Why Build Guitars?

A musical instrument is a tool, but tools can be profound and powerful objects. Tools let creative people use up a little less effort on the medium, so they can put a bit more toward the art. For guitars, when all the right pieces come together, and everything fits nicely, they can become portals–a bridge to something greater, something that feels alive. 

I’ll never forget the first time I experienced an instrument like that. It was 2016, and I was just a high school sophomore visiting the Martin Guitar factory in Nazareth, Pennsylvania, with my woodworking class. I was pretty lucky to be there, and even luckier to find a Martin 000 custom shop reissue hanging on the wall. It had this dark, moody, cherry burst finish that stopped me in my tracks, that guitar absolutely floored me. It was not only the moment I had with that sensational instrument, but it was the context of having just seen the passion, attention to detail, and craftsmanship behind it. From that moment forward every time I held a guitar my mind drifted off to the people who built it.

What struck me most about that guitar wasn’t its volume, or its aesthetics, or even its neck profile—though those things were all incredible. No, what took me by surprise was how it made me play. It wasn’t just that it sounded good; it had its own voice, its own identity. It guided my hands, it played itself. I’ve never forgotten about that guitar, and I’ve never forgotten the way it felt to leave it there either. 

That moment stuck with me, but it would be years before I could build something like it. I’ve romanticized that guitar so much, I may go on never truly feeling like I’ve built anything as good. My first guitar, made that same year in high school, was rough. But damn, I had fun building it. At the start I did think It would be incredible, in a way, it sorta was.. but not the sort I had imagined. I began to discover the bug and the thought of it consumed me. 

Give it nine years to fester, and here I am typing away about my blossomed obsession. I went to college, studied recording engineering and acoustic physics, I also minored in studio art and all the while wondering how I could turn this hobby into a career. I was so smitten, I even wrote my application essay about a guitar builder, that’s fun to think back on now. After graduation, I worked in acoustics for a while, but I was lucky enough to find a space—a community maker space in Nashville—where I could set up my own shop. I left my job, dove in full time, and started building guitars. At that point, I’d built about twelve guitars—four electric and eight acoustic—and done my fair share of repairs. But I had no idea what I was getting into.

Now, every time I build a guitar, I remind myself of the “why.” In the shop, there’s plenty of time to think—sometimes too much. But that question is always there. Why am I doing this? And for me, the answer is simple: I'm not a production line and I'm certainly not a factory. I’m building guitars because I want to inspire. I want each one to be an individual, to have its own voice, I want it to play like a weapon. When these guitars return to the shop for setups, worn from years of use, it helps me keep that "why?" front and center. It helps me keep track of what the hell it is I'm doing here.