Adventures in Guitar Center incompetence

[MusiquedeReve]

Well, I needed two cables, XLR-female to TRS-male

The only local shop that would have Mogami Gold cables (that I know of) is Guitar Center

So, I went on GC’s website and it showed that the cables were “in stock” at the one nearest to me — just to be sure, I called the local GC to ask if they had two of them - the salesperson stated they only had one - ok, I asked him to set it aside for me and he said he would - I bid him adieu and told him I would be there within a couple of hours

I then checked the GC website for the GC about 45 minutes from me and they also listed the cables as being in stock - so, I called them and they said they only had one in stock so ok, I asked him to set it aside for me and he said he would - I bid him adieu and told him I would be there within the hour

All was right with the world…

I then drove to the GC furthest away and actually found someone to help me, told them I called ahead and was there to pick up the cable apparently the person helping me was the manager and she informed me that while "technically" it was in stock, it was in the "do not sell/broken bin” and that it stays in their system as "in stock" — she actually asked me if I still wanted it — yeah sure, sell me all your broken gear please


I then made my back back towards home to stop at the GC closer thereto — I found a salesman and told him I was there to pick up the cable - he stated he remembered talking with me on the phone and asked me to give him a couple of minutes - a few minutes later, I saw him walking back to the register with a cable - however, although he did have “a cable” with him, it was not “the cable” — apparently, the he thought I said XLR-male to TRS-male on the phone

What a wasted afternoon…feel free to share your stories as misery loves company :FM

PS-Oh, to relate it to PRS, a man walked in with his son and a salesperson approached them and asked if they needed help - the man replied that his son just started teaching him guitar and he was looking for a "beginner" guitar - the salesperson says "No problem" and the son tells the dad to get a PRS - the salesperson grabbed a guitar that was in a rack behind the counter - the "beginner" guitar he handed the gentleman: PRS CE 24 -- not exactly a beginner's guitar but who am I to judge - once he plays it, there is no turning back

 

[archtop]

Isn't the CE 24 the Core model you begin with until you advance to a Private Stock?

 

[John K]

My first PRS was a CE24!

Absolutely wasn’t my first guitar though! That came from a pawn shop in Houston on the cheap.

 

[MusiquedeReve]

Isn't the CE 24 the Core model you begin with until you advance to a Private Stock?

Like I said, the man said he just started having his son teach him guitar

I have no qualms with how anyone spends their money - and god knows GC needs the influx of cash

I wish that guy godspeed

My first PRS was a CE24!

Absolutely wasn’t my first guitar though! That came from a pawn shop in Houston on the cheap.

I was waiting for him to try out a guitar equipped with a Floyd Rose

 

[Gnarmageddon]

I had to dig deep into my Reddit archives for "My Guitar Center Story". And though many users said this was farcical, that this would never happen, that it was exaggerated for internet clout, etc., I assure you this happened as described. How else would I remember it?

This is a long post. So you know, Yonder Be Draggones and adult language/situations...

_______

One fine October evening some fifteen years ago, I was running to rehearsal. Late, as usual. The weather was bad, the Detroit evening traffic was worse and, of course, I had maybe a pair-and-a-half of usable sticks – meaning the only possible place to quickly grab a few pairs on the way was (foreboding music goes here) Guitar Center.

And as you very well know, nothing ever happens quickly at Guitar Center.

I beelined past Pro Audio, hung a sharp left at the display of Squier J-Bass knockoffs and stuck the landing in the drums section, practically hurdling that twelve-year-old who is always there playing v-drums for hours with no parental supervision. Arriving at the counter with a final gymnastic tumble, my heart sank. Because “Rick” was there. I don't remember his actual name, but we've all encountered GC employees like him and I'd wager that, statistically speaking, the majority are named Rick.

I knew from previous experience that Rick used to be a drum tech for one or several arena rock bands of the 70's and 80's. You know the kind: Foghat. Triumph. Styx. Or, probably more likely in Rick's case, the bands that opened for them for a few dates in Ohio. Rick had a photo album under the counter of tour pictures and would break it out to give you, the customer, an unrequested whistle stop tour of his existence before beginning life anew in music retail... of which I had no time or interest for. Not tonight, not ever.

“Hey, can I get four pairs of Vater 3A Nylon Tip?” hoping he'd notice that my heaving breathing and overall “motivated” presence meant I was not there to do anything but pay for the requested items and get the **** on with my evening. He starts reaching under the counter and I'm thinking, “Good god, if you show me pictures of the time you got a beer for Ainsley Dunbar or whatever, I'm going to cut off that ponytail that the remainder of your hair is holding on to so dearly.”

But it wasn't the photo album. It was a pair of drum sticks. Not the brand, size or quantity I requested, but at least drum sticks. This was actually an unusually good start for Rick. We weren't far now. “Check theeeese out”, he brayed, presenting them as if they were bejeweled and wrapped with royal velvet. I looked down. They were those baseball bat sticks. The black ones. “The **** are those?” I snarled. “Vater. 3A. Nylon. Four pairs, please.”

“Nah, man, check THESE out! The new Ahead Rick Allen pro model. I got a pair advance from Ahead. They come out next month. You can't even buy them yet.”

“Rick Allen pro model?” I asked.

“Yeah, man.” Rick replied, smug and self-satisfied.

“Why are they sold in pairs?”

“What? What do you mean?” Rick appeared confused.

“I mean, Rick Allen is the drummer for Def Leppard. He has one arm. Famously, I might add. Why would his signature model be sold in pairs when he has one arm?”

Rick bypassed mildly annoyed, skipped somewhat embarrassed and went right to blood-thirsty rage. “Dude, that is FUCKED UP!” he bellowed in disbelief.

“What's fucked up about that?” I shot back in surprise, “Rick Allen has one arm. Check the internet, it's true. Why would a model that was designed FOR a one-armed drummer be sold in sets of two?”

His carotid arteries bulged. His forehead glistened. Rick was genuinely upset. “Well, where's your pro model, tough guy?” I'm now equal parts amused, annoyed and late. “It's right behind you. My stage name is '3A Nylon'. Can I get four pairs? I guess they didn't send me any this month.”

Now, I get that by now I'm probably coming off pretty smarmy to Rick, but that doesn't explain nor excuse what happened next. Rick is now literally out from behind the little glass counter and about three inches from my face. It should be mentioned that, to this day, I remember that he had clearly eaten something with tuna fish. He buried his index finger in my sternum and gave that cliched little 'push' in a sad bid to establish some dominance.

“I should kick your ass for saying that, motherfucker.”

“Saying what? Saying that Def Leppard's drummer has one arm?”

“For being a little punk ***** who needs to learn some respect.”

“Ah, I see. I get it now. So instead of coming to your shitty store to get drumsticks, I'm going to get a life-lesson in respecting my elders, whether they have both arms or not.”

Rick cocked his fist just as his manager came walking up hurriedly to diffuse the situation. “I'm the manager here, can I help you?” he asked putting his forearm between us as if that would help. “Yes, you can help. I'm going to repeat my original request a fifth time in hopes of exchanging money for a product behind your counter. Vater 3A Nylon. Four. Pairs.”

At this point and clearly unbeknownst to him, Rick had options. Rick could have painted me as the aggressor. Rick could have calmed the **** down. Rick chose neither and instead went with, “This fucking punk made fun of one of metal's best drummers ever. He doesn't know **** about what it's like to get through hard times. He's just wants to make cute little jokes and get the **** beat out of him!” The manager looked at me as if to say, “what the hell?” and offered a mere shrug in response, adding “I asked for four pairs of sticks and he started going off about a one-armed drummer's pro model. Now he wants to fight me about it.”

The story doesn't really have much of an end, sadly. The manager asked Rick to go wait for him in the back, sold me my sticks at a very handsome discount (I stocked up), apologized, and presumably fired Rick that night. I made a point to pay cash, as I could picture Rick going through the credit card receipts and stalking me everywhere I went. And Guitar Center still sucks, I still avoid it unless there is simply no other option. If you EVER encounter a guy in one of those Guy Fieri bowling shirts with the embroidered flames, rocking a ponytail and a bald spot, showing off Polaroids of him on the road with Grand Funk Railroad, don't ask him for anything.

 

[Gnarmageddon]

As a footnote, my recently acquired CE24 and first foray into the wild, wonderful world of PRS Guitars is in some small part thanks to Guitar Center. I have been eyeballing these meat machines for a while and adding a Schecter Temptest Custom to my arsenal last year stoked a new love for archtop / capped guitars that are more infused with tradition. The local GC in Queens had a used CE24 so I figured why not, go plug in on a slow day and get better acquainted with the overall instruments' feel.

Said CE24 was graded on their website's "used" section was graded as "great" at a price of $1699. And while structurally sound, it definitely had all the markings of a well-loved, well-traveled guitar. A few scuffs through the finish, a couple deeper indentations on the back. Anyhoozits, I plugged into a classic 5150 stencil-face head and a Marsha 212 for a bit and was really loving it. I had more in the bank and was ultimately planning on a Custom 24 but I decided to try lowballing 'em based on the very over-stated condition. I said 1500 out the door incl. tax (that's a good $100 here in NY) and they bit.

So I still have money saved up for the Custom 24, AND I've got this nice pre-loved CE24 to get more familiar with. So win, win, win. Maybe a small redemption tale from our friends over at GuitarHell.

 

[MusiquedeReve]

I had to dig deep into my Reddit archives for "My Guitar Center Story". And though many users said this was farcical, that this would never happen, that it was exaggerated for internet clout, etc., I assure you this happened as described. How else would I remember it?

This is a long post. So you know, Yonder Be Draggones and adult language/situations...

_______

One fine October evening some fifteen years ago, I was running to rehearsal. Late, as usual. The weather was bad, the Detroit evening traffic was worse and, of course, I had maybe a pair-and-a-half of usable sticks – meaning the only possible place to quickly grab a few pairs on the way was (foreboding music goes here) Guitar Center.

And as you very well know, nothing ever happens quickly at Guitar Center.

I beelined past Pro Audio, hung a sharp left at the display of Squier J-Bass knockoffs and stuck the landing in the drums section, practically hurdling that twelve-year-old who is always there playing v-drums for hours with no parental supervision. Arriving at the counter with a final gymnastic tumble, my heart sank. Because “Rick” was there. I don't remember his actual name, but we've all encountered GC employees like him and I'd wager that, statistically speaking, the majority are named Rick.

I knew from previous experience that Rick used to be a drum tech for one or several arena rock bands of the 70's and 80's. You know the kind: Foghat. Triumph. Styx. Or, probably more likely in Rick's case, the bands that opened for them for a few dates in Ohio. Rick had a photo album under the counter of tour pictures and would break it out to give you, the customer, an unrequested whistle stop tour of his existence before beginning life anew in music retail... of which I had no time or interest for. Not tonight, not ever.

“Hey, can I get four pairs of Vater 3A Nylon Tip?” hoping he'd notice that my heaving breathing and overall “motivated” presence meant I was not there to do anything but pay for the requested items and get the **** on with my evening. He starts reaching under the counter and I'm thinking, “Good god, if you show me pictures of the time you got a beer for Ainsley Dunbar or whatever, I'm going to cut off that ponytail that the remainder of your hair is holding on to so dearly.”

But it wasn't the photo album. It was a pair of drum sticks. Not the brand, size or quantity I requested, but at least drum sticks. This was actually an unusually good start for Rick. We weren't far now. “Check theeeese out”, he brayed, presenting them as if they were bejeweled and wrapped with royal velvet. I looked down. They were those baseball bat sticks. The black ones. “The **** are those?” I snarled. “Vater. 3A. Nylon. Four pairs, please.”

“Nah, man, check THESE out! The new Ahead Rick Allen pro model. I got a pair advance from Ahead. They come out next month. You can't even buy them yet.”

“Rick Allen pro model?” I asked.

“Yeah, man.” Rick replied, smug and self-satisfied.

“Why are they sold in pairs?”

“What? What do you mean?” Rick appeared confused.

“I mean, Rick Allen is the drummer for Def Leppard. He has one arm. Famously, I might add. Why would his signature model be sold in pairs when he has one arm?”

Rick bypassed mildly annoyed, skipped somewhat embarrassed and went right to blood-thirsty rage. “Dude, that is FUCKED UP!” he bellowed in disbelief.

“What's fucked up about that?” I shot back in surprise, “Rick Allen has one arm. Check the internet, it's true. Why would a model that was designed FOR a one-armed drummer be sold in sets of two?”

His carotid arteries bulged. His forehead glistened. Rick was genuinely upset. “Well, where's your pro model, tough guy?” I'm now equal parts amused, annoyed and late. “It's right behind you. My stage name is '3A Nylon'. Can I get four pairs? I guess they didn't send me any this month.”

Now, I get that by now I'm probably coming off pretty smarmy to Rick, but that doesn't explain nor excuse what happened next. Rick is now literally out from behind the little glass counter and about three inches from my face. It should be mentioned that, to this day, I remember that he had clearly eaten something with tuna fish. He buried his index finger in my sternum and gave that cliched little 'push' in a sad bid to establish some dominance.

“I should kick your ass for saying that, motherfucker.”

“Saying what? Saying that Def Leppard's drummer has one arm?”

“For being a little punk ***** who needs to learn some respect.”

“Ah, I see. I get it now. So instead of coming to your shitty store to get drumsticks, I'm going to get a life-lesson in respecting my elders, whether they have both arms or not.”

Rick cocked his fist just as his manager came walking up hurriedly to diffuse the situation. “I'm the manager here, can I help you?” he asked putting his forearm between us as if that would help. “Yes, you can help. I'm going to repeat my original request a fifth time in hopes of exchanging money for a product behind your counter. Vater 3A Nylon. Four. Pairs.”

At this point and clearly unbeknownst to him, Rick had options. Rick could have painted me as the aggressor. Rick could have calmed the **** down. Rick chose neither and instead went with, “This fucking punk made fun of one of metal's best drummers ever. He doesn't know **** about what it's like to get through hard times. He's just wants to make cute little jokes and get the **** beat out of him!” The manager looked at me as if to say, “what the hell?” and offered a mere shrug in response, adding “I asked for four pairs of sticks and he started going off about a one-armed drummer's pro model. Now he wants to fight me about it.”

The story doesn't really have much of an end, sadly. The manager asked Rick to go wait for him in the back, sold me my sticks at a very handsome discount (I stocked up), apologized, and presumably fired Rick that night. I made a point to pay cash, as I could picture Rick going through the credit card receipts and stalking me everywhere I went. And Guitar Center still sucks, I still avoid it unless there is simply no other option. If you EVER encounter a guy in one of those Guy Fieri bowling shirts with the embroidered flames, rocking a ponytail and a bald spot, showing off Polaroids of him on the road with Grand Funk Railroad, don't ask him for anything.

We all have dealt with "Rick" at GC - what a story - loved the detail

Next time, only speak "Rick's truth" and not the actual truth LOL

 

[Gnarmageddon]

Next time, only speak "Rick's truth" and not the actual truth LOL

Yeah, in retrospect I see what a little douchecanoe I was being in my twenties. I could have just said "wow, cool", and made it to practice on time. But then I wouldn't be able to regale you with tales of GuitarHell misery....

 

[Daryl Jones]

I think we've all had encounters like that. Some we can smile at, some just rekindles a burning desire to choke the living crap out of some dipwad that is dire need of it. I haven't been in a dust up in a long time (yay for many reasons, losing not being one of them), but in the long run, nobody actually does win. Whatever internal demon pushes one's buttons to become a jerk like that is anyone's guess. Music is supposed to soothe the savage beast, not encourage it.

 

[DISTORT6]

Music is supposed to soothe the savage beast, not encourage it.

Not if you’re doing it right!

 

[Daryl Jones]

My bad...should have maybe said "aggravate" or just plain old P-O'd