I’m reading. The cover of my book catches the attention of the guy on the beach lounger next to me. “Ah… electric guitars! I build electric guitars, you know.” He speaks with a slight German accent. I turn toward him and, before I can even open my mouth, he pulls out his mobile phone—an iPhone I’ve never seen on the market—and begins a barrage of photos and videos showing the manufacturing stages. Beneath every piece sits a brand-new six-axis CNC machine, and the woods are so beautiful that Private Stock wouldn't even come close. At one point, the guy takes a theatrical pause while shooting me a mocking look: then he hits play.
In the video, you can see him tapping the top of a guitar with his knuckles, and the entire intro to “Little Wing” flows out of that piece of wood!
It’s too much! I try to react with the weapon of irony. “And… did you also build the three-masted ship moored here in the bay? The one you disembarked from this morning?” “No,” he replies nonchalantly, “I bought that with this year’s dividends. I’m the vice president of UBS.”
I go to the bar. “Waiter!” I call to the guy who arrives; he takes the order, and before leaving, he turns and says to me: “Actually, I’m not a waiter, I work here part-time. I’m a luthier and I sell online.” “Ah… right… sorry…” I say, as I choke on my drink.
At the airport gate, I’m sitting next to a guy who looks like he just arrived from Woodstock via time machine. He sees me looking at the tattered case he’s carrying, so I say to him: “Martin D18?” In response, he pulls out the most beautiful acoustic guitar I have ever seen. The rosette inlay starts at the soundhole and continues behind the headstock, wrapping around the back without interruption. “You like it? I made it.” “Oh… are you a luthier?” He replies that he is a biotechnology engineer in California, but he also has a degree in philosophy and builds guitars in his spare time. “I already sold this one for $15,000.”
I go outside and look for a taxi. There are so many people waiting and I absolutely cannot miss it. I reach over the heads of the crowd and, while waving my arms, I yell: “Luthier! Luthieeeer!”
The car stops next to me, I stick my head in the window, and at the wheel is Leo Fender, pre-CBS era, in a Hawaiian shirt. He looks at me blankly and says, speaking perfect Italian: “I’m not a luthier. I’m a radio repair technician!”
And at that point, I wake up, drenched in sweat.