The last thing I needed was another electric guitar. I was seventeen, just out of school,

and paying off the hire purchase on a two-pickup mint green Gretsch Anniversary

(the same model I'd seen Brian Jones play on Ready Steady Go) but there it was in the window of

Berry's Pianos in Edmonton, North London: a Hagstrom in midnight blue sparkle finish
with a white plastic simulated mother of pearl back and neck, what looked
like a tarnished gold 'speaker' between the pickups and push button control
panel. An unlikely prize, maybe, but I was in love.
My only memory of seeing one before was in a publicity shot of top Swedish
instrumental combo The Spotnicks all beaming awkwardly into the camera
whilst sporting spacesuits and large glass fishbowls on their heads. The
image stuck for some reason.
I walked inside and ran my fingers up and down the neck and for a few glorious moments my fumbling hands

contained Hubert Sumlin's dark brown fingers as they caressed the bleached maple fretboard of his Stratocaster behind
Howlin' Wolf's terrifying wail – an unforgettable performance witnessed a year before at The Cooks Ferry Inn in Edmonton.
I handed over my twenty pounds and walked out of the store  glowing with a
guilty thrill,  knowing I'd have to hide it from my mother who thought I was
out looking for work, not spending even more money that I didn't have.
It stayed in it's case for a couple of years and, I swear, Mum never got to
discover it hidden by the piles of magazines under the bed.
 Soon I took up with an odd performance art/prog rock extravaganza  called
"Silly Balls" which was directed by and featured  David Bowie's mime mentor
Lindsey Kemp. I dug the Hagstrom out from its mothballs and, decked out as a brick wall with ivy trimmings,

I struck heroic poses centre stage. One day without even telling me, my newly-acquired chum
and fellow ‘sillyballster’ Bob Suffolk upped and had the tuning heads changed to Grovers, which, while
they were superior to the originals, threw the whole guitar off balance and
reduced the value by several hundred pounds. Still, why should I
worry, I never even played the thing. It was, quite simply, a bizarre piece of
art and an object of mystery to me.
( I'd always been fascinated by how this instrument looked the way it did
and then I read in this august mag that founder Albin Hagstrom had been
importing accordians through the 30's and 40's and, with the advent of
Rock'n'Roll, started using the the same materials for making guitars!)
It wasn't until I moved out from my parents' suburban bungalow to a gloomy
run-down 'student house' a mere five minute walk away -  ("Right. I don't
have to take your nagging and all that crap anymore. I'm leaving for good
and THAT'S IT! See you on Thursday with all my dirty washing") - that I
was able for the first time to tentatively remove my glittery prize from its
battered case and hang it on the wall. It created the only focal point in an
otherwise depressingly-Spartan teenage room: a glimpse of 50's glamour
redolent of greasy quiffs, pink-pegged slacks and hooped skirts utterly at
odds with the late 60's world of surly, dope-smoking non-communicants with
lank hair and loon pants.
It was only when I saw the sleeve to Roxy Music's second album that I realised  that others were also hip

to the guitar's ultimate purpose. There they all were - Bryan Ferry, Eno and co., made up and blow-dried to

within an inch of their lives, all sexily pawing these emerald sparkle Hagstroms.

 This was no guitar; it was an adornment - the peroxide floozy of the
rock world flashing it all up front for all she was worth.  Something to be
seen with in seamy places but you'd be damned if you’d take it out and
play it seriously in public.
In the mid-70's I became lead singer and guitarist with The Fabulous Poodles

and out she'd come, my 'bottle blonde' posing purely for publicity purposes. (Ray Fenwick, former lead guitarist with the "Time Seller" period Spencer Davis Group saw one of these shots and offered me 200 quid on the spot for the guitar but I
refused.)
Over the years I've moved many times and the Hagstrom is always with me and
never will I pick it up to lovingly bend the strings like I do with my
ancient Strat and Tele. Its wretched 'chicken-wire scratch' will not be
heard emanating from any amplifier of mine. It's even staring at me as I
write this piece and we'll probably be stuck together for good now.
 A marriage made in blue sparkle purgatory.

 

GUITAR MAGAZINE MARCH 2002