Trying to find the true connection between “Fatdog” (pronounced ‘dawg’) and Subway Guitars is probably buried beneath a myriad of anecdotal adventures featuring proprietor Matt Harra. Fatdog claims to have been known by this moniker for most of his life and a considerable chunk of it has been spent turning Subways Guitars into both a museum and community centre for string pluckers from every corner of the earth.
On the east side of San Francisco Bay lies Berkley, nestled in among tree-lined winding roads and magnificent, Grand Design-worthy family homes. Here sits something of an instrumental anachronism.
Subway Guitars sits proudly among middle class American suburbia with a distinctively gaudy and perhaps even trippy facade reminiscent of the 70’s music scene. Part weatherboard and part stucco-rendered is this large white castle featuring splashes of bright blue daubs, invariably with celestial connotations. In some ways it’s hardly surprising given the owner’s fifty plus years fronting such a curiosity shop of treasures and tales.
Inside, you are immediately confronted with more stringed instruments than you are ever likely to see in such a similarly confined space. It’s the exact opposite of Dr Who’s Tardis - the old Police Telephone Box, where on entering the occupants are transferred to a huge vacuous space belying the exterior dimensions. However, it’s entirely possible the store is actually somewhat larger, but the walls are hidden behind multiple rows of guitar cases.
Along the left there are cases from the prehistoric carpet to the lath and plaster ceiling, each brandishing a piece of tape with scrawling apparently designed to help Fat Dog remember what’s inside. Matt proudly pointed out that they have over 3,000 guitars. It felt like more.
Acoustic guitars were hanging from the ceiling like antique wooden chandeliers, reflecting and transforming what little light entered the store into a cool and colourful sharpness.
To the right, guitars hung high and low, less than a cigarette paper apart, and the floorspace was covered with a bounty of amps and more guitars. Somewhere, camouflaged among the boxes and crates was a workbench-come-sales counter, not that Matt needed that space to do his business. Everywhere else was stand after rack of various new and vintage stringed-lumber, offering only the narrowest of walkways to two-step past the only other two customers able to fit in the store now that I was occupying valuable carpet real estate.
In addition to the various vintage and valuable guitars, some around the store were newer Strat-style and Tele-style unbranded efforts having been built by Subway Guitars aimed at novice to intermediate players. I explained to Fatdog that I fix up guitars in my spare time and was actually looking for an affordable USA made Telecaster or Stratocaster to take back home to Melbourne. With almost cat-like reflexes Matt pointed to two cases and told me to take a look. After tangoing around the store for 10 minutes with the other two customers I found one case contained a USA made Les Paul and the second a Mexican made Stratocaster.
One thing I’ve noticed after various excursions to used guitar stores is the owner’s hearing/memory/eyesight isn’t what it used to be. There are various explanations for this, but I’m fairly certain that at the time, whatever the reason was, it was was worth it.
After the fourth or fifth case I happened upon a beige USA made Telecaster complete with cigarette burn at the headstock. Immediately, I felt transported to another level, almost like uncovering a well-kept secret. The weight and balance, the quality and smoothness of the neck and the feel of the action. The smell. I asked Matt how much he wanted for it. He told me. I might just have to scale back the kids’ present demands.
Unfortunately for me, Subway Guitars’ Point-of-Sales technology is every bit as old as Fatdog, possibly older. I asked Fatdog if he accepted PayWave which drew a blank expression. He continued, almost laughing as he recalled the last time he accepted a cheque was in 1970 something. Cash or cash he explained. It was Saturday afternoon and my flight back to Australia was the next day - no way of raiding an ATM to the extent required. Reluctantly caressing the butterscotch beauty back into its case, and breathing an empty sigh, I relocated the narrow gap and wedged the case back home. So on the bright side, it looked like the kids might get something more than airport Jelly Belly, and I might have to prioritise another trip to California!