The Mothership
The Fender Gemini was never just a guitar to me.
It was always the Mothership.
My first guitar.
The guitar of real dreams: acoustic, glossy black, huge. When I first saw it, I thought nothing more serious, more definitive, could possibly exist. This project was born with her in mind — and I mean that literally.
I remember everything:
the first painful barre chords, that slim neck, the comfortable radius that felt like it was designed to teach you without asking permission.
It was a constant source of joy, because it played right away. The first songs took shape on it — still rough, still innocent, but already real. And that sound… warm, big, almost excessive, the unmistakable voice of an ’80s dreadnought.
To me, it felt like a highly refined, high-performance, almost luxurious guitar. A grown-up instrument, even though I was anything but grown up. A studio guitar, maybe too heavily finished — but it smelled good.
It was everywhere at parties. We passed it around the way important things are passed: without ceremony. Davide “Cavallo” played it. Nelide did. Leo too. It moved, it lived, it did its job. It was also the first guitar my brother ever played. Even today, that fact outweighs any technical specification.
But like all great beginnings, it wasn’t all light.
The Gemini was also the source of huge frustrations.
It suffered my teenage mistreatment — yes, the infamous G-string wrench incident. Something I can laugh about today, but back then was the outlet of an introverted, impatient character, unable to stay gently inside beautiful things without trying to bend them. And yet, it always stayed.
For me, Fender was never about Strats or Teles. When I think of Fender, I think of her. The Gemini. The Mothership. The guitar that takes you at the beginning and says, “Alright. Now let’s see if you’re serious.”
Today, it rests. I spare it the strain of staying under tension without being played. It’s a late form of respect, but a sincere one. Maybe one day I’ll entrust it to Daniele for a proper, philological restoration — the kind you reserve for things you don’t want to forget, but don’t want to misuse either.
For now, it stays there. Silent. Present.
Goodbye, training ship.
Thank you for teaching me everything — even the things I didn’t yet know I needed to learn.
