I want to fuck my tube amp. It's that simple. It was made for the Fender company somewhere ... who knows where? Mexico? California? Indonesia? Somewhere southeast of where I live. Warmer, wetter. More indecent.
Just like the amp. I have a problem, I like spending money I shouldn't on guitars. Not even guitars that I can one day sell and recover .... no. Cheap guitars. Mexican and Korean guitars. Fender. Paul Reed Smith. Epiphone. Burns. They're probably made at the same factories.
So I have this Blues DeLuxe, it's wrapped in tweed. No one cares about it's history, it could have been drenched with anthrax or have a brick of coke taped inside. It's just a knocked-around barroom waittress of an amp.
It sounds beautiful, when you use the right patch cords (Planet Waves). This is how gear-sluts talk, by the way. Anyhow, you know:
WARM FUCKING TUBE TECHNOLOGY. That moment when you peel off a few notes, like a pimp blowing a roll in Vegas, and you hear it coming back at you from the speaker, all warm and rich and silvery, like some little puddle of mercury you shouldn't touch but you want to dip your tongue into. I live for the guitar. Live for it.
