By Michael Austin
Every music shop has a familiar species of customer: the man standing ten feet from a gleaming new instrument, gazing at it with the reverence normally reserved for stained glass, newborn babies, and perfectly smoked brisket. He picks it up, plays three glorious notes, then abruptly sets it down as if it has begun transmitting his location to his spouse. “I’m just looking,” he says, although everyone knows he has mentally named it, toured with it, and selected the corner of the bedroom where it will definitely not fit.
The fear is not unreasonable. At home, the arrival of a new guitar, banjo, fiddle, mandolin, trumpet, or mysterious pedal-shaped object may trigger questions. These questions often begin with “Is that new?” and mature rapidly into “How much was it?” The experienced musician understands that these are not requests for information. They are oral examinations covering household budgeting, storage capacity, personal integrity, and why the water heater continues to make that noise.
Yet upgrading an instrument is never mere shopping. It is always undertaken for the love of God, family, and country. The logic is airtight. A better instrument produces a sweeter sound; a sweeter sound uplifts the soul; an uplifted soul becomes more patient with children, more useful at neighborhood gatherings, and more likely to play “America the Beautiful” in tune. Frankly, refusing the upgrade could be interpreted as a failure of civic responsibility.
The family benefits are equally obvious. A handcrafted acoustic guitar is cheaper than a boat, quieter than a motorcycle, and much less likely than a golf club membership to remove its owner from the house for six hours every Saturday. It is, therefore, not an expense but a strategic domestic investment. This point can be strengthened by casually mentioning that vintage instruments “hold their value,” provided nobody asks for charts, receipts, or examples from your actual collection.
Sometimes, of course, this love must be demonstrated through what diplomats call a phased introduction. The new instrument may enter the home under cover of a blanket, spend a short spiritual retreat behind the winter coats, and emerge weeks later with the confident air of something that has “always been there.” This maneuver belongs firmly to comedy, not relationship counseling: hiding major purchases is a splendid way to turn a musical duet into a courtroom solo. Still, the image of a grown man tiptoeing past the laundry room with a tuba deserves its place in folklore.
Shop employees witness every stage of the ritual. There is the reconnaissance visit, the return visit “for strings,” the lengthy phone call conducted beside the drum kits, and the final moment when the buyer asks whether the case can be disguised as something practical. A vacuum cleaner, perhaps. A rake. One gentleman may even request a receipt reading “essential home maintenance.” We decline, but we admire the imagination.
The wisest players eventually discover a simpler technique: conversation. Explain what the instrument means, agree on a budget, sell something unused, and invite the household to participate in the excitement. This lacks the suspense of smuggling a cello through a basement window, but it has advantages—sleep, trust, and continued access to the kitchen. A spouse may even say yes, especially when reminded that the instrument will inspire worship, strengthen family bonds, and preserve the republic. Timing helps. Do not make this speech while the washing machine is leaking.
So when you see a nervous man in the shop embracing a new instrument like a sailor greeting land, be kind. He is not buying another toy. He is answering a higher calling—one with spruce, brass, maple, valves, frets, or an alarming number of cymbals. He may pause at the door, rehearsing his explanation. He may ask whether we have a plain brown bag large enough for a double bass. But deep down he knows the truth: love sometimes sounds like music, and sometimes it sounds like the garage door opening very, very quietly.
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