In 1972 I was touring in Belgium with a musical group. My Martin D-28, which I’d scrimped and saved years for and was so precious to me that I’d had a custom cover made for the hard shell case, joined me on the road. I never let it out of my hands until one day when we performed at a brewery, where union rules prohibited us from handling our own equipment. The hops and barley boys unloaded my lovely guitar from one of their trucks and set it momentarily on the pavement, where seconds later it was completely crushed when the truck shifted and rolled over it.
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