Posted on January 16, 2010June 6, 2025 by Dale Phillips In Memoriam: Frederick C. Lyman In Memoriam: Frederick C. Lyman March 7, 1925 – July 20, 2011 by Ken McKay and Tim Olsen Originally published in American Lutherie #113, 2013 Fred Lyman wrote a column in the Journal of the American Society of Double Bassists for several years. I was given twenty or so back issues way back in 1988 by my bass teacher Paul Warburton. I wanted to make my own double bass, and I devoured every article. I finally got up the nerve to write to Fred. I hoped he would maybe give me a few pointers, but he started an extensive series of handwritten letters. He was a practical man, more interested in the outcome than any one process, and he always encouraged my ideas, no matter how off-base. He would write things like, “That is as good a theory as any, but make sure to keep enough wood in the top so it doesn’t sink, years down the road.” I loved those articles and letters. They were nearly the only thing available at the time, and they turned out to be timeless. I found out later that he was even more generous with his time and knowledge than I had imagined. We met only one time in 1993 when my wife, my year-old son, and I drove from upstate New York down to New Jersey to meet up and get some wood. I traded him an old church bass that I had restored which really had no value at the time for as much wood as I could carry in my station wagon. He even asked if I had ebony for the fingerboard. He just wanted to help me get started and have success. We stayed all day while he showed me his shop and jigs, and taught me what he could with the limited amount of time. We corresponded throughout the years that I made my first instruments. I really feel that a little bit if him lives in every instrument I have made since. Rest in Peace, Fred Lyman. — Ken McKay Fred Lyman at the 1980 GAL Convention in San Francisco, where he lectured on bass viol design. Photo by Dale Korsmo. Fred Lyman was a constant and gentle presence in the GAL from the mid-1970s through the 1990s. He was a generation older than most of us Lutherie Boomers, being already an accomplished self-taught bass builder in his 50s when we met him. I learned from his obituary that he earned a Purple Heart in WWII, graduated with honors from Yale, and became an art painter. So he was too old to have been a hippie, but perhaps he had a beatnik phase; I don’t know. Sometime in the 1990s he sent me a long dreamy CD of free jazz by his band The Squealers, a quintet that included two bass viols. Right from the start it was a constant stream of quiet generosity as he wrote letters and articles for our publications and attended GAL Conventions, sometimes as a presenter. Back in the ancient times when we offered paid lifetime memberships, he was one of the first to sign up. I never visited his shop, but I came to imagine it as a sort of Wonka Chocolate Factory of a place, based on the evidence supplied by the stream of artifacts that flowed from it to the GAL Benefit Auctions, starting at our first auction in 1984. Boxes began to arrive from Port Murray, New Jersey — lots of boxes. I thought we must have cleaned him out. But the Oompah-Loompahs must have been busy, because that proved to be only the beginning. Several more Benefit Auctions benefited from Fred’s generosity, the last being a record-setting trove of lutherie treasure at the 2008 Convention, when Fred was already in his 80s. Fred and his wife Charsie were true friends of the Guild in tough times, and the GAL staff remembers this with deep fondness and gratitude. Fred will surely be missed. — Tim Olsen
Posted on January 16, 2010June 9, 2025 by Dale Phillips In Memoriam: Robert S. Cooper In Memoriam: Robert S. Cooper February 20, 1928 – November 24, 2016 by R.E. Bruné and Robert Cooper, Jr. Originally published in American Lutherie #130, 2017 Robert Cooper, author of the book Lute Construction passed away this past November. Although I never met Robert in person, my first contact with him was in 1968 when I discovered his book and used it to make my first Renaissance lute. I still have the mold which I made from his instructions. In many ways, it was this foray into the lute from the guitar that started my interest in “early music,” later leading to many more lutes and even harpsichords. Many years later we spoke on the phone and Robert ordered a guitar from me, which I was extremely honored to make for him. Robert was a consummate craftsman and a perfectionist in everything he did. His lute construction book was based on the lutes made by the Hauser family and he had Hermann Hauser II personally check his technical drawings to make sure they were accurate before publishing. Robert had been friends with the Hausers, and had even purchased one of their guitars, which I later sold for him. He was very active in the radio-control model airplane hobby, and his scale replicas of WWI vintage biplanes were paragons of patient detail. He even made his own scale operational engines, and only recently had finally given up flying his creations. Remembering my own experiences with model airplanes (straight up, stall, straight down, build another) I was shocked that he would allow them to be flown at all. I have never seen finer model aircraft. I will miss our friendly phone conversations which ranged over a wide variety of topics. My condolences to his family. — R.E. Bruné Robert Cooper lectures on “The Devolution of the Modern Lute” at the GAL Convention in Greensboro, North Carolina, in 1984. Photo by Tim Olsen. Robert Scotland Cooper Sr. was the son of Cdr. Henry George Cooper, USN. In the years leading up to WWII, Commander Cooper served with distinction at posts near and distant, and Robert often proudly claimed that he had attended thirteen grammar schools during his formative years. He lived for periods in Atlanta, Georgia; Charleston, South Carolina; Newport, Rhode Island; New Orleans, Louisiana; and attended Pearl River Military Academy. But he loved most the time he spent with his parents, his brother Samuel, and sister Caroline in the Orient. An avid and gifted storyteller, he often shared vivid memories of his mother Janet, a Sorbonne-trained artist, painting scenes along the seawall at the Olongapo Naval Base on Subic Bay in the Philippines. His tales were full of the taste of sweet mangoes, gentle air, and the fascinating people he knew there though he was only six at the time. Robert completed his bachelor’s degree at The Citadel Military Academy in Charleston in 1951. His passion for all things aeronautical led him to take a job at the Cleveland Model and Supply Company in Ohio, and many people he met there remained lifelong friends. His natural musical talents flourished and he started performing with his clear tenor voice and a classical guitar. Fortune brought him to Savannah in 1953 where he met and married his soulmate Emmeline and began his twenty-seven-year career with the Corps of Engineers. Pioneers at heart, they purchased a ramshackle boarding house in 1959 with terrifyingly high mortgage payments of $69 per month. That house was filled with laughter and music and jovial evenings gathered around the kitchen table. Robert had a woodworking shop there and became renowned for his fine and imaginative woodworking skills. He began building lutes, and his enthusiasm to renew interest in then-obscure early instruments prompted him to publish his book Lute Construction in 1963. His scale models of primarily WWI-era airplanes are recognized as some of the finest in the country. Music, airplanes, and woodworking were the things Robert Cooper did, but they are not who he was. He was always busy in his shop but he was never too busy for his sons Ruskin, Robert Jr., and Graham whether it was a science project or just a tricky part of an airplane model. He was a patient and encouraging teacher. He had a way of seeing the final product and knew how to get a job done the right way. He said that when he was working on a lute or an airplane, time had no meaning. — Robert Cooper Jr.
Posted on January 16, 2010June 10, 2025 by Dale Phillips In Memoriam: Don Bradley In Memoriam: Don Bradley 1949 – 2016 by Deb Olsen, Chris Herrod, Alan Carruth, and Fred Carlson Originally published in American Lutherie #127, 2016 We are fond of all our GAL members, for sure. But there are some members who have been with us for so many years, who have grown up with us and the Guild, and who we have enjoyed spending time with at so many conventions over decades, that they have a special place in our hearts. Don Bradley is one of those. Happy, amiable, kind, funny, smart, and humble, Don has always been a great supporter of the Guild and its ideals. He has been with us from way, way back — a member continuously since 1977, he attended his first convention in Tacoma that year after completing one of the early courses at the Roberto-Venn School, and he attended at least a dozen in all, including the last five held in Tacoma from 2004–2014. (See his “Meet the Maker” article in AL#111.) I’d have to do a little research, but it’s possible that he attended more conventions than any other member (other than the GAL staff). So we were always delighted when we’d get his convention registration and knew we’d be seeing him again. Conventions can be daunting, but one of the things that encourages us to keep doing them is knowing that we’ll be seeing some of our old pals like Don. We’ll really miss him at the next one. — Deb Olsen Intelligent, soft-spoken, and kind, Don Bradley was for many years a welcome fixture at NCAL (Northern California Association of Luthiers) and GAL events. We grew accustomed to his friendly, easy-going presence and that makes his sudden passing all the more difficult. Aside from building a variety of instruments, Don applied his keen, inquisitive mind to a wide range of pursuits: banjo playing, electric cars, folk dancing, raising llamas, and gardening. Perhaps he will be best remembered for building the signal generator device for Chladni testing (“free plate testing”) that was sold for many years by LMI and others. Thank you, Don. You will be missed. — Chris Herrod Photo by Teri Korsmo I first met Don at the GAL Convention in Vermillion, South Dakota, in 1992. He approached me, introduced himself as an electronics engineer, and asked if there was anything he could do to help. I was looking for somebody to take over the business of making signal generators that I had suspended on the death of my father a few years before, and his offer was very welcome. I sent the parts and information to Don with gratitude. Those machines were only slight updates of the ones detailed in the old GAL Data Sheet #112 by Matt Fichtenbaum, and were very far out of date by then; so Don came up with a wholly new, and far better, design in consultation with me. Although from habit I use my old unit for day-to-day work, when I need real precision or portability I turn to Don’s device. Thereafter we would see each other in Tacoma when I was able to get out for conventions. When I had a table we would set up a signal generator, and Don would spell me in demonstrations. He would also help out if I had a talk to give. Don hosted me at his home when I went out for what turned out to be the last Healdsburg Festival, providing a pleasant and undemanding oasis amid the cacophony. My flight home was late on the Monday after the close of the festival, and Don took me on a sightseeing tour. We took in the Armstrong redwoods and Bodega Bay in a pleasant and relaxing day’s drive. I always hoped that some chance would enable me to return the favor, and show him some of the scenic attractions near my home in New Hampshire. Sadly, that will never happen now. I’m left wondering how his instrument making went, and whether he ever got that Tesla that he wanted. Adios, Don: I owe you. — Alan Carruth Don Bradley was such a nice guy! I met him at the first GAL Convention I ever attended, the one in Winfield, Kansas, in 1978. I was oh-so-young (early 20-something), on my first real trip away from home on my own, at my first luthier convention, showing off some of my instruments to other luthiers for the first time. Don was so warm and easy going; I immediately felt comfortable with him. We got caught together in some building when a brief and wild summer tornado cruised through, filling the streets with water in minutes. Watching this amazing phenomenon of nature, we got to talking, and it turned out he had just locked his keys inside his truck. I spent quite a while taking apart my backpack to get at a metal rod that was a part of the frame, and we used it to pick his truck-door lock. The sort of experience that one remembers, and that can lead to lasting friendship, which it did. We mostly only met, over the years, at lutherie-related events, and saw each other less frequently as the years went by, but each meeting was a happy event, and the friendship was always there, waiting to be enjoyed. Wherever luthiers go when they pass on, I know everyone there will be happy to see him, but we’ll sure miss him here! Happy journey into the mystery, my friend! ◆ — Fred Carlson
Posted on January 16, 2010May 13, 2025 by Dale Phillips In Memoriam: Jess Wells In Memoriam: Jess Wells 1953 – 2010 by Jonathon Peterson, Eric “Rico” Meyer, Ed Geesman, David Kerr, and Hiram Harris Originally published in American Lutherie #105, 2011 My dear friend Jess Wells died at home of cancer on December 13, 2010. Jess was a big-picture kind of guy, with a real awareness of the interconnectedness of things. He was a fine craftsman with expertise in, among other things, violins, lutes, viola da gambas, bamboo fly-fishing rods, custom interior woodworking, and pipe organ construction. Our conversations always branched to music, food, religion, art, history, politics, social responsibility, sustainability of resources, local agriculture, and other big and small topics. I visited with him at shows, in shops, at his home, and too many times in the hospital. He knew what was coming, and faced death with grace, humor, and dignity. Jess is one of my heros. — Jonathon Peterson Photo by Jonathon Peterson Jess and I shared shop space several times in the ’80s. During one of those periods in the back room at Kerr's violin shop, I was trying to make an archtop guitar. The juxtaposition of our benches was a model of contrast: his meticulous and orderly, and mine, well, not so much. After listening to me curse and grouse and fix my own mistakes, he gave me the most left-handed compliment I’ve ever had. He said, “Rico, how the hell can you wind up with something so nice after screwing up so much along the way. It’s not fair.” He also kind of half cajoled, half exampled me into giving up a traditional Thanksgiving Day to serve dinners and wash dishes at a homeless mission. I’ve been delivering Meals On Wheels for over fifteen years. Thanks Jess. I guess most of us are ultimately self-absorbed. Jess may have been the exception. — Eric “Rico” Meyer I remember Jess having a very strong sense of social awareness. Although he was a live-and-let-live sort of guy, he had no patience with somebody taking advantage of his fellow man. Definitely a child of the ’70s, with a healthy Oregonian essence. I enjoyed his upbeat attitude and was inspired by his positive nature. I will miss seeing him. — Ed Geesman I remember Jess having a mischievous side. You could tell when he was up to something when he all of a sudden had this Cheshire Cat grin, halfway between a seven-year-old boy’s glee and the devil. When we were apprentices I had spent nine months making my first violin and had just glued the top on with great satisfaction. The next day I came in and Jess had filled the insides with as many wood shavings as he could possibly fit through the f-holes. I was both despondent and furious. He spent the next three hours pulling them out with a pair of tweezers, all the while grinning from ear to ear! — David Kerr I first met Jess in 1975 when I came to Portland to apprentice for Paul Schuback. Jess and the other apprentices welcomed me and took me into their homes or apartments even though we were all strangers. Jess was one of the older apprentices, and he and Dave Kerr looked after the younger ones to make sure we understood how the program worked. Jess was married and in that first year he and Beth had their first child, Megan. Jess was the first person I knew near my age to become a father. After Megan’s arrival, Steve Moore renamed Jess “Dad” Wells. This nickname and Jess’ obvious joy at her arrival is what I remember most from those days. Jess left the apprenticeship in 1976 to make viols on his own and work for Bob Lundberg. He had the highest respect for Bob and was proud to say that he was the only person to work full time with Bob in his shop. Jess told me that almost everything he knew about instrument making he learned from Bob. In the early ’80s Jess also worked part time in Dave Kerr’s shop. He drove an old VW van. Megan would frequently accompany him at the shop and draw or play. One of her drawings became Kerr Violin Shop’s first t-shirt. It was a sketch of three people: Dave, Jess, and me. Jess was a fine craftsman with an exacting eye and high standards. He never made much money on his viol work because he either didn’t charge enough, or he spent too much time trying to get them just right. I remember Dave telling him once that no matter what business Jess was in he would find a way to lose money. Jess liked to tell that story with a laugh and an acknowledgement that Dave was probably right. He and Beth helped set up a soup kitchen at St. Francis church in southeast Portland. Giving back to the community and helping those less fortunate was a big part of Jess’ life. Jess was quite active in his church. Faith played a huge role in his life, and it was reflected in how he handled his terminal illness. He saw death as a transition to a new beginning and a way to get closer to God. I spent a month with Jess last summer. It had been years since we had seen each other, but this was of no importance to Jess. He was friendly and open to all no matter how long he had known them or their station in life. I never saw him down or depressed, even though at times he was in a lot of pain. He could have easily, understandably, felt sorry for himself, but he did not. His main concern as always was for his family. Jess was decent, kind, generous, warm, and a true man of all seasons. I remember how he tilted his head just so when he was engaged in conversation, and the twinkle in his eye when an idea particularly struck him. He had a ready smile and made you feel wanted. He loved life fully and deeply, and embraced death with the same intensity. Above all, I will remember him as a family man with a strong faith in God and a true love for his fellow man. Rest in peace, Jess. — Hiram Harris
Posted on January 16, 2010June 10, 2025 by Dale Phillips In Memoriam: Steve Newberry In Memoriam: Steve Newberry January 2, 1928 – August 8, 2014 by Ervin Somogyi Originally published in American Lutherie #119, 2014 Steve Newberry, GAL member and longtime friend of the guitar, passed away on August 8 from complications of multiple strokes. He is survived by his wife Virginia and children, who reside in Los Altos, California. Steve Newberry was an interesting man, full of wisdom and contradictions, with an active mind and the multiple concerns of living life. At various points he was a mathematician, a computer scientist, a husband and father, a widower (in his first marriage), a reader, a staunch Democrat, a Daoist, a Catholic, a freethinker, a physicist, a philosopher, a teacher, a traveler, a marksman, a collector, a Jew, a fervent Republican, a luthier, and a guitar player. He could be difficult to get along with from time to time. But which of us isn’t? And not least of all, my God, but he loved the guitar! Steve was a witness to the birth of American lutherie from the 1940s on, when the first seeds of what would become the American lutherie boom were sown by Spanish luthiers who transplanted themselves into the U.S., and their very first young American admirers and groupies. Steve was certainly one of these. He seems to have begun his love affair with the guitar while in his teens. He wrote of his formative experiences in an article in AL#66 (Big Red Book of American Lutherie Volume Six), about his youthful observations about and in the shop of Vicente Tatay, one of the first Spanish guitar makers to have settled in New York. It’s one of the best human interest articles I’ve ever read. Photo courtesy of Virginia Newberry. Steve was also an articulate man who could speak to, and about, any of the above things, and more. And he was generous with his knowledge to anyone who would listen to his very involved and sophisticated explanations. And he was certainly knowledgeable about the bibliography of the guitar and the scientific literature that was published about it, and areas of acoustics and physics associated with it, in the form of academic articles. I am grateful to Steve for having put into words, for me, things that put a great many inchoate hands-on experiences at the workbench into usable perspective. There is no doubt that he influenced my thinking and my choices of words and phrasing in the books that I’ve written, and if anyone has gotten benefit from my writings, Steve should get some of the credit for that. There is no doubt that he has influenced others as well. A part of the history of this work has gone with him, impoverishing all of us. I will miss him. ◆
