Edwinson ECS Consort

   The ECS Consort Standard is my most “vintage” looking guitar, if you can get past the bridge and headstock designs. It fits into the catagory of the OM or OOO size designation, but it is not a copy of either of those. I build the Consort with twelve frets to the body, twenty total, with a s

cale length of 25.375” or 25.5”. The Consort was raised and trained to be a fingerstyle guitar, and as such, it’s built lightly, and braced for maximum responsiveness as a fingerstyle guitar. Playing with a light touch, you can get a lot of music out of this guitar. If you bear down a little harder, there’s headroom to spare, as long as your emotions are still honest.

   I usually build the Consort neck to a slim, fast, modern carve, with a slightly wider than standard fingerboard.  The default nut width is 1 13/16”, tapering out to 2 1/8” at the twelfth fret. The first time I played a steel string with those proportions, I was  convinced. Wider string spacing makes things easier on the right hand as well.

   If you are a schooled musician, or just have an affinity for classical technique, this guitar is made for you. It’s the steel string equivalent of your best concert classical.

   In 2005, I decided to build a Consort Standard with my best set of Madagascar rosewood, coupled with a master grade Western red cedar top.

  Those two woods together have all the dream characteristics for a fingerstyle guitar. It’s almost like cheating, using these woods. You can’t fail, unless you try really hard to.

   I set out to build the ultimate twelve-fret fingerstyle guitar, lavishing an extra measure of love on it every step of the way. The build went flawlessly all the way to the end. The final details were carefully completed, and the guitar was finally ready for its first set of strings. My hands were trembling with anticipation to play the first notes and wake up this newborn guitar’s voice.

   I had the guitar body sitting on my chair, with the neck propped up on the edge of my work bench, as I put on the strings. Just then, my cat (who is affectionately called “Critter”) got a wild hair, and hopped up onto the face of the guitar. I freaked, and tried to shove her off the guitar. She deployed her claws, and as she slid off the guitar in slo-mo, she raked four deep scratches through the lacquer finish. Then she hung there for a second at the edge of the cliff, with one claw hooked entirely through the cedar top, hanging on for dear life. Needless to say, I went ballistic. The cat unhooked herself pronto, and ran off to an undisclosed location.

  

After my homicidal rage had dissipated, I assessed the situation, and decided it was too late in the winter to bother making a pair of black and white fur gloves out of the cat. Further, it looked like I needed to remove the bridge, sand down to the bare wood, work out the scratches as best I could, repair the claw hole, and then refinish the face.

   When I got to repairing the claw hole, I reached inside the box to push the wood fibers together. Holding everything in place, I dropped in some superglue from the topside, thereby instantly gluing my finger to the inside of the guitar. At that point, I couldn’t be mad anymore. I just had to laugh. I yelled over to Aaron, “Hey, I just superglued my finger to the inside of the guitar...” Being very careful not to compromise the repair, I had to leave some skin behind to get my finger loose. I left a fair amount of DNA in there. Aaron gave me a “what the hell were you thinkin’” look. He was pretty amused.

   Cut to the chase, I was able to make the scratches disappear entirely, but the claw mark was still visible on the top. Oh well, c’est la vie, c’est la cat scratch. When the guitar was finally strung up for real, it turned out to have a very luxurious voice, with notes of dark chocolate, red wine, and Irish heather. It was everything I had hoped. Except for that claw mark, and the skin from my fingertip, glued inside. (I made sure to clean up that spot before I put the strings on.)

   I kept that guitar in the house for about a year, and it became my favorite player. But I was running out of room, so I finally decided to try to sell it. I took it down to the Guitar Emporium, and Robb and I decided to price it at $500 less than the original price, on account of the cat claw divot. It came to be known as the “Cat Scratch Fever” guitar, and somehow, that little dimple of a scar turned into a beauty mark. After about a month, the guitar sold. I never met the person who bought it, but Robb told me that he’d explained the origin of that little flaw. The buyer though it was funny, said it didn’t matter, and it was nice to know how such a young guitar had already acquired some character and history. So that chapter ended well.

   As for the Critter, she and I are the best of friends. She’s learned well how to comport herself in the shop, and I haven’t seen a mouse in here in the last five years. That works out to a hundred bucks a year for mouse control. That seems like a fair deal, don’t you think?