Even though I play guitar, I hesitate to call myself a guitarist, because that term tends to conjure an attitude that I’m not a fan of. Especially if we’re talking about rock (whether it be indie, arena, or roots varieties) or metal (whether it be death, black, or thrash varieties).
My aversion to “guitarist” is largely due to the names of some guitarists and products. Is that shallow? Maybe, but the only reactions I can imagine to some names are rolled-eyes-with-sharp-nose-exhale or giggle-like-a-13-year-old-boy-and-say-dude-that’s-awesome.
So what’s in a name?
Well, before his band, Pantera, was badass Southern metal, good ol’ Dimebag was pushing a different image:
Diamond Darrell Lance. How frightening.
The Peavey Triple XXX, complete with a mudflap girl faceplate. The name Triple XXX makes it “XXX XXX XXX,” though, right?
Born in the 70s, this one has grown and waned in popularity.
Oh, that cute bee just pollinated a flower! The miracle of life!