Gimli bought a baritone
So.
It’s here.
After months of ranting, financial calculations, existential crises, scale-length debates, string gauge discussions that made me sound like a NASA engineer with emotional damage…
…the white baritone monstrosity has arrived.
And first of all: this thing is not a guitar.
No. This is a weather event.
I picked it up and immediately my brain went:
“Ah yes, this is what happens when a bass and a guitar have a child during an apocalypse.”
Thirty inches. Thirty. That’s not an instrument anymore, that’s a landmass.
And because the universe enjoys comedy, it arrived tuned to F#. Which means the first chord I hit sounded less like music and more like:
“WARNING: tectonic movement detected.”
I’m not even joking — this thing doesn’t play notes so much as it summons. The low end isn’t heard, it’s experienced. I hit one power chord and suddenly understood why doom metal musicians look like they’ve seen ancient truths.
And the funniest part? After all the obsessive theorising… the stock 14s actually feel… kinda good?
Which means I spent weeks spiralling about string gauges only for the guitar to arrive and go:
“Calm down, idiot. I was built for this.”
Now granted, I’ll probably still experiment. Maybe tune it up to B or A. Maybe eventually throw on some Skinny Top Heavy Bottoms. Maybe fully commit to becoming the human embodiment of a fuzz pedal.
But right now? Right now I’m just enjoying the sheer absurdity of this enormous white cryptid sitting in my room.
And yes… it may end up being named Cosmo’s Echo.
Because after everything — losing Cosmo, surviving 2025, vanishing from civilisation for chunks of time, trying to glue myself back together with music and sarcasm and found family…
…it feels right.
Not in a dramatic way. Just… quietly right.
Like something continuing. Like resonance. Like sound lingering after the source is gone.
Which is weirdly poetic for what is essentially:
“hehe long guitar go BRRRRRR.”
And honestly? That’s the beauty of it.
Life can be devastatingly complicated and unbelievably stupid at the exact same time.
One moment you’re contemplating grief, mortality, the collapse of the modern world…
…and the next you’re sat cross-legged on the floor going:
“this riff fucks actually.”
So yes. The baritone saga is complete.
Until I inevitably buy pedals. Or another one. Or both.
Because apparently my mid-thirties arc is:
emotionally exhausted swamp wizard with extended-scale guitars.
And frankly?
There are worse things to become.















