intend on doing with the Bassworks before it gets carted off to sit behind some glass on a shelf. Let’s give it a life.

Fjord Fiesta

Norway is a perfect example of what God can do when he really tries. So much hyperbole has been written over the years to describe its scenery but to see it pass through your own eyes is a very different experience. A 4 hour van journey from Bergen to Sandane went by with not a single complaint from anyone; just gasps of awe as we rounded every corner, phones in hand, only to be greeted to an even better sight than the one that preceded it. It’s spectacular, and the Norwegians know it.

Speaking to several Norwegians over the course of 4 days there’s a sense that they all understand how pretty their homeland is. They know that the natural beauty and wonder is there to be cherished, not bulldozed and garnished haphazardly with great slabs of concrete. They work with what they’ve been given, and tradition is extremely important in maintaining the beauty they’ve harvested. I was told that in Bergen, you aren’t allowed to use power tools when working on the outside of a building. Some of these buildings date back to the 13th Century and they’ll be damned if you get up to repair the facias with a Black & Decker. Rather, they’ll employ tradesmen, craftsmen, to do any repairs at an outrageous cost. It’s highly impractical and inefficient; accountants twitch when faced with the costs but the Norwegians just suck it up and enjoy the results. It’s a wondrous moment when tradition beats efficiency.

This, in turn, reminds me of the humble Ampeg SVT. Admittedly, this is a segue that I’m not proud of, but it does illustrate the tradition-over-efficiency argument. I was lucky enough to have a hired bass rig for both shows (a private show in Bergen and a Blues Festival in Sandane). On both occasions an Ampeg SVT CL was waiting for me, a carbon copy of the one I’ve got at home, sat atop a matching Ampeg 8x10 cabinet. The Ampeg SVT is by no means a modern amenity - its design dates back to the late 1960s - but there’s a deep-rooted relationship between the bass guitar and the Ampeg SVT. Designed to compete with walls of Marshall, Vox and Fender guitar amps that were appearing in these new-fangled stadium tours of the 1960s, the SVT was billed as a revelation in sonic reinforcement for bassists who, up to then, were drowned out by their guitar-wielding brethren. It was considered state of the art in 1969, but 54 years later the Ampeg SVT is not exactly the pinnacle of cutting edge innovation. In fact, there are several alternatives that would do the job with less weight, less required maintenance and more ease of use - yet the backline hire company still keeps a small fleet of SVTs handy. Why? Well for the same reasons the Norwegians won’t let you use power tools when working on their buildings: it’s better the old fashioned way.

The SVT is an extravagant purchase by any means, but it’s an heirloom to be passed on to younger generations. It should, in theory, last a lifetime. It’s also extremely flattering to players, giving them a wonderful foundation to put their art into the world. It’s powerful and imperfect - qualities that musicians seem to like. There’s definitely a reason why manufacturers fall over themselves to mimic the SVT in their own products. Over the past 20 years, there has been a distinct trend in the bass amplifier market to downsize and become lighter. The SVT has bucked this trend. In fact, I’m not sure the SVT is even aware that this trend exists. It’s certainly not worried, as hundreds get rolled out to stages across the world every night. The design is flawed and the cost is inefficient, but the result is just better. Much like the craftsmen repairing Bergen’s buildings.

Will anyone notice that the ornate bird detailing in a fascia board 5 storeys above Bergen’s streets was carved by an electric saw and not by hand? No, of course not. Will anyone care that I’m using an Ampeg SVT and not a small, efficient Class D amp? Apart from myself, absolutely not, but there’s something better about doing it the old fashioned way. There’s a certain magic to using an outdated technique for the sake of art. The Norwegians have it right and I’ll try my best to keep the outdated and outmoded valve amps of a bygone era in full operation for as long as I can. You know, because it’s better.

Born in a Barn

Album #2 seems like it should be another 10 years away. I mean, that’s how long the first album, January Came Close, took. 10 years of writing, polishing, recycling and perfecting before being lovingly recorded and arranged into an album on a shoestring. There was no expectation or comparison, just songs that were loved and cherished being brought into the world.

After what feels like three weeks after the first album was released (almost a year, in fact), writing is starting to solidify on album #2. There are a few differences between now and the first album. Firstly, I’ve actually seen this album conceptualise from scratchy iPhone recording to slightly more polished iPhone demo. I adore the writing process and it’s even better to be involved with it. Secondly, we haven’t got 10 years worth of heartache and joy and tribulation to work from, though a lot can happen in a year.

We found that a residential stay is much more beneficial than a few hours a week in a practise room. We perfected January Came Close in a studio smack bang in middle of Wales, out in the sticks. Looking for a change of scenery this time round, we tried our luck renting a wedding venue that had just closed for the Autumn. It was perfect - a huge barn in the middle of nowhere, a 15th Century cottage to stay in and a pub a 5 minute walk away. As far as I was concerned, there were no downsides save perhaps for the complete lack of any signal or WiFi. But, you know, it keeps you humble, and my Angry Birds skills are now alarmingly sharp.

Two and a half days, 11 song ideas and some monumental hangovers later, we’re getting somewhere. Where, I don’t quite know, but somewhere. The test concludes that Album #2 has been conceived and we’re pretty sure we are the fathers. Let’s go!