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It is with great sadness that we announce the recent passing of our coworker, Albert Persons, who served as our resident photographer for nearly fifteen years. Albert was 76. Like other long-term members of our staff, Albert was a loyal customer for many years before he became part of our team—in fact, Albert recently reminded us it had been thirty years since he first darkened our door in 1996. Albert was a tremendous fan of music, and he displayed a keen instinct and appreciation for high quality guitars, as well as a powerful curiosity for the potential of any guitar-adjacent fretted instrument. Needless to say, he was in good company around here! Indeed, the depth of Albert’s passion for photography, music, and the guitar was reflected in his dedication to his work here. He took great care in the presentation of the instruments he photographed; but, it was also clear that he loved getting to know each one. Walking past his photo studio, there was a fair chance one would hear Albert softly playing a tune on a freshly-photographed guitar that had impressed him; and, on some occasions, he could be heard singing along with a surprising degree of skill that he otherwise never brandished. Like the man himself, Albert’s approach to making music was gentle and unassuming, but, most importantly, earnest.
An Alabama native, Albert came of age in the dynamic cultural turmoil of the Deep South in 1960s America. In some respects, Albert’s youth was defined by a frustrating inability to reconcile the inclusivity of his artistic inclinations with cultural norms of the community around him (and, of course, a vast swath of the nation, too). Albert once recounted that, even as a small child in the ‘50s, he was confused and angered by the injustice of segregation that he witnessed in his day-to-day life. For example, to 6-year-old Albert observing separate entrances at his local cinema, it just didn’t make any sense that two groups of people who all wanted to see the same movie had to do so on different terms! (Alas, as is so often true, it takes the unique perspective of a young child to cut to the quick of an issue, exposing an unvarnished truth that grown-ups can no longer identify.)
Meanwhile, Albert began taking a keen interest in both music and photography at the same early age. Being somewhat solitary in nature, he was drawn to the escapism and freedom of expression afforded by these pursuits. Then, as many others of his generation can attest, the Beatles’ watershed televised performance on the Ed Sullivan Show galvanized Albert’s interest in playing music, particularly the guitar. More than anything at the time, the music of the Beatles offered an electrifying synthesis of harmony, frivolity, and imagination. To illustrate the heft of the Beatles’ novelty, Albert once described listening to Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Heart Club for the first time. Though hotly anticipated, no one in his area had heard anything on the album prior to its release. Albert got his hands on a copy, took it home immediately, laid the record on the platter, dropped the needle, closed his eyes, and then had his mind blown. He was so entranced that he listened to the album several times in succession before he came up for air—in short, he was completely hooked.
As the ‘60s marched on, Albert became increasingly aware of the tremendous disparity between the progressive counter-culture undercurrents of the art and music in his life and the inequities that existed in the world around him. Thus, perhaps fueled by a mixture of youthful idealism, frustration with his circumstances, and a dose of deference to family legacy (his father served in the Air Force), Albert enlisted in the Army at age 17 and shipped off to the jungles of Vietnam. Looking through the lens of our current globalized age, it is hard to conceive what went through the mind of a teenager from Alabama as he was initially confronted with the harsh realities of fighting a vague war in a distant land. No doubt any enticing patriotic rhetoric evaporated during nights like some of those Albert experienced in the jungle, where, by his account, one was left to contemplate the ever-elusive threat of the enemy while surrounded by the haunting creaking sounds of active bamboo growth.
While serving in Vietnam, Albert further honed his skills as a photographer, including work in aerial photography from helicopters (very risky business, indeed!). It was also during this time that he had his first official encounter with censorship. It was Christmas season and Albert happened to be taking photos at the base’s airfield when a transport plane arrived that was decorated by the face of Santa Claus painted on its rear cargo door. Evidently, when the cargo door was opened, it appeared as if Santa’s mouth was open. While perhaps well-intentioned, the theme of the decoration took on a whole new metaphorical meaning once the ground crews began to feed a line of coffins into Santa’s mouth. As Albert snapped what were probably Pulitzer-worthy photos of this deeply unsettling and damning procession, he was approached by a pair of MPs, who confiscated his camera and destroyed the roll of film on the spot.
Not surprising, his experiences in the war had a transformative effect on Albert, seemingly creating a man who valued self-discipline and order, but who also valued diversity and freedom of expression. On the one hand, Albert was a display of archetypical military monastic living: his apartment was sparsely furnished and immaculately kept, with nothing out of alignment, let alone out of place; he meticulously maintained any equipment he owned, be it his guitars, a computer, a camera, his trusty white 2001 Toyota Camry V6LE (which he bought new), or one of his many swords (after all, what red-blooded American man doesn’t enjoy collecting swords?!); and, he was very concerned about protocol in both work and his personal life.
On the other hand, Albert’s time as a free-thinking soldier participating in a controversial war only served to solidify his self-acknowledged counter-culture hippie instincts. Following his time in Vietnam, he let his hair and beard grow long; he read poetry; he took photographs, he performed music, and his musical tastes began to broaden. He loved folk music and championed singer-songwriters, particularly the likes of Paul Simon and Cat Stevens. In conjunction with his Beatles fixation, Albert also was a huge Jethro Tull fan, as he greatly admired the intelligence behind such unconventional songwriting—in fact, his fandom here was to the point where I think we found just about any media ever produced that relates to Jethro Tull in his estate. A survey of Albert’s remaining CD collection would also quickly reveal that his tastes were certainly not limited to the mainstream! Rather, he amassed a host of classical, jazz, early music, Celtic music, and world music albums. Albert also became more interested in spiritual matters following his time in the Army (which is quite understandable given his experiences and the broader trend of spiritual exploration at the time). At one point, this evidently led Albert to a stint in a sect of Russian Orthodox Christianity; but, ultimately, the Albert we knew had elected to travel the spiritual path of the syncretist, taking ethical and moral cues from many religious perspectives while setting aside the dogma.
Despite his hippie tendencies, spiritual awakenings, and whatever qualms he had with the military institution, Albert remained rightfully proud of his service, and he went on to have a long career working for Veteran’s Affairs, prior to his time here at Maple Street Guitars. It was during this time, in the early 2000s, that I first really connected with Albert, while selling him a Tacoma BF28C Thunderhawk baritone guitar and an accompanying Genz-Benz Shenandoah Compak 300 acoustic amp. Albert had never owned a baritone; but, upon casually strumming the Tacoma, he was floored by its low register and unique presence. At the time, we actually stocked two Tacoma baritone models, the very plain but highly competitive BM6C, and the much fancier BF28C, which featured quilted maple back and sides and a full gloss finish. As I came to learn, Albert didn’t mess around when it came to the purchase of any gear of interest. Accordingly, he instructed me to wrap up both the top-of-the-line BF28C and the Genz-Benz amp. Yet, any thrill of the transaction ultimately took a back seat to the conversation we had in the process, where we learned that we shared many common interests, despite our age gap. I then helped Albert load his new rig into his aforementioned (but then brand-new) trusty white 2002 Toyota Camry V6 LE. We continued to chat in the parking lot for a few minutes before I shook his hand and headed back to work. As I crossed the parking lot, I sensed that my interaction had yielded more than just a sale; rather, as I would soon discover, I had just made a lifelong friend.
In the end, and as I think Albert would agree, the quality of our lives is judged by how we spend our time and with whom. Along that line, perhaps the greatest blessing of operating a small “family business,” like ours, is the fact that one’s definition of family tends to broaden, such that one comes to count employees and members of the community that support the business as family. This is the family that we choose and the family that, in turn, chooses us; and, at the risk of being superstitious, it seems that fate often plays a part. Quite serendipitously, Albert retired from the VA exactly when we happened to be in desperate need of a photographer. Recognizing our dilemma, Albert volunteered to help out, and, in so doing, became a member of our family. We will miss his idiosyncrasies and his unique blend of propriety mixed with a liberal dose of playful mischief in his eyes; we will miss his self-effacing (and self-ascribed) monikers of “Geezer of the Bat Cave,” “Dilbert,”or “Oldan Intheway”; and, I will miss Albert’s invariable, succinct, and Gil Scott-Heron-themed response to my frequent greeting of, “what’s the word?”: “Johannesburg.”
Lindsay, 2026
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