Memories of a 325

Memories of a 325

Memories of a 325

By Tom Austin

 2004, 2006

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Hello -- allow me to introduce myself. As you can see,. I'm a guitar.

Even though some people may have referred to me as "Ricky", my full name is Rickenbaker 325. I am, as a matter of fact, the very guitar John Lennon played during his journey from near obscurity to the heights of fame. Yes, that's right; I was there, and I saw it all.

John and I first encountered one another in Germany. I had been gathering dust in this horrid, dark little shop for I don't know how long, until one day a scruffy-looking young English fellow wearing black leather and cowboy boots walked in. He grabbed me by the neck, did his thing all over me (without asking my permission, I might add), rammed a plug up my bottom (that still hurts) and bought me.

You might imagine that I was angry, and you would be right about that; I was. It wasn't the nicest of introductions. However, all of that is water under the bridge now, and as you are probably well aware, first impressions are often wrong. It wasn't long before I began to really like John, and we quickly became inseparable. After all, he rescued me from a damp, dingy corner in that musty little store and took me onstage where I could really do my stuff. That's not to say I don't have a few regrettable memories, however, regarding the way I was treated.

For example, at this one club in Germany, a fight between some sailors broke out on the dance floor one night while John and I were onstage with his band. One of those wild men decided to throw something, and wouldn't you know, it hit me right in the knobs! I guess I don't have to tell you how much that hurt!

Another thing that really upset me happened with horrifying regularity backstage where we stayed between shows. John slept in a bunk bed in this little room, and quite often, he would bring a fraulein back with him at night. Honestly, I didn't need to see that -- bodies heaving, people groaning, delicacy forbids my describing it further, but suffice it to say that I come from a long line of saw-fearing maples, and the least he could have done was put me in my case. Of course, John was too busy considering his own needs to consider my feelings, so he just leaned me against the wall.

John's friend and bandmate, George, thought I was funny looking. Once, he said that I had too narrow a neck. I quite disagree; as a matter of fact, I'm very proud of the way my neck turned out.

By the time John returned to his home in England with me, I had become good friends with the other equipment. There was a Truvoice amplifier with whom I got on really well. George had a Gretch guitar, I think it was a Duo Jet, and it had a Bigsby tailpiece. I was built with a Kauffman tailpiece, but John didn't like this, because he thought it didn't work as well, so he took me to a shop, had it removed, and had a Bigsby tailpiece put onto my body. Talk about major surgery! Of all the changes I have been through, however, I think the most embarrassing thing that happened was that I started losing my knobs.

As time went by I got really friendly with a German bass guitar. Sure, the Hofner had only four strings, was made for a left hander, and spoke with a German accent., but I was young and foolish, and I got jealous whenever Paul, her owner, left sweat all over her.

One day Paul wrote out the song list and used some cello tape to fix it to his Hofner, whom I called Hoffy. John did the same to me. The tape got all bent around the edges. I forgave John...how was he to know that I was allergic to cello tape? I hadn't even realized it myself. I had to get my strings changed and my knobs looked at.

John, Paul, George, and Pete were playing the Cavern one day when this fellow named Brian showed up from Nems Enterprises. He offered to get the lads a recording contract. Talk is cheap, though, and I was skeptical. I learned that the hard way by going to every audition, doing my best to make John sound good, yet getting rejected all the time. After a while I thought it was me. I really did. I asked myself, "What am I doing wrong ?"

It turned out it was never my fault at all; it was Truvoice. Going back and forth between Germany and the Cavern had taken its toll, and finally Truvoice had to leave the group because of ill health. Some young upstart named Vox took his place. I missed my old friend, but I will admit Vox did make me sound better.

Out of the blue one day, John did something unthinkable - he had me painted. Black! I didn't like black, but as usual, he didn't ask my opinion. Soon afterward, though, Vox was re-covered in black too, and that made me feel I a bit better.