This is my guitar. I bought it at a music store in El Centro, California back in the mid-eighties, when everyone else was buying axe shaped electric guitars and trying to start hair bands. It's a mahogany Fender acoustic with a sunburst top, and it has accompanied me all over the world. Coffee houses from California to Florida, dive bars and road houses in Texas and Tennessee, mountain campfires and beach party singalongs. It's made countless appearances with me at the Bluebird Cafe in Nashville, Tennessee, and had the hell played out of it five hours a night, six nights a week, for an entire month at the Casino de Montreux in Montreux, Switzerland. It was my therapist during many a lonely night as I tried to heal a broken heart, and for all I know it may have even helped me to break a few hearts. It's been my trusted songwriting partner hundreds and hundreds of times, in several states, quite a few countries, and at least two continents. It even helped me write the song I used to propose to my girlfriend, who is now my wife of seven years.
I almost felt guilty a few years ago when I got a new guitar, but my voice has deepened as I've gotten older, and I need the rosewood construction of the Martin to help my voice blend with an instrument once again. I've had a few adventures with the Martin and will hopefully have many more, but I still grab the Fender when I get inspired to write another song, or if I'm just feeling a little nostalgic. This is my guitar.
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