And he’d never seen it again. But here it was nearly 30 years later, hanging in a pawn shop, looking exactly as he remembered it. Eddie’s hands were actually shaking as he reached up to take it off the wall. The weight was familiar. The neck felt like coming home. He turned it over and looked at the back of the headstock. There were the letters he’d carved.
EVH Eddie Van Halen. Done with a pocketk knife when he was 16, thinking someday those initials might mean something. That’s a cool old guitar, right? Raymond said, walking over. He’d notice the customer’s interest. Eddie nodded, not trusting his voice for a moment. Yeah, it’s it’s really cool. How much? Raymond’s expression changed.
Ah, that one’s not for sale. Sorry. Eddie looked up. Not for sale. It’s in a pawn shop. I know, but that’s a special piece. It’s got history. What kind of history? Raymond smiled like he was about to share a secret. See those initials on the headstock? EVH. That stands for Eddie Van Halen. The Eddie Van Halen. This was his guitar when he was a kid before he got famous.
Eddie stared at the pawn shop owner. How do you know that? The guy who sold it to me told me the story. Raymond said, “Back in ‘ 74, Eddie Van Halen sold this guitar to a music store here in Pasadena because he needed money for better equipment. The store owner kept it in his personal collection.
When he retired last year, he sold off his collection and I bought this one. It’s authenticated. I’ve got the Providence paperwork and everything.” “Can I see the paperwork?” Eddie asked. Raymond hesitated, then shrugged. “Sure, why not?” He went to a back room and returned with a folder. Inside was a handwritten receipt from 1974 signed by a teenage Eddie Van Halen selling one Tesco Delray guitar to Mel’s Music for $75.
There was also a letter from the music store owner written in 2000 explaining the guitar’s history. Eddie read the documents. They were real. He’d written that receipt himself when he was 19 years old, desperate for cash. So, you can see why I can’t sell it. Raymond said, “This guitar is going to be worth serious money.
” “Eddie Van Halen is a legend. Someday this will be a museum piece.” “What if Eddie Van Halen wanted to buy it back?” Eddie asked carefully. Raymond laughed. “Edddy Van Halen doesn’t know this guitar exists, and even if he did, he probably doesn’t remember it. The guy plays custom guitars that cost thousands of dollars. Why would he care about a beat up old Tesco?” Eddie looked down at the guitar in his hands.
Why would he care? Because this guitar represented a version of himself that no longer existed. A kid who didn’t know if he’d ever make it. Who poured every dollar he had into chasing an impossible dream. Who carved his initials into cheap guitars because he believed despite everything that those initials would matter someday. What if I told you? Eddie said slowly, that I’m Eddie Van Halen and this is my guitar and I’d really like to buy it back.
Raymond stared at him for a moment, then laughed again. Right. And I’m Jimmyi Hendris. Look, I appreciate the joke, but I’ve had a lot of people try to talk me into selling this guitar. You’re going to have to do better than pretending to be Eddie Van Halen. Eddie took off his sunglasses and his baseball cap. Raymond’s laughter died. He looked at Eddie’s face.
really looked and the color slowly drained from his cheeks. “Oh my god,” Raymond whispered. “I carved those initials when I was 16,” Eddie said quietly. “I modified the bridge myself because I wanted a VB system and couldn’t afford to buy one. I moved the pickup selector because the original position was uncomfortable for how I played.
I sold this guitar in 1974 to Mel’s Music for $75 because Van Halen had a gig coming up and I needed money to fix my amp. I’ve thought about this guitar probably a hundred times over the years, wondering where it ended up. Raymond sat down heavily on a nearby stool. You’re really Eddie Van Halen. I really am. And this is really your guitar. It really is.
Raymond looked at the guitar, then at Eddie, then back at the guitar. His dream of owning a valuable piece of rock history was colliding with the reality that the history was standing in front of him asking for it back. I paid $8,000 for this guitar,” Raymond said quietly. Eddie nodded. “That’s fair. I’ll give you$10,000.
” “10$10,000?” Raymond looked up sharply. “It’s worth more than that to me,” Eddie said. “This guitar is part of my history, part of my story. I can’t put a price on what it means, but 10,000 seems fair for your investment, plus some extra for the trouble.” Raymond was quiet for a long moment. Eddie could see him thinking, calculating, wrestling with the decision.
Mr. Van Halen, Raymond finally said, “Can I ask you something?” “Of course. Why does this guitar matter to you? You’ve played on stages all over the world. You’ve got guitars that cost more than my car. You literally have a signature guitar line. Why do you care about this beat up old Tesco?” Eddie sat down on another stool, still holding the guitar.
You know how you said this guitar was going to be worth serious money someday? You’re probably right, but that’s not why it matters to me. He gestured to the guitar in his hands. When I bought this, I was 15 years old. My family had immigrated from Holland. We didn’t have much money, and I was this weird Dutch kid who could barely speak English, trying to fit in by learning to play guitar.
This instrument was everything to me. I practiced on it until my fingers bled. I modified it because I couldn’t afford better equipment. I carved my initials into it because I had this crazy dream that someday Eddie Van Halen would mean something. Eddie ran his hand over the worn finish. Every scratch on this guitar is from those years.
Every modification is a problem I solved with my own hands. This guitar is proof that I existed before I became Eddie Van Halen, the rock star. This is Eddie Van Halen, the kid, the dreamer, the guy who wasn’t sure he’d make it, but kept trying anyway. Raymond was listening intently. I don’t need this guitar, Eddie continued.
I have dozens of guitars, but I want it because sometimes I forget that kid I used to be. I forget what it felt like to not be sure, to be chasing something impossible. This guitar reminds me, it keeps me connected to the guy who started all this. Raymon looked at the guitar in Eddie’s hands, then at the paperwork on the counter, then at Eddie’s face. “Mr.
Van Halen,” Raymond said. “I can’t sell you this guitar.” Eddie’s heart sank. “I understand. I know you paid good money.” “No, you don’t understand,” Raymond interrupted. “I can’t sell you this guitar because it’s yours. It always was yours. I’ve been holding it for you for a year without knowing it.” Raymond stood up and pushed the paperwork across the counter toward Eddie. Take it.
No charge. This guitar should be with you. Eddie shook his head. I can’t do that. You paid 8,000 and I’ll make that back on the story. Raymond said with a smile. Do you know how many times I’m going to tell people about the day Eddie Van Halen walked into my shop and I refused to sell him his own guitar? That’s worth way more than 8 grand.
