One night after a show, a kid came up to the stage, eyeing the battered Fender. "Man," the kid said, "where do you get a sound like that?"

"It hums," the clerk warned. "Like a beehive in a thunderstorm."

The amp didn't just play the note; it exhaled it. The sound was thick, warm, and slightly broken at the edges—the kind of tone you couldn’t buy in a shiny box from a catalog. It carried the ghosts of every dive bar and garage it had ever lived in.