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In Memoriam: Robbie Robinson

In Memoriam: Robbie Robinson

Passed on June 7, 1993

by Betty Truitt, and Ray Mooers

Originally published in American Lutherie #35, 1993 and Big Red Book of American Lutherie Volume Three, 2004

Roland Robinson died June 7, 1993, in a traffic accident near his home and shop in Mt. Laguna, California. He founded the International Society of Folk Harpers and Craftsmen one day with these words: “I decree that there shall be a folk harp society, and that the Folk Harp Journal shall be it’s voice.” That was how it happened. Details followed.

Rob was my friend, my mentor, my “second father,” my next-door neighbor. He influenced my work and my life with his hard-working, dedicated example. Rob was a renaissance man, a poet, a mover of ideas, a facilitator and educator, a warm human being.

One news article aptly described him as an “irascible curmudgeon.” He was as likely to give you a lecture on proper use of time for production as he was to expound on his knowledge and experiences for hours on end. He constantly searched for understanding of our world. He delved deeply into history and concerned himself with daily news of world events. He wrote his customers many personal messages, sent along with their filled orders. He encouraged us all. He was a prime mover in the resurgence of the folk harp. He shared, never taking “ownership” of ideas or inventions. His genius was always turned outward to better his (and our) world.

— Betty Truitt

Robbie Robinson at the 1980 GAL Convention in San Francisco. Photo by Dale Korsmo.

I founded Dusty Strings in the late 1970s, crafting hammered dulcimers. I became fascinated by folk harps in the early ’80s and devoured back issues of the Folk Harp Journal, which I ordered from Robinson’s Harp Shop. I became aware that in addition to building harps, Robbie also supplied those mysterious bits of steel, brass, and nylon that go into making harps.

Robbie was bigger than life to me, a storehouse of knowledge of a little-understood craft. He could have guarded that knowledge for personal gain. God only knows how hard he worked for it, but he was a man of vision and knew that he could not supply harps to all that would like to own one. He had experienced first hand what the harp had done for his life and Phyllis’, and wanted to share that feeling with the world.

I had an insatiable hunger for inspiration, so I timidly called to see if I might possibly stop by for a quick visit while on a trip to California. When he graciously agreed to see me I was thrilled. I had talked to Robbie Robinson on the phone and I was going to visit him! I felt like a pilgrim on a journey to Mecca.

Robbie and Phyllis welcomed me into their home and shared the inner workings of Robinson’s Harp Shop. He showed me how tuning pins and sharping levers are made, critiqued my harp, and complimented several of my design features. Day faded into evening and I found myself at their dinner table. I excitedly accepted an offer to stay overnight and really was in harp heaven as I lay on the living room couch. I tried to sleep, but my head was spinning with all I had learned.

The next day was business as usual: up at 6:30, a quick breakfast, then downstairs to the shop. There were pegs to be made, strings to be wound, supplies to order. Phyllis had the arduous, though exciting, task of opening the stacks of mail that came each day. And Robbie, with all he had going, took time to show me how to wind strings. He ordered me to try my hand at it so I wouldn’t forget how, and invited me to take lots of pictures so I could construct my own winding machine.

As I drove away from Mount Laguna, I had to pull off the road somewhere down the mountain. The late afternoon sun was casting long shadows behind the pines, and the colors of the mountains, trees, and countryside were magnificent. I was so excited I thought I might burst.

To you, Robbie, I was just another of the many who sought out your influence and knowledge. You graciously opened your door to many, I’m certain. But it was as if I had been taken briefly under your wing and offered the greatest gifts of all: knowledge, and encouragement to go on.

The sun grew into an enormous fireball as it reached for the horizon, changing the colors of the landscape and sky from yellows, to oranges, to pinks, to lavenders, to purples. As the sun slipped away I continued down the mountain with your voice ringing in my ears, “You can do it Ray. The world needs more harp makers.”

Robbie, that visit with you and Phyllis, and other visits since, are times I will never forget. Times that helped shape a career and a business that will contribute to your goal of making the world a better place to live by enriching people’s lives with harp music. You are a great man, Robbie, and though we all will sincerely miss you, you will always be with us in our hearts. You will have a special place in mine for the remainder of my days.

— Ray Mooers

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In Memoriam: Robert Mattingly

In Memoriam: Robert Mattingly

Passed on March 23, 1991

by Chris Hanlin

Originally published in American Lutherie #25, 1991 and Big Red Book of American Lutherie Volume Three, 2004

Master Luthier Robert L. Mattingly, my teacher and a craftsman I personally believe to be one of the greatest builders of this century, took his own life on the evening of Saturday, March 23, 1991. He was a man I came to love like a father in the short year that I was fortunate enough to spend under his tutelage. I cannot find the words to express my heartbreak. Musicians and luthiers alike may never know the full extent of their loss.

The man was a true genius at his craft, and I can honestly say that I was in humble awe of him. He craved no publicity. He never advertised. He never foisted his name or work upon others. And yet players and students continually sought him out, and examples of his work exist all over this country, and indeed the world. Though he worked out of his adopted home of Long Beach, California, he always kept his life and home firmly rooted in his native-Missouri common sense. And his instruments reflect this simple honesty. They ring with a richness and warmth as palpable as his own Falstaffian personality.

Photo courtesy of Sue Mattingly.

I have never been so happy as I was under his tutelage. Sweeping the floor in his shop was for me an honor. But he took me into his confidence, and revealed to me many of his hard won secrets. Exactly why I won his trust I cannot say, but I always tried to make him proud of me, and I believe we were close. Now he is gone, and he has taken with him over thirty years of building experience. My own instrument that I was building under his teaching is incomplete; may God give me the wisdom and skill to complete it without him.

If you own a Mattingly instrument, one of hundreds he built, treasure it. No more will be made. If you are presently lucky enough to be studying under a master, burn each day into your memory. They will not come again. And if there is anyone you love, tell them so. We get too few chances in this life.

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In Memoriam: Mario Martello

In Memoriam: Mario Martello

April 3, 1924 – October 2, 2006

by Richard Johnston

Originally published in American Lutherie #89, 2007

The luthier community lost a valuable resource with the passing of José Mario Martello. Mario, as everyone called him, was more than just a guitar repairman, although that was his primary trade for over half a century. Along the way, he built both classical and jazz (archtop) guitars, lutes, and made major components and modifications to banjos, mandolins, basses, and just about every wooden instrument that wore strings.

Born in northern Italy in 1924, Mario immigrated to Argentina with his parents when still a young boy. His father, Giuseppe, was a cabinetmaker, and while still in his teens Mario became familiar with fine woodworking from both the handcraft and the production vantage points. But an interest in jazz led him beyond furniture, and he apprenticed with a guitar maker making jazz guitars. Once married and a father, however, the uncertain political and economic climate in Argentina drove Mario to relocate to New York City in 1957, and, two years later, he tried the opposite coast and landed in San Francisco, where he quickly found work in a large furniture factory. When a coworker expressed an interest in building a guitar, Mario volunteered to help, which brought him to the Satterlee & Chapin guitar shop in the heart of the city.

Mario’s timing couldn’t have been better, for San Francisco was the West Coast’s focal point for the folk music revival. Virtually every known soloist and folk group filed through the many coffeehouses and nightclubs in and around North Beach. San Francisco was also home to a thriving jazz scene, including traditional jazz, and both flamenco and classical guitar were popular as well. Once Harmon Satterlee became aware of Mario’s skill and ingenuity, he was given a full time job as a repairman. Mario was called upon to repair and customize a wide range of instruments for amateurs, touring professionals, and everyone in between. Dave Guard’s Vega banjo and Segovia’s Ramírez guitar might cross Mario’s workbench in a single day, along with the Harmony Sovereign of the local Woody Guthrie wannabe.

Courtesy of Martello family.

This was long before the publication of any how-to books on instrument repair, or a helpful organization like GAL. Mario had to rely on his skills in fine woodworking, but even more important was his ability to trouble-shoot almost any problem and improvise a solution. It was this combination of talents that brought him to the attention of Jon Lundberg, who had opened a fretted instruments shop across the bay in Berkeley. Soon Mario was able to buy a home in the East Bay, turning the garage into a workshop and making weekly pickup and delivery runs to Lundbergs and a few other music stores as well. Although more involved restorations or customizations might take a month or more, most repairs were returned a week after he picked them up, and both the variety and volume of work he performed was staggering.

Jon Lundberg was the leading source of vintage acoustic instruments on the West Coast in the 1960s, and in the days before the mania for originality set in, Jon had Mario customize or modify many instruments. A new D-28 would be given an extended headstock to become a 12-string, while a huge Larson Brothers archtop, for which there was no demand at all at the time, would get a new flat top and become a Super Jumbo that made a Gibson J-200 look puny. Lundberg’s shop had other repairmen, but Mario’s wide-ranging talents made it possible for the shop to restore everything from antique Irish harps to Italian lutes.

Mario was typical of many fine craftsmen of his generation in that most of time he was content to work behind the scenes, often seeing others get credit for work he had performed. Although he was featured in local newspapers in Contra Costa County, he never received national attention despite his numerous restorations of guitars owned by famous players such as Segovia and David Crosby. But among those of us who knew him, Mario was always impressive. He was tall and handsome, with effortless and genuine Latin charm.

Mario remained active until the last few months before his death, playing bass in a jazz group as he had for years, and fixing instruments for many of the same dealers, musicians, and collectors for whom he’d worked for decades. He gave each repair job the same priority, and never put off completing a task. When he ceased working early in 2006 because of ill health, there were no unfinished jobs and no need for outside help to clean the slate. His diligence and inventive spirit should inspire us all.

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In Memoriam: Nicholas Von Robison

In Memoriam: Nicholas Von Robison

Passed June, 2000

by Tim Olsen

Originally published in American Lutherie #63, 2000 and Big Red Book of American Lutherie Volume Six, 2013

How well I remember the first letter we got from Nick. He told of being introduced at a party as a “Master Craftsman.” At first he was flattered, but was quickly brought back to reality when the local birdhouse tinkerer was also identified as a “Master Craftsman.” That was in 1982. Nick and I kept up a lively and voluminous correspondence for the next eighteen years. Nick was a GAL member for twenty-three years.

As a kid, Nick was in a rock band with his big brother called The Hatfields, and they actually put out a single in the ’60s. He also did a stint in a hippie combo modeled along the lines of Captain Beefheart’s Magic Band. His later musical taste ran to playing Japanese flutes. He worked as an amateur luthier, and then began the enormous project of singlehandedly building a good-sized wooden sailboat. He had completed a lot of the fittings and had a good start on the hull when a fire at the space he was renting deferred his dream. He often wrote of his plan to sail to Bora Bora and Tahiti.

But he did get around. He spent a summer hiking the Pacific Crest Trail, and recently he had discovered sea kayaking. He was an avid fly fisherman and had some articles published in fishing magazines. And remember the big hoo-ha about the Mojave Phone Booth a year or two ago? Nick was the discoverer of the Mojave Phone Booth. It’s a long story, but a well-documented one.

Photo by Dale Blindheim.

Nick was a GAL True Believer. We published many of his articles over the years, and he served for a time as an Associate Editor of American Lutherie. His academic and practical knowledge of botany and wood anatomy was particularly valuable. He was our go-to guy for all wood identification questions and was the major contributor to our book Lutherie Woods and Steel String Guitars. He had a special commitment to the Guild’s benefit auction, spending hours tending the preview at conventions, as well as donating many items and paying ridiculous prices for others.

The Guild owes Nick a particular debt of gratitude for talking me into getting e-mail, then hounding me into agreeing to try out a web page for the Guild. Back in the primitive 14.4k days of 1995, he developed the page, got it up on the web, and proceeded to maintain and improve it for another couple years, all as a volunteer. To date we have had more than 170,000 hits on our page, and half our annual income flows through it.

I only saw Nick a few times, at GAL Conventions and once when he came through town on a vacation. Still, he was a close friend. Our correspondence covered everything from God and Man to rock ’n’ roll.

They tell me Nick took his own life in the first days of June. I really can’t believe it. It just does not fit with the rest of the story. It seems a lot more like he’s finally off on that long journey to Bora Bora, and some day he’ll tell me all about it. I’m going to think of it that way.

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In Memoriam: David Rubio

In Memoriam: David Rubio

December 17, 1934 – October 21, 2000

by Paul Fischer

Originally published in American Lutherie #65, 2001 and Big Red Book of American Lutherie Volume Six, 2013

Born in London, David Rubio was educated at Whittingham College, Brighton, and then studied medicine at Trinity College, Dublin, but gave up because of color blindness. His other abiding interest at the time was the guitar, and in particular, flamenco. Self-taught, he spent time playing in London coffee bars before deciding to go to Spain, where he played with traditional singers and dancers.

To supplement his meager income, he began trading wood between guitar makers and, in the process, learned something of the craft and art of guitar making. The hours spent in these workshops was not wasted, and what he witnessed and experienced, further enhanced by his photographic memory, would be put to good use some years later.

He was invited to go with the Rafael de Cordoba ballet company on a tour of New York in the early ’60s, and on completion of the tour, Rubio remained in New York, having met Neste, who later became his wife.

He had been born David Joseph Spinks, but during his time in Spain had acquired the sobriquet “Rubio,” a reference to his pale north European complexion. He later Hispanicized his second given name, Joseph, to José.

It was during this period in the early ’60s that he decided at first to repair guitars, then quickly moved to making them. Working from a garret in Greenwich Village, he built these first instruments on a chest of drawers using tools purchased from Woolworths. The guitars carried the label: “José Rubio Constructor de Guitarras.”

A stroke of good fortune occurred when Julian Bream brought him an instrument for repair and was much impressed by a flamenco guitar just finished.

By the mid-’60s Rubio had made numerous guitars and had a reputation as “the gentleman guitar maker,” a reference to his habit of working in smart clothes. When I joined him in 1969, he still wore a velvet crimson waistcoat and bow tie while working. The connection with Bream led to an invitation to return to England and to use a recently renovated barn on Bream’s estate as a workshop. Rubio warmed to the idea, and in 1967 moved all his equipment (by then very professional) across the Atlantic and took up residence in rural Dorset.

Photo courtesy of Classical Guitar Magazine, UK.

Much influenced by the instruments of Simplicio, Santos Hernández, and Bouchet, by the time he was settled in his new workshop in England, Rubio’s guitars had taken on an identity very much their own, and now carried the label, “David J. Rubio, Luthier.” Working closely with Bream, his reputation and confidence grew rapidly. But it was Rubio’s desire to have his own workshop, and by 1968 he had found a property in Oxfordshire requiring much restoration, but ideal for his purpose. With his usual concern for detail, a 15th-century house with barn was sympathetically converted into an ideal workshop and residence.

Since his early days in Greenwich Village, Rubio had moved back to England, changed workshops twice, and established himself as a leading guitar and lute maker in just five years. That, by any standards, was an impressive achievement and perhaps enough for most people, but not Rubio. At that time, the early music scene was burgeoning, and there was demand for good copies of historical instruments. This was why, in January 1969, I presented myself at his door, informing him that I was a qualified harpsichord maker seeking to extend my experience into fretted instruments. To my surprise and delight, he said his next project was to make harpsichords. When could I start?

Grass never grew beneath Rubio’s feet, so with my experience in harpsichord making, we began an instrument almost immediately and presented it to the customer some months later. Other instruments soon followed — theorbos, vihuelas, citterns, pandora, as well as lutes and guitars.

With the rapidly increasing demand for all instruments, two makers could never hope to satisfy demand, so the decision was made to build another workshop, specifically for harpsichords, and to use the existing one for small fretted instruments. The workforce was increased from two to nine, inevitably putting great pressure on Rubio’s time, so I became manager, which freed him to concentrate on his next project, bowed instruments.

Creating yet another workshop for himself, in 1972 he began making Baroque violins and cellos, later followed by viola da gambas. With his increasing interest in bowed instruments, only a limited number of guitars and lutes were made by him personally; most carried the initials P.F. and a smaller number, the initials K.S. (Kazuo Sato).

By the mid-’70s, Rubio’s thoughts had turned to his long-term future and a desire to return to working solo. In 1979, he left Oxfordshire for Cambridge. As the market for harpsichords declined, his interest turned to the modern violin, and these he continued to make until the last few months of his life. Parallel to violin making, he undertook research into the varnishing techniques of the Cremonese masters, as well as acoustic testing for guitars and other instruments. For this work, Cambridge University conferred on him an honorary master’s degree.

During his years in Oxfordshire and Cambridge he made a relatively small number of guitars and lutes, but come the ’90s, his restless energy brought him full circle and back to his first choice, this time to something of a hybrid among guitars, the 8-string guitar, but not in its more usual form. In collaboration with the guitarist Paul Galbraith, an instrument using an asymmetric fingerboard and bridge, such as was used on the orpharion of the 17th century, was developed and christened the Brahms guitar.

The many and varied instruments made by David Rubio will, of course, remain as a testament to his creative energy and talent, and so will the many younger makers who were influenced by his ideas, inspired by his achievements, and encouraged by his example.

David Joseph Rubio died of cancer in his workshop on October 21, 2000. He is survived by Neste, and his daughter, Benita, from an earlier marriage.