By Lindsay Toler
By Chad Garrison
By Allison Babka
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By Jake Rossen
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By Kelsey McClure
By Lindsay Toler
Tom Bills takes tight hold of a wadded ball of cotton and rubs on another coat of insect resin, moving in continuous circles, turning the guitar's wood luminous. It's the first of 21 layers, a French polish that dates back centuries.
The rest of this guitar breaks the rules.
Its front gleams smooth and unbroken; its hole hides where no one would look: on top of its curved side.
Just 27, Bills is one of a handful of iconoclasts challenging the guitar's traditional contours and bracing. He makes his unsettling Genesis guitars in his basement workshop in Affton, and they sell for $4,500 minimum.
He also crafts traditional archtop jazz guitars that collectors are paying $10,000 to own. But selling to collectors saddens him a little. He knows they'll cherish the object -- but he builds it for the sake of the sound.
In the 1850s, C.F. Martin Sr. developed the X brace that's still used on virtually every steel-string guitar. Structurally, it's solid. Tonally, it adds nothing. Bills uses arching, sculpted braces instead, deliberately directing the energy of each string vibration. He graduates the thickness of the wood; he curves perimeter bars to narrow the high-frequency vibrations, limiting resistance.
He also puts the hole on the side whenever he dares, leaving the entire length of the guitar front free to vibrate. The method's labor-intensive, but not even the traditionalists can deny its fuller, more resonant sound.
"A hole in front cuts the guitar in half; from the bottom of the hole to the neck is dead as a vibrating space," Bills explains. "Only part of the bass gets transmitted, and the ear has to hallucinate to complete the bottom notes."
His gray-green eyes shine like a cat's. He can talk like this for hours, passion pushing aside his usual shy diffidence. Squatting by a just-finished guitar, he plucks a string. "See how wide it gets?" he asks, pointing to the arc of blurred motion. "Theoretically, when you pull a string horizontally, the ends shorten. That tension causes the bridge to rock, driving the energy to the top of the guitar."
He started thinking about energy when he studied with master luthier Boaz Elkayam, an Israeli with the intensity and flamboyance of his Sephardic ancestors. Elkayam travels the world, lutherie tools strapped to his motorcycle. He appeared at the Sheldon Concert Hall guitar festival several years ago with a lavishly inlaid $60,000 baroque classical guitar, and people clustered around it, oohing. Elkayam walked up and, for some reason, zeroed in on Bills:
"You think you could make something like that?"
Not knowing he was speaking to the master, Bills said yeah, he thought he could. Later he told Elkayam his theories about bracing. Elkayam nodded once, his fierce black eyes flashing:
"Come to Baja and study with me."
Bills, who'd barely ever left Affton, flew to California, walked across the border, took a bus down the peninsula and got lost in a barrio. Elkayam had no address and no phone; he lived on top of a mountain in a pavilion for which he'd built walls. Ten hours later, lightheaded and parched because he was scared to drink the water and he'd used up his cash in bribes, Bills stumbled into the bar where they were to meet and collapsed in a chair. Minutes later the master walked in, also ten hours late, because the Baja race had closed the road.
The next morning they started work, ocean breezes flowing through the pavilion, sunlight streaming across the wood. "He does mostly everything the old way, no power tools," says Bills. "He told me to work in places where they grow grapes for wine because the humidity's stable."
Affton isn't known for stable humidity, and the locals prefer beer. But Bills never planned on making guitars.
He wanted to be a jock.
All through school, he tried. He finally wound up on a hockey team, but he was lousy. He played anyway. And when a girl said he had a nice voice, he should try out for the Lindbergh High choir, he rolled his eyes.
He showed up at the audition unprepared. Pressing her lips together, the director suggested that he sing "America the Beautiful." He shrugged; why not?
He sang one line, and the auditorium fell silent.
It was his first clue.
Next he heard two guys jamming Pink Floyd and begged for a guitar for his seventeenth birthday. His parents bought him a plywood special, assembled in Korea.
He went off to Northeast Missouri State (now Truman State University), joined a frat, found a girlfriend, drifted away from music. Christmas of his junior year, he sat down at the kitchen table and told his mom he was wasting his time. One week later, he'd hauled his stuff home and enrolled in jazz studies at Webster. His grades shot up to A's.
Tuition was steep, though, and he couldn't afford the required jazz guitar. So he decided to make one.
Everybody laughed, said it was too hard. But he took his time, learned how to curve the top, hook the strings to a tailpiece, arch them over the bridge for a thick, liquid sound.