Alcatraz

Occasionally I peruse the internet in search of inspiration. Lately I have been checking out other luthiers’ websites in an attempt to gather ideas for updates to my own site. I’ve begun to notice a pattern. Inevitably there is a photo of the builder in a spotless workshop. Often he is standing in front of an immaculately organized workbench full of expensive chisels and other hand tools. I’m always envious. Since the day I began to dream about becoming a guitarmaker I have envisioned working in the type of shops I see on the web. Perfectly organized, full of light, perhaps poised peacefully in a picturesque valley, gazing up through the mist to a majestic mountaintop. Or, Maybe nestled on the third floor of some old industrial building in a rough but up and coming neighborhood close to heart of downtown. I envisioned musicians coming and going. Downstairs, a quirky coffee shop staffed by cute artistic baristas with tattoos. I’m sure that there are a few Luthiers who have managed to make this kind of romantic vision into reality, I am not one of them.

During one of my recent excursions into the world wide web, I stumbled across video of a young builder peacefully assembling one of his acoustic guitars. His jigs and fixtures were beautifully crafted, and he deftly fit the top and back to his instrument with a quiet grace. I have always aspired to work with this careful and calm precision. In my mind this attitude has always been the trademark of a professional at work, but try as I might I never seem to quite make it to that peaceful place. It’s possible that something way down deep in my psyche thrives on chaos and is only motivated by terror. I’m pretty sure that way back at the dawn of time, when the first bit of ooze slurped it’s way onto tierra firma my amoeba self sat on it’s amoeba couch marveling “Wow! Check out the big brain on Jimmy! He just pulled himself out of the water! How awesome is that!” Perhaps it was only when an evolved ‘Jimmy’ returned with an intent to eat me that I began to contemplate my own evolutionary trajectory. I don’t know. What I do know is, unlike the young internet luthiers, I usually make a huge mess as I work. My shop is embroiled in a constant cycle of being cleaned and immediately messed up.
I have affectionately named my current shop Alcatraz. Not because I feel imprisoned there, but because it is a windowless, cinderblock cube devoid of humor and inspiration. It sits behind a pool hall in the parking lot of an antiquated strip mall west of downtown Raleigh. In the mornings, when I pull into the parking lot, I am occasionally greeted by a quasi-homeless man named Waldi. He is part of a colorful cast of characters that frequent the parking lot. I imagine it as a kind of strange sit-com. “ Oh Waldi”...Thumbs up...Wink...Freeze Frame...Roll Credits.
I am unsure of Waldi’s age. My guess is that he is in his late fifties. I often encounter him perched on a small retaining wall at the back of the parking lot reading the morning paper and sipping his breakfast from a 40oz bottle of Steel Reserve. Waldi once told me that he bought an authentic Rolex from a man in a bar for 10 dollars, only to lose it a few days later in a bus station somewhere in Idaho. How quickly greatness slips through our fingers. What I’ve gleaned from my occasional conversations with Waldi is that he speaks with a German accent and was at one time a Porsche mechanic-probably a fairly good one. He’s a smart guy, but a man over powered by his vices, and left behind by the world.

Each morning as a make my way from my parking space to the steel front door of Alcatraz, I’m careful to step around broken beer bottles and the assorted debris from late night pool hall traffic. In many ways this shop is not unlike all of the other shops I have been in. It’s hot in the summer, cold in the winter, surrounded by chaos and the occasional spat of illegal activity. A far cry from the peaceful mountain or trendy industrial chic of my imagination. During the summer months the air conditioner in Alcatraz occasionally clogs with dust and will back up draining all of the water down the inside wall of the shop. The fix is to vacuum out the drain with a shop vac. One afternoon as I dragged the vacuum and extension chord around the back of the building, I found Waldi asleep behind the air conditioner. I paused, not wanting to wake him, but eventually proceeded with my plan to clear the drain. To my surprise, the howling roar of the machine had no effect on Waldi. It was only after checking to make sure his chest was moving that I was sure he wasn’t dead.

I’m not sure how the young luthiers I’ve seen online afford such amazing workspaces and tools. I’m also not sure how they’ve had time and money to build the hundreds of guitars their websites say they’ve produced. My current theory is that there is rich aunt, trust fund, or lottery money that fuels their enterprise. But, I suppose it could also be that they’ve worked with a tenacity and determination which far surpasses my own.
Suddenly there seems to be an ominous shadow over my comfortable amoeba couch in my quiet tide pool. On occasion when I encounter Waldi in the amidst of his morning rituals, I don’t feel that far removed from him. I can feel how the relentless pursuit of some imaginary “perfection” can wear a person out.

Perhaps, I should clean up Alcatraz once again.