My first guitar was horrible. It was a cheap piece of trash called a Symphonic that I would go as far as to say was more of a sonic WMD than a musical instrument. It gave off loads of feedback whenever you got within spitting distance of the amplifier, and when you pair that high-pitched squeal with a 12-year-old’s fingers trying to wrap themselves around “Smoke On The Water,” it was enough to make a single mother wish Plan B pills were available in the ’80s. I had no idea how bad that guitar was, though, at the time. But it didn’t matter to me, honestly, because I didn’t have time to think about “gear.” I was too busy learning how to be a rock star. I remember hearing guys like Tom Morello, John Frusciante, and Dimebag Darrell, and wanting to be able to mimic what I heard. I practiced my scales, I practiced my stance, and I had ambitions that no one could take away from me. I learned their riffs, I imitated their movements, and eventually I joined a band.…