Stang Your Ground: An Impassioned Tribute To The Fender Mustang

Your sultry, smoky voice is like a siren’s call, and the graceful curves of your body speak to the talents of some unknown sculptor. Your dark mystique can’t be defined – what is it about you? We don’t know, but we are somehow attracted. We find ourselves wanting to reach out, wrap our hands around your slender neck and feel your life tones pulsing through it. You make us feel so … dirty.

Oh yes, Fender Mustang, you of all guitars deserve the prize, the highest honors in beauty, style and elusive mystery. From your narrow, subtle physique to your sporty racing stripes, you are most unfairly overlooked. But pout not; you have been in the hands of many suitors who were, like you, misunderstood, underrated and praised only by those who are truly discerning. Let their favor be your reward.

You remember Kurt Cobain, don’t you? He was your tortured martyr-artist, and how effortlessly you bore the weight of his tormented passion. You unleashed reckless, animalistic fury from your vintage single-coil pickups, and your hoarse, throaty voice channeled his rage. Steve Malkmus fell for you, too, but his confused, erratic and anguished musings did not confuse you. Your unique floating-bridge tremolo system handled his off-kilter rants, wild outbursts and lethargic meanderings with the skill of a seductress. You tolerated Black Francis and his psychotic explosions, what a daredevil you are! Your rare, ¾ length torsion bar must ache from the strain. Graham Coxon’s hands touched you as well, but you became his counterpart without reservation, steadily keeping up with his curious, explorative nature. It is known that he even fooled around with your obtusely-contoured brother, Telecaster, but were you jealous? Certainly not. You could flaunt your curvaceous basswood body and shatter anyone’s devotion to that squared-off chunk of lumber.

Oh Mustang, how unfair that others remain in the spotlight. Your loud, overly pronounced sister, Stratocaster, is easily the more outspoken, the more thought-of, and it is tragically true, the more popular. But people are fools, aren’t they? Veterans and newcomers, who would think each could be as easily tricked, conned into their misguided preferences? Clapton? His talent only barely forgives his lack of sight, he unwisely chooses you second. Hendrix was a willful one, but also it seems a follower of your sibling’s more obvious guile. And the young and naïve, gleefully discovering your kind for the first time, they flock to your long-horned counterpart one by one, don’t they? None of them having the temper or the discretion to notice their choices, they just dive like children to the one whose reputation they’ve already heard of. A catty bitch, that Stratocaster.

And don’t even get us started on your arrogant, obstinate cousin, Gibson Les Paul, who is grabbed up by the unwitting, calloused hands of the working class. They are more willing to accept what is popular rather than notice what is subliminally divine; they will fall easily for what throws itself across their laps before they will notice what patiently sits, waiting to be discovered.

Fear not, noble and graceful Mustang: your sleek, slender contours and jubilant color scheme will outshine your foes as long as there are observant eyes that appreciate rare beauty. Your strange, dual pickup switches and the soft buzz you make when turned at a certain angle will fascinate those who care to investigate beyond surface-level glamour. And most importantly, your eclectic, ringing feedback and course, growling tone will excite music lovers whose ears are discerning enough to notice your quaint subtleties. Sing, valiant Fender Mustang, we’re listening.