Guitar Conversions and the Improvised Secret Weapon

 Part Two: Musical MacGyvering and “ Sammy” the Piccolo

 
 "The best way to beat a problem is to make it work for you."
                                                                   Angus MacGyver

               
           Being a child of both the TV and computer age, it’s a miracle that my video-saturated brain generates any original content at all.  In my childhood, my father made it clear that he had nothing but powerful disdain for television and the pervasive influence of the programming that it broadcasted—indeed, he still refers to anyone who is overly transfixed by the screen as a “vidiot” (Frank Zappa would be proud). Yet, despite my father’s clear disapproval, and the fact that we even lived without a TV for years at a time during my upbringing (not once, but twice!), I still managed to consume more than my fair share.  As an adult, I am now tormented by a dichotomous relationship with the screen.  I remain embarrassingly overindulgent where screen time is concerned, yet I now share many of my father’s attitudes toward mainstream TV.  Thus, like an addict who continually fails in recovery, I am stuck in a perverse cycle of cheap gratification and self-loathing.  

Even so, knowing that we are inescapably shaped by our influences, I dare say that some of my time spent in front of the TV had a positive effect on me.  In fact, compared to modern content, the ‘80s TV culture was downright chalked full of wholesome role models!  Excluding superheroes and outright fantasy characters, my greatest aspiration as a child was to become some amalgam of a ninja, Michael Knight, and MacGyver.  It is possible that even my young self might have reluctantly acknowledged that becoming a lethal master-of-the-shadows whose best friend was a talking, autonomous, bulletproof supercar was a distant possibility. Yet, for all of absurdity of the circumstances he encountered while working for the altruistic Phoenix Foundation, the handsome, perfectly-coiffed, witty, optimistic, genius scientist, naturalist that was Angus MacGyver seemed totally plausible.  Indeed, there probably wasn’t a boy in America that didn’t aspire to rival MacGyver’s talents when armed with only his trusty, deceptively versatile paper clip.  

Yet, looking back, I think one of the primary reasons that I found the character of MacGyver so relatable is that he reminded me of my father, who I still very much admire. Throughout my childhood, my father rarely missed an opportunity to instruct, be it through a creative exercise, memory games, or exposure to the natural world.  On their face, these lessons were delivered with a distinctive whimsical humor that delighted and engaged my young mind, but there was always a powerful undercurrent of higher principals working below the surface: knowledge isn’t just useful, it’s cool; skills require practice to acquire; doing the right thing is always the best path in life; and, most importantly, a prepared and creative mind can improvise its way out of almost any problem.  

In the end, as dazzling as the TV gallantry of MacGyver might have been to me as a child, my father’s exploits in mechanical improvisation were far more impressive—they were, after all, real!  For example, there was the near-mythic family vacation incident where Dad performed some sort of grease monkey alchemy to successfully graft non-standard parts onto the engine of our ’86 Saab 900, which had conveniently decided to explode outside of Augusta, GA…, on a 100+ degree Sunday afternoon…, that also happened to be July 4^th.  (For those not familiar with the make, Saabs were internationally admired for their fictional air-conditioning and Cubist engine designs).  We were fortunate enough to get the car to limp into the parking lot of a Napa Auto Parts store that had just closed.  The man inside (possibly a Phoenix Foundation operative) took pity on us and stayed late to sell my dad some parts, loaned us some tools, and allowed my father to work on the car underneath the awning behind the building.  After a couple hours of exasperating work, my over-heated but intrepid father had fixed the car and off we went into the night to end the first episode of Petsch Summer Vacation 1994: The Road to Charleston.

Working alongside my dad here at Maple Street Guitars, I’ve been afforded many opportunities to witness creative solutions to the myriad challenges one can encounter when working on guitars (and crumbly old retail buildings, for that matter).  Not surprisingly, my own zeal for solving guitar-related problems germinated as a result of all that I observed.  However, unlike my disciplined and practical father, I am much more prone to artistic flights of fancy. Thus, I excel at the inception of problems that don’t need to exist at all and that then require the expenditure of ridiculous amounts of energy to solve—romantic people call such efforts “projects,” where sensible people refer to them as “wastes of time” and/or “money pits.”  Thankfully, my romantic impulses are tempered with some experience, a healthy dose of diligence, and standard of excellence, all imparted by my father’s example. Thus, I’ve succeeded in cobbling together some unusual and highly useful “secret weapon” guitars, like the Martin D-12-20 8-string baritone conversion featured in part one of this series. 

Without question, the most diminutive member of my stable of oddball guitars is “Sammy,” the electric piccolo.   Sammy began his life somewhere across the Pacific as a Samick Greg Bennet Avion MAV-1.  He was just one of an untold number of inexpensively stamped out production line analogues, all intended to inspire some young beginner while simultaneously filling that child’s mother with dread as visions of a Mötley Crüe future play out in her mind with each distorted note.  Alas, guitars of this nature are usually destined to be dust collectors. Be it the lackluster (or non-existent!) factory setup work, fundamental defects (like poor bridge placement, which results an instrument that is impossible to tune), or just the fickleness of their average 4-8 year old recipient, most of these GSOs (Guitar-Shaped Objects) prove less than inspiring as an actual instrument and are quickly cast aside. Their abandonment might come as an initial relief for any mother afflicted with anxieties over their child’s potential heavy metal life trajectory. Yet, invariably that same mother is eventually beset with perturbation stemming from the fact that their child’s GSO represents a wasted expense and a failed effort.  So, soon they darken the door of a guitar store like ours, aggravated and ready to sell off whatever guitar little Johnny ignored.  Of course, if we are being fair, no one is to blame in this situation—the unreasonable playability challenges of the average GSO are a reason to quit from the start, and most parents are ignorant of such matters when shopping for a child’s first guitar.  In any event, though we do not usually deal in such guitars, Sammy was purchased for a paltry sum one day from just such a mother, whose persistence made it clear that she simply wasn’t leaving the building with the guitar! 

While inspecting Sammy in his original state, I was surprised to find that he was a fairly decent guitar, despite his humble origins.  Moreover, there was something so familiar about the guitar that I just couldn’t shake the feeling that it somehow belonged with me.  I quickly realized that this neglected Samick was very similar to one of my all-time favorite secret weapons, a Tacoma P1 Papoose, which is a piccolo guitar with a 19 ¼” scale (these are tuned A-A, as if a regular guitar were capoed at the fifth fret).  The prospect of having an electric version of my beloved Tacoma was very exciting, particularly as Tacoma is now defunct (oh, how we miss those guitars!) and the original solid body Papooses are very rare.  So, to check my hunch, I lined up the two guitars at their respective nuts and compared the placement of the frets (for everyone’s reference, this is a pretty reliable way to make a quick comparison of scale length).  Sure enough, the fret placement was identical!  Once again, the improvised secret weapon guitar project wheels began to turn….

Now, before getting started, I followed old MacGyer’s example and thought back to my high school courses in Non-Linear Guitar Project Algebra, and remembered that there is a general formula to determine the actual cost of any project involving a very inexpensive guitar, like Sammy. One should simply divide the product of the original cost of the instrument (X) raised to the power of the number of beers consumed in the course of the project () and the square root of the sum of the cost of parts (P) plus medical expenses incurred (μ) by hours spent actually using the instrument (h), as represented here:

As is obviously demonstrated by this easy- to-understand algebraic principal, the actual cost of the project is an ever-diminishing trend as the number of hours spent playing the finished product increase. After some quick calculations, I determined that the expense was worthwhile and began to assemble the parts to transform Sammy into something truly special. 

From an objective standpoint, the two most significant factors in the cheapness of entry-level electric guitars are their hardware and their electronic components—the bodies and necks are often pretty good. Given the importance of tuning stability in general, I always recommend investing in quality tuning machines; but, in the case of short scale instruments, where the scale itself is even more revealing of any tuning disparity, high quality tuning machines are even more appreciated.  Subsequently, Sammy received some Gotoh mini Delta 510 tuners—laughably, these alone equate to his original street price.  

Sammy’s electronic components were functional but completely bottom-of-the-barrel in terms of quality, as expected.  After gutting the electronics, I prepped the cavities in carbon shielding paint before installing the new electronics, which included: a Seymour Duncan SH-4 JB pickup, a Switchcraft Jack, a CTS mini 500k pot for tone, and a push-push volume pot for enhanced secret weapon series/parallel coil function.  Incidentally, it was the suggestion of Jake Sharp (the manager of our repair department) that I choose series/parallel function over a coil split, and I now agree that it is a more attractive modification as it allows for more overdrive possibilities.  Next, I installed a Gotoh stop tailpiece, as well as a Schaller roller bridge that I had in the parts graveyard.   Naturally, the Schaller roller bridge was missing its threaded posts and adjustment wheels; and, being a high-quality German-made product, replacements were not readily handy! But, with a little MacGyver/Petsch improvisation and diligence, I was ultimately able to retrofit some alternate posts and adjustment wheels such that the bridge fit and functioned perfectly.  

The final obstacle to Sammy’s triumphant rebirth was the original nut, which had very tight string displacement/spacing and which was forged from some sort of terrible black plastic (possibly recycled remnants of a child’s collection of burnt army men).  The Tacoma Papoose that was my benchmark had a comfortable 1 ¾” nut, but Sammy’s was only 1 11/16”.  Subsequently, I wasn’t able to match the string spacing of the Tacoma exactly; but, by expanding the string spacing in general and then biasing the nut slots (i.e., cutting them to make certain strings, like the 6^th and 5^th, ever so slightly closer together) I was able to get very close.  

With his new hardware, hot-rodded electronics, and new custom bone installed, Sammy was reborn as an electric Piccolo guitar and proudly joined the ranks of the Improvised Secret Weapon Division of my guitar collection.  All it took was a little ingenuity, Non-Linear Guitar Project Algebra, patience and the willingness to give a neglected guitar a chance to have a new lease on life.  I’d like to think that MacGyver would give this adventure a thumbs up. – L. Petsch, April, 2022