Posted on January 17, 2010February 7, 2024 by Dale Phillips In Memoriam: Leo Bidne In Memoriam: Leo Bidne June 20, 1954 – March 6, 2019 by Tim Olsen Originally published in American Lutherie #137, 2019 Unless you have been a Guild member for a very long time, you may not remember Leo Bidne as a GAL staffer. But he was, back in the long-gone days of the mid-’70s when it was a strictly volunteer position, and we would sweep the chips off the workbench to paste up the copy, then hand-collate and staple the newsletter. GAL staff members in 1975. From left: Bon Henderson, Leo Bidne, Bob Petrulis, and Tim Olsen. Deb Olsen was holding the camera. These hippies posed in front of our current GAL headquarters, which is the same building as Tim and Deb’s house. At that time it was the location of Tim’s lutherie shop, where Bob and Leo joined Tim in lutherie pursuits. (This photo was part of the slide show, The Making of a Newsletter, which was prepared in 1975 for the 2nd GAL Convention held in Evanston, Illinois, which Leo attended with Tim and Deb.) Both photos by Deb Olsen. From left: Tim, Leo, and Bob at the 2014 GAL Convention. Bob continues to serve the Guild as a member of our Board of Directors. Leo was a guy who could just do things. It seems like anything that caught his interest, he would simply do: repairing and building guitars; writing and arranging music; playing most any musical instrument. And then, as he grew older and our paths diverged, he moved into audio and video recording and production, and became the proprietor of a music store. He was a family man with children and grandchildren, for whom he would build amazing things like a full-sized R2D2, and produce elaborate Star Wars fan films starring the neighborhood kids. I guess he never lost that naive belief that by doing the fun and create stuff that came naturally to him, he could make the world a better place — which he did, for American luthiers and for many others.
Posted on January 17, 2010February 7, 2024 by Dale Phillips In Memoriam: Fred Campbell In Memoriam: Fred Campbell August 12, 1952 – February 17, 2019 by Tom Ribbecke Originally published in American Lutherie #137, 2019 Frederick William Campbell died at his home with Elizabeth Holmes, his partner of eleven years, at his side. The cause of death was prostate cancer. He leaves adult twin sons, Ryan McKinley Bumpbell and Douglas Scott Campbell. Fred was born in Indiana, where he learned woodworking from his grandfather and his father. He served as an Army Ranger in East Germany, then came to California and worked in the shops of several luthiers including Hideo Kamimoto, Charles Fox, and Tom Ribbecke. He started his finishing business when he was at Kamimoto’s shop, and named it Fred Campbell and Sons although his kids were still tiny at the time. Photo courtesy of Carol Keig. Fred was very active in the South Bay Scottish Society and was marshal at the Scottish Highland Gathering and Games. He was also a guitarist and loved to play at open mikes. I have a fond memory of Fred arriving at a friend’s house for rehearsal dressed in kilt and regalia with a 19 ft. caber on the roof of his old station wagon. Fred often talked about how he missed the dog love of his life, Boomer. The last time I talked to Fred before he died, I told him I hoped he would meet Boomer at the rainbow bridge. A celebration of Fred’s life is being held on June 1 at Ribbecke Guitars, a place that has seen many lutherie parties where Fred was present. Donations in memory of Fred can be made to the National Veterans Foundation or the Rainforest Action Network.
Posted on January 17, 2010February 7, 2024 by Dale Phillips In Memoriam: Wesley Brandt In Memoriam: Wesley Brandt August 24, 1954 – September 17, 2021 by Chris Brandt, Michael Yeats, Dan Compton, and Mark Moreland Originally published in American Lutherie #145, 2021 My memory of Wes began in the mid-’70s when Jeff Elliott’s apprentices loosely banded together to co-rent shop space. It was an exciting time with various instruments underway including a Baroque guitar, a hurdy gurdy, violin bows, mandolin family instruments, and even a bass viola — all under one roof. Eventually this led to The 12th Fret, and by then, Wes had become a full-fledged member of Portland’s scene. As far back as I can remember, Wes had wanted to work, study, and live in Europe. At one point he owned a house in Southeast Portland which he was able to rent out to a fellow luthier during one of his early forays to Europe. He became a man split between two countries. I remember him telling me, “I don’t want to live in a country that sells cheese in an aerosol can.” (OK Wes, point taken.) Conversations with Wes easily turned into quality events. This was absolutely the case when discussing instruments and all things related. But he had a wide range of interests and had even volunteered on an archeological dig. He read, he listened, he thought, and he was curious and engaged with the world. But towering above all of this, he had an enormous drive to be an instrument maker. During the last years, when he both lived and worked above The 12th Fret, I began having the same feeling that I used to get when I visited Robert Lundberg. I can’t just call it respect, because that was always what I felt from the beginning. But, by this time, he had grown in his skills so far that something else emerged. Maybe I felt a kind of reverence, or something close to it. It was an honor to work with him and have him as a friend. My regret is that I didn’t spend enough time really talking to him, getting down to the deeper, essential Wes. He was in many ways a private man. He gave generously of his knowledge and skill. He was enormously supportive during a transition of The 12th Fret, and everyone I’ve talked to seems to say that they always wanted to know him better. He struggled and reached for a dream. Just as it seemed as if he had finally arrived, he tragically left this world. He will always live in our hearts. — Chris Brandt Photo courtesy of Michael Yeats. So many of us hold music as our main passion, and Wes was no exception. He enjoyed eclectic music from all over the world, created his own music, and, of course, made instruments beautifully. His repair work is legendary; most of the professionals I know wouldn’t trust their instruments to anyone other than Wes. He was a caring, passionate person who carried visions of excellence within and continually strived to achieve them. In addition, he was bright, funny, and always interested in sharing ideas. He cooked for the family when he visited; he always wanted to contribute. His absence will be a presence forever among those he knew. — Michael Yeats The loss of Wes has left a huge hole for a lot of us. He had a unique genius in his understanding of what makes a stringed instrument sound its best, whether it was one he designed and built himself, or one that he repaired or set up. I think Wes did work on every fretted instrument I own at some point. He was also great company, and a cup of coffee with Wes could stretch to a couple of hours of wide-ranging conversation. Wes made many gorgeous instruments: viols, guitars, mandolins, and his own hybrid creations. The most memorable for me is a parlor guitar he made a few years ago: light to the touch, beautiful to look at, resonant and responsive to play, perfectly balanced. Not too flashy, but deeply astounding — not unlike the man himself. He’ll be greatly missed. — Dan Compton Wes Brandt was a long-time respected luthier in the Pacific Northwest. My encounters with him were numerous over the years through shows and his visits to the Portland shop where I was employed for several decades. His fretted instruments were something to behold; the detail and careful execution of craftsmanship was amazing. Though I knew Wes in those years, our paths rarely crossed, as I was deeply involved in bowed instruments and he with fretted instruments. After my wife and I left the NW for several years, we returned to start our own shop, where we specialize in cello making. At this point, Wes was specializing in viols and gambas and our lives came together more. We spent hours conversing on so many different ideas, and I came to really treasure those times. We even shared a client; I built a cello which was purchased by a well known artist, and Wes later made him a gamba. The loss of such a gifted and passionate maker and individual is hard to comprehend and accept. Wes was special and lovable, and his joy for his work was infectious. He was sincere, thoughtful, creative, incredibly curious, quite shy, and soft spoken. Since his passing, I have learned more about Wes and have grown to appreciate his work and accomplishments even more. I am so sorry that Wes is gone, but his work, and his interactions with those of us lucky enough to have known him, live on. —Mark Moreland
Posted on January 16, 2010February 7, 2024 by Dale Phillips In Memoriam: Jim Mouradian In Memoriam: Jim Mouradian April 2, 1950 – January 24, 2017 by R.M. Mottola Originally published in American Lutherie #130, 2017 Boston area luthier and repairman Jim Mouradian died on January 14, 2017, at the age of sixty-six. With his son Jon, Jim ran the largest guitar repair shop in the New England area. He was also an electric bass player and played for a long time in the R&B band, Ronnie Earle and the Broadcasters. Jim was a masterful repairman who brought the same level of precision and care whether working on the instruments of famous professionals or beginning guitarists. He was probably the most happy and content guy I have ever met. He expressed gratitude daily that he got to do work that he loved for a living, and that he got to work beside his son. His list of clients and list of dear friends were one and the same. He was generous to a fault, particularly with his time. I met him before I had any connection with lutherie. I had brought him a cheap electric bass in need of a part. We talked for a long time — about the bass, people we knew in common, and about hot rods (Jim was an avid fan of muscle cars from the 1960s). Then he rummaged around in a parts box, pulled out the part needed to fix my bass, handed it to me, made sure I understood that he was confident that I could do the repair myself, and sent me on my way, no charge. His death brought forward dozens of similar stories of his generosity. His rates were more than reasonable and he regularly lowered them substantially for folks with limited ability to pay. Photo courtesy of Jon Mouradian In addition to repair work, Jim built a couple of different lines of solidbody electric basses. He got into lutherie in what he has described as “backwards.” His very first lutherie project was a custom electric bass for Chris Squire of the band Yes. This instrument is played in the band’s Owner of a Lonely Heart video. I personally owe Jim a great debt of gratitude for having gotten me started in lutherie. From his initial suggestion that I build an instrument, through his continued advice and guidance and encouragement, he gave me a focus and a purpose at a time of great need in my life. I miss him terribly.
Posted on January 16, 2010February 7, 2024 by Dale Phillips In Memoriam: Joseph Wallo In Memoriam: Joseph Wallo 1921 – 2009 by Mike Ashley (With help from Robert England, Richard Bruné, David LaPlante, and Charles Vega) Originally published in American Lutherie #108, 2011 On Wednesday, May 6, 2009, we lost Joseph F. Wallo, “Internationally known maker of the finest in concert guitars.” Joseph was an eminently practical fellow who loved his work, an entrepreneur by nature, available and artful conversationalist, at least as opinionated as the average luthier, faithful friend and guide. Joseph was born in 1921 in Michigan and raised on a farm in Virginia where he worked as a lumberjack and in millwork. At an early age he achieved prominence as a restorer of antique furniture. That was before he served in the Army Air Corps during World War II. After the war, Joseph moved on to Chicago where he spent three years doing violin and guitar repair work, studied guitar, music, and voice at the Chicago Conservatory of Music, and made “a few violins” working under Italian luthier Alfio Battelli. During that time he embarked on his guitar-building enterprise. He took great pride in having made instruments for George Yeatman, Aaron Shearer, and Charlie Byrd who did many of his recordings using a Wallo classic. Joseph didn’t seem to be saddened by the fact that he couldn’t make a living building guitars. To his knowledge, only “factory workers” did that. He was a repairman with more work than he could handle who moonlighted building guitars and selling materials. From Chicago, he made his way to the Violin House of Weaver in Bethesda, Maryland where he worked until he retired. The three generations of Weavers at the Violin House hold fond memories of Joseph. Like many luthiers of my generation, in 1968 I spotted Joseph’s How to Make a Classic Guitar in the Vitali catalogue, where, incidentally, it is still listed. It was the first of its kind, published in 1962. My 1965 edition included drawings for both classical and steel-string instruments as well as his catalogue. His “KIT NO. 1” included everything—plans, book, absolutely all materials, sandpaper, strings, sealer, pore filler, varnish, brush, rubbing compounds and polish—for $146.75 with the 10% discount. This was no ordinary “kit.” In fact, it was a kit in name only. Nothing was bent, thicknessed, or joined. It was, though, his finest Brazilian rosewood back and ribs and European spruce soundboard, Honduras mahogany neck, handsome rosette, ivory nut and saddle, and black plastic binding. Photo courtesy of R.E. Bruné A few years later, I told Joseph I had foregone the plastic and was making my own wood purflings and bindings. He paused for a moment and said he had once done bindings in wood, but couldn’t understand why any builder would do it a second time. Why, after all, would anybody go to all that extra work — drudgery as far as he was concerned—for something that didn’t make the instrument a whit better? He insisted that the black plastic, properly finished, looked just like ebony. I should wise up. I didn’t argue. Joseph was generous with his time, knowledge, and frank observations. Richard Bruné tells of setting out on his guitar making career with Joseph’s book in hand. By 1968, as Richard says, he was “finally getting some grip on the art.” He visited Joseph in Washington, D.C., proudly opened the case holding his fifth guitar, and presented the instrument to Joseph for his inspection. As Richard says “Joe looked over his glasses at me and asked if I wanted praise or criticism.” Praise he could get from his mom, so after an 800 mile drive, he opted for criticism. The list of “obvious” problems was so exhaustive that even this promising young luthier was tempted to doubt his calling. It was quite a surprise, arriving home, to learn that Joseph had lined up a customer in Virginia who ordered his own Bruné. I expect Joseph was confident that his advice had made all the difference. A talk with Joseph was always fun. One of his favorite stories had to do with marketing. A classical guitarist came into his shop and sampled his instruments. He played at some length and really liked the feel and sound of a Wallo guitar. He asked the price, and Joseph—this was many years ago—said $1500. The potential customer was disappointed. He left the shop saying he was actually interested in a $3000 instrument. So, as Joseph put it, from then on he had a shop full of $3000 instruments. His mail-order business kept him busy. He had ongoing irritation with his wood suppliers. Occasionally, in an order from him I’d find a warped or cracked fingerboard or bridge blank on which Joseph had scrawled a note. “Can you believe the stuff they send me?” or “Maybe you can find a use for this. I can’t.” His “S&W Italian Guitar Varnish” was another story. He had sold it for years. I’ve used it and in fact still have a few cans of the stuff. It’s wonderful. When his supplier died, Joseph asked his wife if she knew his source or the formula for the product. She didn’t, but said if Joseph stopped by maybe he could figure it out. What Joseph found was a stash of the half-pint cans and labels, a funnel, and a gallon or two of a Sherwin Williams oil varnish. It was S&W all right, minus the Italian. Joseph and so many other luthiers had been so happily had by this scam. So, Joseph sadly changed the label. In his later years, Joseph lost the love of his life, his wife Cecile. He then suffered a serious bout of shingles. He was one of the victims for whom the pain becomes chronic and virtually untreatable. Knowing I was a pharmacist, we had frequent conversations about possible drug interventions and any other treatments that might show promise. Life was hard. Through it all, he remained the same guy. Many of us miss that guy.
