I’ve owned several PRS guitars. Each one arrived flawless—immaculate finishes, precise fretwork, effortless playability. From the outside, they looked like the perfect fit. But time after time, they left me cold.
It’s hard to explain how a guitar that checks every box still doesn’t speak to you. Maybe it’s the way PRS straddles the line between vintage and modern. Maybe it’s the hyper-refinement that, while admirable, seems to sand away the rough edges where emotion lives.
I tried. I really did. I wanted to love them. I even told myself they were “smart” guitars to own—respected, versatile, investment-worthy. But music isn’t made with checklists.
There was no connection. No spark. No grit beneath the gloss. While others praise PRS as the ideal hybrid, I found them to be a little too perfect—and not in a way that moved me.
I need imperfections. I need guitars with stories in their woodgrain, attitude in their tone, tension in their soul. My R6 has that. So does my Clapton Strat. So do the voices I hear when looping a Psalm into a three-beat progression at Green Movement.
I’m letting go of the idea that a great guitar is just about quality. For me, greatness includes character, friction, and a bit of mystery.
So here’s to the PRS guitars that came and went. You were perfect on paper—but I play from the heart.