The Master’s Touch
John Fischer

Thirty-six years ago I purchased a handmade rosewood guitar built by a Yugoslavian guitar maker named Bozo Padunovac. Better known as “Bozo” guitars, they have been owned by a number of well-known guitar players, among them Leonard Cohen and Leo Kottke. I knew nothing about Bozo guitars until I stumbled on the man’s little studio on State Street in Chicago while I was a college student in the area. My first clue about the quality of his work was the number of older Martin guitars he was selling that people had been willing to part with as trade-ins for one of his guitars. I would often take the train into Chicago just to visit his shop, play his guitars, talk to him as he worked and dream of owning my own Bozo. My final year at school I was able to save up enough money to buy his simplest version – all the quality materials without the fancy inlay work he was famous for. I just wanted the deep rich sound he got as a product of his craftsmanship. I was able to follow the progress of this particular guitar being made and he took great pains to explain everything to me. He was a master who took great pride in his work.

I played that guitar for about ten years and then retired it for a more durable road guitar. Recently I rescued it from storage and a good deal of ill-treatment and took it to a local shop to be completely refurbished. The neck had been broken, the frets were worn down and a lot of the strapping inside was loose. I wrote all my early songs on this guitar and it will be good to get it back.

All of this reminds me of a poem my mother used to love to recite called “The Touch of the Master’s Hand.” It was about an old violin that was having a hard time being auctioned off -- (“One dollar, two dollars; who will make it three?”) -- until a master violinist walked out of the crowd, picked up the instrument, dusted it off, and stunned the audience with the beauty of the hidden music inside. After putting the instrument down, the auctioneer broke the silence by picking up his bidding again: “One thousand, two thousand; who will make it three…?”

And many a man with life out of tune,
And battered and scarred with sin,
Is auctioned cheap to the thoughtless crowd
Much like the old violin.
A "mess of pottage," a glass of wine,
A game -- and he travels on.
He is "going" once, and "going" twice,
He's "going" and almost "gone."
But the Master comes, and the foolish crowd
Never can quite understand
The worth of a soul and the change that is wrought
By the touch of the Master's hand.

by Myra Brooks Welch

PDL