The first sentence of the article on NAMM in today’s Los Angeles Times started out “If you’re a guitar geek, this is ground zero.” And that’s a pretty accurate statement. I left home about 8:30 and headed east to Anaheim, wherein I saw my first sign welcoming me to NAMM:
Now the people at the Anaheim Convention Center have learned the best practices of the people at Disneyland who design the line (queue) switchbacks and other methods of making the line waiting to get into an attraction seem not so long. Because once I got through the first couple dozen yards of the entrance to the convention center parking garage, I was informed I was going to have to park in the Buzz (as in Lightyear) lot around the corner. But they were kind enough to let me go through a couple of back alleys to get there.
See? This doesn’t look so long.
Once paid and parked, I hiked in and got my badge holder to display my official credentials that let me in to the show. It was only 9:30, and the main halls didn’t open until 10:00, but Hall E, downstairs (a.k.a. “the cheap seats”) opens at 9:30 am. I don’t mean to disparage Hall E. It’s my favorite place at the show. Why? Because this is where the smaller exhibitors have their booths. There are more booths, and there are more of them. Small doesn’t mean insignificant. Goodall, Santa Cruz, Collings, Breedlove, RainSong, National, CA, et al are all down here, along with TV Jones, and a lot of small Chinese importers (the people aren’t small, just the breadth of their product lines. The other nice part about Hall E is that this is where all the one-product-wonder companies are. The ones with creative and innovative new products, and I like to find the coolest and most innovative ones, and talk them up here. And in all fairness, this is where the goofy products usually end up (remember Dewey Decibel Flipout guitars?) They were here for two years, but no more. I didn’t have time to get to all of Hall E before 10:00, but I saw a few booths, stopped in to say hello to Ashvin at RainSong, and by then it was 10:00, so I headed north.
Way north. Fender moved their booth/complex up to the 3rd Floor of the convention center this year, above, Taylor, Godin, Digitech, and wherever the Gibson bunker is now (best to keep the riff-raff out) on the 2nd floor. The third floor is usually home to church organ manufacturers, Chinese piano makers, and business finance companies (I’d love to compare last year’s exhibitor’s guide to this year’s to see how many fewer of those there are now). Well they must not have known what hit them this year, because the 3rd floor is now the City of Fender, or some such thing.
And here’s the street where I live.
The president of the homeowners’ association in this neighborhood is our own Joe Carducci. You’ve heard it over and over again what a great guy he is, but it can’t be said enough times. I was sitting down with the Corvette Stumpomatic in my lap and he came over to encourage me to plug it into one of the Gretsch amps and crank it up. He introduced himself (like I didn’t know who he was, what a guy), and I said “I’m Frank Giffen from the Gretsch Discussion Pages, a.k.a. “giffenf”. And he said “The Gretsch Pages? That’s great!!! I have something special for you. He reached behind the amp I was about to plug into and grabbed his backpack. He pulled out a Gretsch badge necklace and went into detail about how, as a member of the Gretsch Pages, I am a member of his “inner circle,” because we make Gretsch what it is, and then he whipped it out: The Kim-Falcon-on-one-side, DSW-on-the-other All Access Crew Pass! I screamed “No way!” (he may have responded “Way!,” but I was too giddy to recall). He put the pass on the necklace and put it around my neck. I felt like I was being knighted by the Queen of England, but it was much more significant than that. I thanked him profusely, offered him a bag of candy as a token of appreciation (my principal day job is working for an enormous chocolate company) wanked pretty pathetically on the Corvette a little and tried to record a soundclip (didn’t feel like blasting the way that guitar easily could for some reason, guess I was still reeling from my newfound honor), and decided to plug in that 6122-1959 to show that I actually could play the guitar. Just as I plugged it in and tuned it up, I heard the sound of a stereo CGP warming up a little. Bobby Gibson was starting early! “Step away from the Country Gentleman, sir” the voice inside my head said. So I grabbed the recorder, started a new session, and held it between the PA speakers. I missed his opening number, but (hopefully) caught all the other stuff. Bobby was cool, his playing tremendous, and after the second or third song he said “uh, there were a few mistakes in there, be sure to edit them out.” “I’ll do what I can,” I replied. After he played a couple of tunes, he said “Not bad seeing as I never played this guitar until a couple of minutes ago.
Joe showed a picture of Jamie, his right-hand-man, in the pre-show teasers, so when I spotted him I introduced myself to him and he made a statement he’ll probably regret: “Go ahead and plug in anything you like!” You don’t have to tell me twice. I sort of feel bad doing that to a guy as nice as Jamie, but this is Gretsch Ave. at NAMM. I can’t be held responsible. One thing I do feel bad is what happened right after I got the go-ahead to plug in. I went for the Stumpomatic. Now for whatever reason, probably high visibility, everything in Fenderland is plugged in with those cool white coiled Fender coiled cords. And the one plugged into the Executive dangled back behind the amp underneath, as it turned out, Joe C.’s backpack. So I started pulling it up like an anchor chain. It was a pretty long cord, and after a few yanks, it started to become comical. Until I reached the end of the cord. Then the rather large plug caught on Joe’s backback, and naturally, I pulled it harder. This caused the coiled cord to stretch, and when it finally pulled out from underneath it, the spring action of the coiled cord did what springs do when you stretch them and let go, they resolve to their natural state, like a B7 to an E. In this case, the E was the plug being propelled on the end of the cord, up into the bottom of the innocent Black Falcon hanging above it with a resounding “THWACK!” I felt my rating on the GDP decrement at least two points for that one. I hope all was forgiven, or at least that they didn’t see me. Somewhere in all this, I was noodling on the 6122-1959 and looked up to see a beaming Fred Gretsch. I smiled my s*-eating grin right back at him, happy to be “home.”
I have lots more to post, but I have to go walk the dog.
FG
Bobby Gibson 1
Bobby Gibson 2
Bobby Gibson 3
Bobby Gibson 4
Bobby Gibson 5
Bobby Gibson 6