Guitar gods

No, not this one.

The observant will have noted a certain thematic similarity to another post. But herein, I come to praise the genre, not to bury it.

Specifically, I come to sing (ok, to type) the praises of what is quite possibly the coolest remaining music store in the known universe. The House of Guitars, on Titus Avenue in Rochester NY, is more than just a throwback to a bygone era. It is an icon, a testament to long hair, muscle shirts and anyone who's ever held a rock band fantasy.

In fact, I wouldn't be at all surprised if it was the inspiration for this.

Rochester is a city that's seen its share of hard economic times. Like most of the US rust belt, it began faltering a generation ago with the decline of manufacturing. That descent was hastened, no doubt, when Kodak - once the city's primary industrial employer, and itself a pillar of not just its own industry but US society - missed the boat on the digital photography revolution.

As you approach the House of Guitars - or HOG, to its fans - you can see the evidence quite plainly. Many stores are boarded up; few pedestrians walk the street; and what were clearly once other types of businesses have become fast-food restaurants and other detritus of the disposable society.

The front of the building is up a huge flight of stairs, flanked on either side by windows boasting drum sets, guitars and other musical instruments for sale. Even from outside, you can hear the tell-tale sign of budding axemen, wailing and flailing on Lynyrd Skynyrd, Cream, Boston, Jimi Hendrix - you know the roll call.

You walk in to what the practice room at Madison Square Garden must look like. Instruments of every size, description, colour and sound are arrayed throughout a room that is a claustrophobic nightmare. Not just the standard stringed beauties, mind you - mandolins, balalaikas, probably even the odd ukulele and quite possibly a shoe box with elastics. People meander, observe, stop to practice and then move on. It is almost more of a social experience than a retail outlet.

Upstairs is the sound equipment - amplifiers (Marshall and others) - mixing boards, and even a few electronic gizmos, likely due diligence more than anything.

But two flights down is the magnetic force that keeps drawing me back. The whole lower level is given over to recorded music and related paraphernalia - CDs, DVDs, record albums (remember them?), and concert gear. Lots and lots of concert gear. Some of it vintage (read: used), much of it looking like the wardrobe department from the Woodstock documentary.

To be candid, the place is a dung heap. The music is arranged (to use the word loosely) in roughly alphabetical order. Stuff is strewn hither and yon, and you're as likely to find what you're looking for under the bin in which it belongs as in it. If you ask the staff where something is, or whether it's in stock, you're likely to get a non-committal, "It's somewhere over there, if we have it."

Normally when I go, I feel obligated to buy something guitar-based. It seems only fitting. Over the years, I've bought Eric Clapton, Mark Knopfler, Buddy Guy, the Yardbirds and a whole host of others. This time, partly to test the joint's commitment to music made in this century, I went in looking for the soundtrack from Freedom Writers, a dreadful piece of racist Hollywood bumph with a rippingly good hip-hop score.

Computerization came late to this place, and grudgingly. But come it has; a helpful pre-teen on my latest visit was not only able to search the title I requested on what was probably a Commodore 64; he then ascended a step ladder and retrieved the sole copy from what appeared to be the rafters. Yes, it's true. This store, whose clientèle wouldn't know hip-hop from hip dysplasia, actually had this very obscure title (so obscure, in fact, that iTunes - which now claims to be the single largest music retailer in the US - didn't have it).

It felt good to know that HOG - however creaky and hoary it might be - was unafraid to make this timid, tentative gesture to the nether regions of its comfort zone. The truth is, hoary and creaky are the charm of the place. But no store can stay in business forever without at least a nod to changing tastes.

My first trip to HOG was when I was 17 years old. I bought a copy of ELO's Out of the Blue. It was 30 years before I would go back and, sadly, be relegated to a best of ELO, the original title being unavailable. But in 30 years, nothing much had changed in the place. I'm pretty sure it hadn't even been dusted.

But that's ok. In the end, the dust is also part of the experience, man.

Comments

[Theresa H]

Sounds like a place Rob's gotta see.

You can visit the other (wii-based) "house of guitars" in our basement when you visit this summer. A pointless timewaster, but as pointless timewasters go, it wasn't bad...