I don’t build perfect guitars.

That might sound obvious, but I’ve wrestled with the idea of perfection—a lot. “Perfect” is a strange word. It’s subjective, a moving target, never quite within reach. And honestly, if I ever saw one of my guitars as perfect, that would be the end of it for me.

I don’t build guitars to get rich. I don’t dream of a hundred-piece collection (though that does sound like a fun room to walk around in). No—I’m simply addicted. Addicted to the feel of wood coming to life under my hands, the resonance of a body finding its voice, the way a guitar grows into its own over time.

And the way I build? No two are ever the same. Every piece of wood has its own character, its own story to tell. My models aren’t rules, just starting points—canvases for me and my clients to paint on together.

To build something “perfect” would require a rigid, repeatable, foolproof system. We call those systems factories. And yet, even factory-built guitars aren’t perfect—far from it. Even the most convincing “Perfectly Crafted” instruments do not always have the mojo.  

So, I don’t chase perfection. Instead, I chase soul.

I pour everything I have into each guitar—every detail, every decision, every moment. And when it feels done, I let it be done. Maybe there’s a tiny finish swirl or a pencil mark hidden inside the body. Those things could drive me crazy—but they don’t matter. Because what truly matters, what you’ll feel when you pick it up, is the soul of the instrument. Maker’s marks and all.

And here’s the thing about soul—you can’t design it. Neither can Martin, Gibson, or any other big-name builder. Soul isn’t engineered; it’s born. It comes from love, effort, and care.

Beyond craftsmanship, attention to detail, and the best materials, it’s this intangible nourishment that gives my instruments their identities. Human hands shaping once-living materials into something that will live again.

Maybe this all sounds like a bunch of floofy nonsense to you. If so, these might not be your kind of guitars. But for me—and for many other luthiers—this is the truth. And I believe that for many of us, this is the reason we build. 

A Guitar That’s Waiting for You

When I pick up a guitar, I think about the person who built it. Some guitars, especially older ones, seem to carry memories, scars, and songs within them. When I run my fingers across the sides, I watch the light flicker through the thousands of wood fibers, I feel the strings and hear them talking. Sometimes it feels like the instrument is trying to communicate. Maybe that’s why so many Nashville players are drawn to vintage instruments. This town is full of some of the best musicians in the world, and I learn from them whenever I can.

I wish I could bottle up that vintage magic and inject it into my own guitars. But the final ingredient in that recipe? That part, I can’t add.

That part is you.

You, and time.

You have to play the guitar. Break it in. Scratch it. Maybe even break something and call me up to fix it. Let it move with you, shape your sound, take on your story. You could do that with any guitar.

But if you want to own something made with soul—something crafted by hands that care as much about the heart of an instrument as its craftsmanship—then I’d love to build one for you.

It’s not just about owning a guitar. It’s about being part of the story.