True to the Roots Read Online Free PDF Page B

left side of the simple, flat topped building.
    This is where Vince Pawless works his magic. This is where he builds guitars, some of which are crafted from the stands of cedar on the adjoining family farm. Pawless grew up attending the church that is within walking distance. I don't realize it until I get inside, but he lives in this simple little shop.
    When I arrive, Pawless is working on four of Jack Ingram's guitars. Jack's about to hit the road again on the weekend. It's Wednesday, and Jack just realized that he was out of working guitars. He's hard on them, and Pawless is the soft spoken, patient, unassuming man uniquely qualified to come to the rescue.
    So, I just stand around, admiring all the homemade guitars in various stages of construction, while Pawless methodically fiddles, adjusts, shines, grinds, restrings, tunes, and, quite often, just steps back a moment to consider. All the while we chat about guitars. There is little sense of urgency in Pawless, who obviously takes pride in the fact that he doesn't work by a clock. The little shop, which includes within its walls his simple little residence, is perfect for a man used to setting his own hours. He may finish Ingram's guitars now, or he may get the job done at two in the morning, depending on what mood strikes him and whether or not he wants to work on it right now or maybe take a little detour to the next stage of construction in his own custom made design. Here is a man whose livelihood depends not on a fancy location or regular business hours.
    Pawless Guitars are treasured for their reputation but not because of any relentless wave of hype. Word of mouth is responsible for where Vince Pawless is today, and it's exactly where he wants to be. He's got all the business he needs—about twenty-five guitars a year make their lonely way from inside these walls to parts widely varied—and he's doing it all his way.
    I, too, became aware of Pawless by his reputation. We've never met until now, and yet, knowing I was writing a book about a subject dear to his heart, he has invited me to the center of his modest life just to take a look. He doesn't expect me to write about him. He just thinks I'd like to see some examples of what he does. He's right.
    The intricacies of guitar construction elude me. Guitars in general elude me. I play them, but I don't have a clear differentiation in my mind of what separates one style from another. I look at guitars and think, well, this one really looks cool or that one has a wonderful sound to it. Of my two guitars, one built by a young man named Rance White in Lenoir, North Carolina, and the other an Epiphone, bought from a secondhand store in Nashville, my general reflection is that I like each one more after I've been playing the other. I think the high notes sound purer in the Lazy River—White's brand name—and the lower notes sound more resonant in the Epiphone. The Epiphone, to me, sounds a bit more metallic, but what I call "metallic" may evoke another adjective in the thought process of another.
    Dozens of guitars sit all around, all referred to lovingly by Pawless, whether he built them himself, traded for them from someone else, or is mulling over what to do with them. One in particular draws my attention, and when I ask about it, Pawless has a story to tell. He has a story to tell about all of them. This one has been designed for an expatriate Texan who now resides in Colorado. It's designed with the blues in mind, and the erstwhile Texan, who pines for home and perhaps his college days at Texas A&M, has stipulated that it be constructed wholly of materials indigenous to Texas. Built mainly from mesquite, it is both gorgeous and unusual. Smallish, its borders resemble the lines of a beautiful woman. It's the waviest guitar I personally have ever seen, but as noted, I'm hardly the expert. I've only been watching guitars closely for about a year. Playing one will do that to a man.
    Pawless shows me a miniature