twelve

Biddleston was not a big town, and it did not take us long to find Guitar Town. It was beyond the end of the High Street, past the banks and the ubiquitous Woolworth's, WH Smiths, Boots and the Post Office, where the roads narrowed and twisted and the buildings grew older and smaller and the shops sold fruit and clothes and second hand books and furniture.

Guitar Town shared a narrow, two-story building with a shop called Nirvana which sold bangles, joss-sticks and multi-coloured boots. From the outside you wouldn't think it had room for all the guitars it advertised. But nonetheless we were both quite excited as we went in, forced into single file by a carousel of song books that blocked the door.

The bottom floor was very cramped, with amps stacked on top of each other along one wall and a few new guitars hanging on the opposite wall. However there was nothing to indicate the shops vintage contents, except for a blues track playing through a couple of car speakers which were perched on a roof beam, trailing green and white wires. We both recognised the number from Tony's Blues Legends album.

"Howlin Wolf," said Tony.

"Built For Comfort," I said.

Then Tony saw a sign attached to the side of a rickety staircase, half hidden by a Marshall stack. Vintage Selection Upstairs. We grinned at each other in anticipation and climbed the stairs, which led up to an attic room of bare floor boards and wall-to-wall Gretschs, Hofners and Epiphones. From each guitar dangled a price tag and the year it was made 1955, 1963, 1968, 1959.

"Shit," I said. "I've died and gone to heaven."

Tony was speechless.

We wandered slowly past all those guitars, breath held, our voices reduced to whispers like we were in a library or museum. In the corner I spotted a Gibson ES335. Immaculate all original, said a cardboard sign slotted between the strings. Please ask before you touch.

I ran my fingers down the neck of the guitar, relishing how smooth and polished it felt.

"They've written this tag wrong," I said. "Either that or they've got a time machine. Look, it says 1999."

"That's the price," said Tony. I let go of the neck like it was red hot.

"Shit," I said. "Two thousand pounds. Shit. That must be the most expensive guitar ever."

"Not quite," said a voice, a deep, rich drawl like treacle oozing through gravel. The voice belonged to a man, whose swarthy, thirty-something face peered up the narrow stairwell, framed by a tangle of latin-black hair. The man had bushy black eyebrows which almost met in the middle, and dark, slightly oriental eyes which, shadowed by the stairway, seemed to disappear into sockets every bit as deep as his voice. The thing I remember most about that man's face were his lips. They were red, rubbery and huge like that Rolling Stones logo with the tongue. Tony said later that if the man's mouth hadn't been so big, he would have looked just like one of the Portuguese Taxi drivers that hurtled round the Algarve in mirror shades and old Mercedes. As it was he looked for all the world like a Mexican Mick Jagger (we never found out the man's real name, so forever after we referred to him as Mexican Mick).

As Mick ambled up the stairs, I saw he was wearing tight black jeans and a T-shirt with a big purple circle on it emblazoned with the legend: Internationally Famous Chicago Blues Centre; Hear Blues, Drink Booze, Talk Loud, You're Among Friends. He nodded at us and smiled in an unusually friendly kind of way. Generally our messy shoulder length hair and denims invoked hostility and disdain from our elders and betters. But, I guess in those surroundings our appearance gave us a kind of rock 'n'roll credibility, and Mexican Mick answered our questions in an agreeable manner.

"Are they all that expensive?" I asked, gesturing at the ES335.

"Oh, no," said Mick. "It's really only the Gibsons that are in the four figures bracket. Although the Gretschs are getting popular now. Actually the pre-sixty-four Gibsons I normally knock out for a grand. But this particular model's a solid body, and as you probably know, they're about as common as chicken teeth. To find one in perfect condition like this is quite exceptional."

He gazed at the guitar with a reverent affection.

"She's a real beauty isn't she?" he said. We both nodded.

"I suppose it's a Rolls Royce kind of guitar," I said.

"Yea, I suppose she is," said Mick.

"A bit out of my price range," I said.

"How much were you thinking of spending?" he asked.

"A couple of hundred," I speculated (although in all honesty I didn't even have two quid to my name, having spent the entirety of my savings on a half-share in Bob the Big Orange Bastard).

"Fine," said Mexican Mick. "Maybe you'd like to try out the Casino." He took a guitar down from the wall. "It's an Epiphone, which basically means it's a Gibson guitar, but it's not as expensive and a lot cooler."

"How do you mean?" I asked. And Mexican Mick launched into a lengthy explanation (which rather reminded me of my dad when he was talking about biscuits).

"Well Gibson's your rich boy's guitar. Like you said, a Rolls Royce. Epiphone's more your working man's instrument. Twenty years ago electric guitars were a lot more expensive than they are today and a top of the range Gibson was out of most people's reach. The Epiphone's weren't cheap either, but if you saved up and hustled a bit it was possible to get enough cash together to buy one.

Although the Epiphones were made in the Gibson factories they often featured smaller pick-ups and thinner bodies which gave them a distinctive sound, and actually a sound that, to my mind, is better suited to rock n' roll. Now, a lot of people think Epiphone has always been part of Gibson, but in fact they didn't actually take over the trademark until 1957. But that was pretty good timing, because, as you know, that was the year that rock n'roll took off big time.

During the early sixties sales started to really pick up and by the mid-sixties everyone was playing Epiphones, even the Beatles. And Gibson continued to churn them out in the States right through to 1970 when production was moved to the Far East. And then, as you're probably aware, the Strat started to become more popular thanks to a certain Mr Hendrix."

Mexican Mick held the Casino up to us as if he were showing off a new born baby and then continued.

"The post 1970's Epis are still quite nice guitars, but it's those built between '57 and '70 that are really worth having. This one's 1966. The pick ups up are the original single coil P90s. They're a bit pitted but the bodywork's unmarked and its got a superb neck on it comparable to any Gibson of that era. And the frets are surprisingly unworn. I guess the original owner didn't play it much. Machine heads have been replaced. I've think you've got to expect that on a guitar this age. The bridge is a replacement too, which is a bit of a shame, but you've still got the original trapeze tail piece there. Nice guitar. It's never going to be worth a fortune, but it should hold its value. I'll bring an amp up if you want to give it a whirl."

"Sure," I said, slightly breathless from Mexican Mick's impromptu lecture. "If you don't mind."

"Not at all," said Mick. He handed me the Casino and, fingers trembling, I gripped the neck for dear life lest I should drop it. "If you fancy a slightly fuller sound, there's a beat-boom Hofner Senator there for two four nine. That's a real sixties guitar. And if you're at all interested in a solid body there's a '64 Melody Maker which will cost you a little less. The body works not been treated too well but its quite nice for what it is."

Mick skipped down the stairs with a vigour that contradicted the casualness in his voice and dress. The whole staircase rattled and creaked like crazy. I feared that any moment the floor might collapse and us and all those vintage guitars would crash through to Nirvana below. Tony ran his fingers over the surface of the Casino, caressing the satin smoothness of the wood with nervous tenderness as if he were stroking the shoulder or thigh of a innocent lover.

"It's great isn't it," I said.

Tony nodded silently.

Mick clambered back upstairs whistling the tune to Heartbreak Hotel, and carrying a small Fender amplifier and a long red lead. He handed me one end of the lead and, fumbling slightly, I pushed it nervously into the jack socket.

"You'll have to perch yourself on the amp, I'm afraid," said Mick plugging the lead into it. "It's a bit cramped for chairs up here."

I nodded and ran my thumb across the open strings of the guitar, shivering shivered as the amplified sound reverberated through the silence.

"I keep telling myself I should find somewhere bigger," said Mick. "But, I suppose I just can't tear myself away from the old place."

"I like it," said Tony in a small voice. "Its nice up here."

"Good, well, happy playing," said Mick. "I'll be in the workshop downstairs. So, if you need anything just shout...loudly!" He smiled and jogged downstairs again, whistling.

The Epiphone had a beautiful mellow sound, especially with the tone turned down a little. I turned up the reverb on the amp and studiously picked out a sequence of jazzyish chords and my frown of concentration turned to an excited smile.

"Shit hot sound," I said.

"Lovely," murmured Tony.

"Here you have a go," I said and me and Tony carefully exchanged places. Tony sat on the amp and started to play one of the blues tunes he'd taught himself. For weeks I had witnessed a gradual progression in Tony's playing, due to all those hours he knelt in front of the amp. And I knew he was getting pretty good.

However, I guess, in the familiarity of my curtain and carpet muffled room, filled with the distractions of holiday and home, I had never properly listened to him play. It was not until I heard him sat there in that shop that afternoon with that Epiphone cradled on his lap, that I realised just how far his playing had progressed.

Beneath the certain gentleness of Tony's fingers the sound of the Casino flowed sweet and fresh as wood syrup. Minor sevenths swirled through the hollow maplewood curves like whirlpools of honey - warm, gold and melting into melodies you could almost taste.

To watch Tony play was to watch a magician who snatches silk flowers and white doves from the air. You saw the movements of Tony's hand and heard the guitar, yet somehow could not believe that such tiny childlike fingers could gather up from wood and steel such huge and colourful sounds.

There was a favourite song of Curtis Cline's that Tony always played. The song was called The Hands On The Clock and the way Tony played it you could almost hear Curtis Cline singing it, his voice unlocked like a spirit in my mind by the strength of the melody over those memorable chords.

Remember that time we went mad after midnight

Now you are gone

Do you recall that October afternoon?

Wrapped it golden round your finger like a wedding band

I wish these moments could last forever

Now you are gone

After a while Tony's playing drew Mexican Mick upstairs. He stood grinning, curious and amused, as he watched this shy, pale fifteen-year old drag and squeeze emotion from that guitar, able as the leather brown hands of any seasoned Delta bluesman. Tony was so caught up in his playing, he didn't notice Mexican Mick was there at first. When he finally looked up and realised he had an audience, he abruptly stopped, the spell broken.

"Sweet," said Mexican Mick. "Where did you learn to play like that?"

Tony gestured toward me with his hand.

"Pete taught me to start with," he said.

"Really?" said Mexican Mick looked at me with incredulity, unable to connect my unkempt awkwardness and acne with the sound he'd just heard.

"I listen to records too," said Tony. "Play along with them."

"Yea?" said Mexican Mick. "A bit of BB King by the sound of it and Elmore James, I guess."

Tony nodded.

"And Howlin Wolf and DB Daniels," said Tony.

"And Curtis Cline" I said, smirking.

"So, you lads are into Curtis Cline then?" asked Mexican Mick.

We nodded.

"Tony's bloody mad about him," I said.

"Really?" said Mexican Mick. "That's interesting actually. He was in here back in, lets see..." he paused to count on his fingers. "Must have been May, when he did his UK tour."

"What? Curtis Cline was here?" I said.

"Sure was," said Mick. "He was after a 1950s 335. Couldn't help him at the time unfortunately, but he was a nice chap. I think he had a go on the Casino as it happens."

"Wow," I said, wildly excited that I had played the same guitar as Curtis Cline. "Wow!"

Mick turned to Tony.

"You've got a very similar feel for the instrument," said Mick. "I think Curtis probably would have enjoyed listening to you play."

Tony looked embarrassed.

"I've only just started playing." said Tony.

Mick laughed.

"Watch out Eric Clapton," he said.

"Oh yea," I said sarcastically, a bit jealous of all the praise Tony was getting. "We've only done one gig. And that was a disaster.".

"Well, keep practising," said Mick. "You never know."

"Thanks," said Tony.

"Well," said Mexican Mick taking that guitar from Tony. "Is there anything you'd like to try?" Though from the way he said it you could tell he wanted us to say no.

"That's all right thanks," I said, politely.

"How much is this one," asked Tony, pointing to the 1966 Epiphone Casino that Mick had just taken from him.

"To you, two hundred," said Mick.

"OK," said Tony, nodding, "I'll take it." I thought he was joking.

"I haven't got the money on me," said Tony.

"I don't have any credit arrangements I'm afraid," said Mick seriously. "But if you like you can put down a deposit and then I'll put it round the back for you in its case and you'll have a month to get the cash together."

"He's joking," I said.

"I'm not" said Tony. He took a ten pound note from his wallet. "Is that enough for the deposit?"

"Fine," said Mick handing Tony the Epiphone. "Check it over whilst I go down and get my book, and if you're happy with it I'll write you out a receipt for the deposit. Then you'll have until the end of September to get the other hundred and ninety to me, and then it'll be all yours OK?"

"OK," said Tony, clasping the guitar with a foolish smile as Mick disappeared down stairs again.

"What are you doing?" I said.

"I'm buying the guitar," said Tony.

"You can't," I said. "You haven't got two hundred quid."

Tony shrugged.

"When he comes back up," I said. "Just tell him you don't want it."

"But I do want it," said Tony.

"Yea, sure," I said. "But where are you going to get that kind of money from?"

"I don't know," said Tony.

"You don't get your deposit back if you can't pay," I said.

"I know that," said Tony. "But I need a guitar like this."

"You need you head examined, more like," I said.

Despite my well-meant protests, when Mexican Mick returned with his receipt book Tony agreed to buy the guitar and handed over his ten pounds. He told Mick he'd see him soon, and I muttered that, 'he'd be lucky.'

After we'd left the shop we traipsed round Biddleston for a bit eating sandwiches and drinking Fanta. But there wasn't much to see, so we caught the next train home, Tony lost in daydreams of Curtis Cline and Epiphone Casinos and me going on at him about chucking away ten quid for nothing (and inwardly seething with unexpected bitterness, having suddenly realised just how much better than me at playing the guitar he had become - the flash git).