Guitars are strange. They attract, or harbor uncanny coincidences, the kind that render their witnesses mute and wondering what’s really going on in this particular universe. So it is with the white electric guitar I’m using on this current tour of the UK. It was made in Buenos Aires by one of the best luthiers I’ve ever encountered, Daniel Cáceres. Years ago, when I needed some work done on an old Martin, everyone I consulted suggested Daniel. They were not wrong. He is as skilled, musical, and knowledgeable a craftsman as you’ll find. If he were working in New York or Los Angeles, it would be impossible to get an appointment with the guy. While he was examining the patient (with headlamp and dental mirror), I asked if he had lying around any guitars he'd made. He said that he did, pointing to a rectangular, hard-shell case across the room. It was a special order for a dentist. But the dentist was somehow displeased. He had returned it the week before. Very easily I might never have seen this guitar.
Plugging it into Daniel's little workshop amp, my first impression was that dentist knew nothing about guitars. Second impression: I must have it. But I'm getting ahead of myself. The story begins earlier. Not long after moving to Argentina in 2000, my family and I took a trip to the Andes, to a small town called El Bolsón, about 75 miles south of Bariloche. At that time El Bolsón still had the reputation it had earned in the late 70s and early 80s as a refuge for political dissidents, artists of all kinds, and anyone hiding out from the Junta's murderous goons. And it was much more difficult to get to. The road was “unimproved”, un camino de ripio at best. I suppose the military decided it wasn’t worth the effort. Elsewhere in Argentina, they were busy disappearing tens of thousands. Not in El Bolsón. Eventually the generals were humiliated, defeated, and judged. Democracy returned to Argentina, while El Bolsón retained much of its counter-cultural identity. Many of the young men and women who settled there in those years ended up staying on, creating a vibrant artistic and intellectual community. The road got paved. People started going there for vacations, or buying little parcels for a someday cottage. It became a destination, both domestic and international, for mochilleros (backpackers), climbers, white-water rafters, and people like us. We loaded the whole operation into a small Volkswagen and set out from Buenos Aires, crossing the Provinces of La Pampa, Neuquén, and finally Río Negro—a journey of a thousand miles and change. At Bariloche we turned left onto a much improved Route 40 and wound down into the basin of El Bolsón. Towering above on our right was the last range before reaching the border with Chile; on our left, that great rock of a mountain, Piltriquitron. On the final descent into the valley I noticed a sign: en Venta. For sale.
Not that I was looking. I just notice these things. It's an affliction. A week later, after we’d trekked up to the Chilean border station (a bungalow in a sheep meadow), after we’d climbed Piltriquitron and swum in the glacial waters of the Río Azul and the Quemquemtreu, after we’d driven over to Cholila to see Butch Cassidy’s last hold out—after all of that and more, we went into town for ice cream. Strolling the main drag, we happened to walk past a real estate agency. There among all the lotes, estancias and chalets was the plot of land we had passed on the way into town. I really had no intention of pursuing this. But the real estate agent wouldn't hear of it. He insisted on taking me out there. I was this close to saying no. But I went, just to see. Descending from his pickup, it didn’t take long to conclude that the place wasn’t right, wedged as it was between the highway and the Río de los Repollos (River of Cabbages). And besides, I was in no position. I wasn't even looking. I swear! I was wasting his time. But my host insisted we walk around anyway. The river was lovely. I imagined fly fishing, then remembered I hate fishing. I imagined runaway trucks careening over the guardrail into our backyard. I also imagined flooding, evidence of which I could see in the way some of the grass lay. Standing there, I wonder why this place had ever grabbed my attention to begin with. But I also noticed dozens of fallen trees—large trunks that looked like they’d been there a while. I asked the agent if he knew the species. He did: nogal, walnut. There had been a small grove. It fell into neglect because of its proximity to the improved road. Eventually, the trees went over on their own, perhaps due to flooding. The agent drove me back to town. I forgot all about that parcel between Route 40 and the river. Move ahead ten ten years. I'm in Daniel’s workshop in Buenos Aires—playing that Strat, growing more and more impressed. I ask about its components. — Pickups? — Fender, he responded. Texas Specials [since switched out]. — Neck? — Maple. A friend brought the blank from the US. I carved it myself. — Fingerboard? — Brazilian rosewood. — Body? — Walnut. Walnut? Walnut is an odd (though not unheard of) choice for a solid body electric guitar. I would’ve expected alder, ash, spruce, or even mahogany. — Interesting choice, I said. Why walnut? — A friend found a stash of good-sized trunks, fallen. They’d been curing for ages. — Oh really. Where? — In Patagonia. — Where? — In the mountains. — Where? — Río Negro. — Where exactly? — El Bolsón. — Let me guess: on the left, heading into town, between the highway and the River of Cabbages. I was holding in my hands a guitar built from a slice of wood cut from one of those fallen trunks. We sat there in silence communing with the strangeness, the cosmic unlikeliness. Hamlet’s line occurred to me: “There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy”. But I knew I'd make a mess of the translation. And it was too much commentary anyway. We sat in silence for a while. But the world of cause and effect was calling us back. Said Daniel in his quiet, considered voice, Qué cosa más insolita.
Wow! Incredible story!
Quite a story.! And now I will know more than 99% (?) of the audience at Greystones, tonight.....