Dan Morris: It's only rock 'n' roll... but I like it

Years ago I had trusted a similar operation to a dear and well-intentioned friend. From beyond the grave he will, I’m sure, be laughing and agree that it did not go well. This week’s work was largely to undo the lovable hatchet job he had performed, and I’m delighted to say it’s been a resounding success.

My beloved Julianna (a name I gave to my six-stringed mistress years ago, yet haven’t used for some time) has had her throat cleared and is singing once more.

It’s amazing sometimes how our lives can be measured by certain possessions. Julianna has been mine now for 21 years. When I came to own her at 16, I remember feeling like that was the moment I became a man. Now, by society’s traditional measure, she has been mine for the time it would have taken a new-born boy to become one.

I’ll never forget the morning she was bought for me. It was a cold one, and I was journeying into The Potteries for my weekly guitar lesson. This was above a Hanley music shop, every Saturday at noon. This particular emporium was a rocker’s Aladdin’s cave – walls adorned with beautiful ‘axes’ (heavy metal speak for guitar) of every style and shape, back rooms piled high with drums, cymbals, stands and other paraphernalia devoted to, as Spinal Tap would have said, ‘turning it up to eleven’.

Eager apprentices such as myself flocked through the doors all weekend long to learn from the seasoned guitar gods who hung out there, just pickin’ and a’grinnin’. I’d been playing at this point for just over a year – not long, really, by most musicians’ standards. In the short time I’d owned my first guitar I’d developed a deep affinity for the instrument, and already had my eyes on what its upgrade would be. 

The preferred choice of personal guitar heroes Eric Clapton and Mark Knopfler was the Fender Stratocaster, and for some weeks the shop where I had my lessons had had a particularly beautiful example on the wall.

Cream-bodied with a ruby red scratch plate, its curves and colours were the stuff of any young guitarist’s dreams. A slender maple neck that begged to be caressed was adorned with the iconic Fender headstock, itself replete with a crown of shining tuning pegs reminiscent of Harley Davidson chrome.

Truly, it was a thing to behold, and I was envious in the extreme of its very lucky future owner.

This particular week, I’d arrived early for my lesson – my dad dropping me off as he always did, to then disappear for a mosey around the nearby market.

As was custom while I waited for my teacher to summon me, I spent a joyous ten minutes downstairs in the shop, drooling over the many examples of gorgeous craftsmanship therein, and, as always, saving the very best until last.

But, to my horror and then sadness, it was gone. The object of my affections and musical dreams had clearly been snapped up to be treasured by some deserving player who would doubtlessly derive hours of unbridled joy from it. It was a shame, but, after all, you win some and you lose some. To own such a beautiful instrument was a bit of a pipe dream anyway, and I still had a lot of learning to do before I would be worthy of the likes of it.

With that, I headed for the stairs, my own trusty axe in hand, ready to continue my conquest of the fretboard. And then, out of nowhere, the owner of the shop blocked my path, a steely look in his grizzled eye. “You can’t take that up there, pal – that’s mine,” he said, with a gesture toward my guitar. “Here, you’d better take your own, hadn’t you?” With a wry smile, he handed me the Stratocaster that would be Julianna, ruby red scratch plate shining in all its glory. Perhaps for the first time in my life, I was speechless. As it turned out, my dear old dad had arranged to part-ex my beginner’s guitar for the one I had spent so long fantasising about, and today was the day for the surprise switch.

From the moment I held it I knew me and this instrument were going to have an incredible journey together, and at the time I’d never loved my old man more than I did in that minute. Over the last two decades, music has come in and out of my life. Yet Julianna has always been a touchstone to the many wonderfully happy times it has brought me, as well as being a reminder of my parents’ never ending support for every passion I have ever had.

Now that she’s all spruced up, I can’t wait to pass her down to my daughter, who, if not a guitar player when the time comes, will at least have a cracking bit of wall art that symbolises the love and dream weaving that has always run through her family.

But with a bit of luck, she’ll grab Julianna by the neck, and turn things up to twelve.

Here’s to the rhythm of the future, and the lovely melody that will surely dance along with it.