We Are Aerials
Every Architect of Ruin

indie

Two years ago, I bought my first house. It wasn’t the way everyone said it would be. Didn’t feel like a huge life choice; I just dived in. I’d saved a bit of money and the place looked the part, so I just went for it. I really should’ve checked it better, but it worked out so, it’s all good. Some months later, I admitted to friends that I’d never been in the attic; I had no clue what it even looked like. They asked me about it for months and I kept joking that it was haunted until, despite not believing in such things, I almost convinced myself. Hell no, I’m not going up there.

Fast forward to October ‘22 and a few of them asked again. Again, I told them it was probably haunted. They decided we should have a night – them on the beer, me on cups of tea. We’d check it out. So, the night arrived, and they watched as I climbed the ladder (there was a ladder!) and flicked the switch (there was a light switch!). “There’s nothing in here,” I called, as they began to follow me up. Nothing but a creased-up pile of something in the corner.
“What’s that?”
I edged my way over minding my head on the beams. A battered soft case for an acoustic guitar. I wiped off some of the dust and mank (no shortage of either). The case wasn’t empty.

Unzipping it in the living room, it was no surprise the guitar was an electric. I already knew the body was too thin to be acoustic. Slowly, I pulled it.
“What the…?”
A Telecaster. Mexican. A slight sparkle on the red paintwork.
“Seriously?”
Still, it didn’t look right. A worrying gap between the neck and the body, and the strings were miles off the fretboard. but I could tune it. I played a couple of licks; jeez, it was banjaxed. I bent the G upwards, and my finger went right underneath (as in below) the D string. Brought it upstairs and plugged in.

Bridge pick-up, sweet. Rotten buzz off the middle position; neck pick-up: dead.

Still, I found an electric guitar in the attic. A Fender. Not a good one but a Fender. I thought about Paul Connolly, from The Wood Burning Savages, his heroic tales of guitar rescue from the clutches of hipster lamp-makers. I became obsessed with reviving the thing and brought it to a luthier. Got a new pick up and replaced the switch. Did his best with the neck but it still wasn’t right. Brought it to another luthier and he fixed it up good. It’s not the best guitar in the world; not well made, not well looked after, but once the luthiers were done with it, it sang. Some instruments just have a feel to them. Tim Henson of Polyphia calls it mojo. I don’t know if it’s a sentimental thing, or because I spent time and money on it, but this guitar has mojo. It started giving me songs almost the moment it was fixed. First Echo, then Theft, then Empire. Six months later, we have a new album. Attics are weird. And magic. And sometimes haunted.