I bought El Padre in 2020. A time when the world felt strange and quiet. COVID had everything shut down. Empty roads. No gigs. No crowds. Just time.
For me, working from home was nothing new. I’d been doing that for years in the marketing and SaaS world. But everything around it changed. The silence felt heavier.
So, I bought a guitar.
And this one stayed.
This was my PRS Guitars Custom 24-08. A 2020 model. A Ten Top. Flame maple that has a special shimmer.
Because every time I look at it now, I see Molly. Our dog.
That came later.
I didn’t see it at first.
But somewhere along the way, the guitar started to carry that with it.
Molly. Our family. Our house.
It stopped being just a guitar and became tied to all of it.
I was divorced. A single dad with two daughters. Then I met Jamie. She had two daughters of her own. We combined households, got married, and built something new together.
Around that same time, my two dogs, Sadie and Max, passed. Seventeen and fifteen. They’d been there for everything. When they were gone, the house felt wrong. Too quiet. No snoring. Zero panting. No barking. The absence of those familiar “fragrant” dog scents – something was missing.
I lasted three days.
As a family, we knew we needed a dog. Not to replace them. You can’t do that. But to fill the space they left behind. To bring life back into the house.
We went to a local shelter. We met what felt like every dog there. Some were too wild, trained, and some just weren’t the right fit for where we were in life. After having dogs that old, we weren’t looking to start over with a puppy.
We were getting discouraged.
I remember asking one of the volunteers if there were any other dogs we should meet. She hesitated and said, “There’s one more. She’s eight. A senior dog. Not sure if that’s what you’re looking for.”
After Sadie and Max, that sounded exactly right.
Enter Molly
Her name was Cinnamon at the time. They brought her out from the back. She walked up to me, jumped up, and put her front paws around me like she’d already decided.
You are mine.
We filled out the application. A few days later, we came back to bring her home. I remember her climbing into the back of the minivan, stepping up onto the seat, sitting down like she’d done it a hundred times, and looking around as if to say, “Where are we going?”
She fit immediately. No transition. No adjustment period. She just became part of us.
The figuring in the maple top, those warm rolling flames, reminds me of Molly’s brindle coat when she’s sitting with her back turned. That same curve. That same quiet presence.
So when I saw EL Padre, it wasn’t just another guitar.
It reminds me of Molly.
And Molly isn’t just a dog. She’s a symbol of that time. Of a new family. Six lives coming together and building something new inside the same four walls.
It’s not something you can explain unless you’ve lived through it.
I didn’t plan for any of it. The family, Molly, or the guitar. But they all arrived around the same time, and they all stuck. Some seasons are like that.
Before El Padre
At the time, I wasn’t lacking for instruments. I had a steady rotation. SGs, Strats, guitars that all had their place.
And then there was my S2 Mira.
That guitar had mojo. Real mojo. The kind you feel the second you plug in. It’d been worked on, upgraded, and lived in. Dave Mannella swapped out the electronics, upgraded the pickups, and turned it into something that felt like an extension of me.
It wasn’t perfect. That was the point.
But before all of that meaning settled in, there was just a guitar I wasn’t sure about yet.
First Impressions: Neck and Feel
The first thing I noticed was the neck.
Pattern Thin.
At the time, I didn’t know if I liked it. I was used to something with more to hold onto. Something that pushed back a little.
This didn’t.
It felt fast. Clean. Almost too easy.
It took time.
But somewhere along the way, it stopped feeling unfamiliar and started feeling right. Now it just disappears in my hand. I don’t think about it anymore. I just play.
Tone and Versatility
El Padre has a brightness to it. A clarity that cuts through. Notes ring out differently. There’s space in the sound.
And then there’s the switching.
Eight combinations. Humbuckers. Split coils. Everything in between.
It should feel like too much.
But it doesn’t.
It feels like options that actually matter. Sounds you can use. Sounds you reach for.
The Pickups: 85/15s
The 85/15 pickups are part of that story.
Named for 1985 and 2015. The beginning of PRS and thirty years later.
There’s something fitting about that. A long view. A sense of time built into the instrument.
They’re clear. Balanced. Honest.
When you split them, they still hold together. When you push them, they respond. They don’t fight you. They don’t hide anything either.
The Build: Core, Ten Top, and Feel
Mahogany body. Maple Ten Top. Rosewood board.
Those are the specs.
But what matters is how it feels when it’s against you. The carved top. The way it sits. The balance.
PRS builds these guitars with a level of precision that almost works against them at first. Everything is exact. Everything is controlled.
Some people hear that and say they feel soulless.
I get that.
I really do.
The Relationship
I once told Matt, our singer, that I didn’t really have a main guitar.
He laughed.
“Of course you do,” he said. “It’s that PRS.”
At first, I didn’t believe him.
When I got El Padre, my Mira had more personality. More history. More feel right out of the gate.
The PRS felt tight. Controlled. Almost too perfect. Like it hadn’t lived yet.
But that changed.
Slowly.
Over time, the guitar opened up. Or maybe I did. Probably both.
The neck settled in. The finish wore in just enough. The little imperfections started to show up.
The mojo came.
It’s like a good pair of leather shoes. At first they’re stiff. Unforgiving. You question if you made the right choice.
Then they break in.
They start to move with you instead of against you. They become yours.
That’s what happened here.
Now when I pick it up, there’s no hesitation. No adjustment period. It just fits.
Even though I still play other guitars, I always come back to it when it matters.
Does it make me a better player?
No.
But it makes me feel like I’m not fighting anything. And that’s everything.
Not a Case Queen
This guitar gets played.
It has scratches. Dings. Wear. The neck gets grimy and needs to be cleaned. It lives a real life.
It was just with Dave Mannella at Main Street Music for some ding repairs on the neck. Which is exactly why, at the last jam session, I reached for Ruby, my 1981 Fender Lead that I “customized” in college.
El Padre isn’t a case queen. It’s a tool.
Every ding tells a story. Late nights. Missed notes. Songs that almost came together. Songs that did.
Every scratch is time spent creating something, even if no one else ever hears it.
That’s what this guitar is.
Not just something to look at. Something to use. Something to live with.
Dave keeps it dialed in and feeling perfect.
I just got it back after somehow managing to put two dings in the neck.
Don’t ask me how.
Would I Gig It?
I’ve never played it live.
Not once.
But if Down on Jane takes the stage again, this is the guitar I’m bringing.
No question.And after all these years, that matters more than anything.