Pete's Les Paul Gold Top
- Darren Godwin
- Feb 15
- 3 min read
You don’t always know when you’ve stumbled onto something quietly extraordinary.
Sometimes you’re just a slightly overwhelmed teenager in a borrowed suit, climbing a staircase to sign an employment contract.
In 1985, fresh into an apprenticeship at Abbey Road Studios, I made the pilgrimage to EMI’s London headquarters at Manchester Square to meet Barbara Rotterova in HR. I was 19, newly minted, and blissfully unaware that the staircase I’d just puffed my way up had already achieved a kind of immortality — appearing on not one but two albums by The Beatles.
At the time, that meant about as much to me as the wallpaper. I was more Duran Duran than Sgt. Pepper; the Fab Four were simply “Dad’s band,” long disbanded before I’d learned to tie my shoes.
Manchester Square, though, had history steeped into its bricks. In the 60s and early 70s, EMI Records and its constellation of labels dominated the musical globe. Executives, producers and hopeful artists drifted through its corridors daily. Legend has it that Marc Bolan of T. Rex fame pestered the suits there so relentlessly that they signed him simply for a bit of peace. Proof, perhaps, that stubbornness occasionally qualifies as strategy.
What I didn’t know then — and what feels rather like discovering a hidden cellar beneath a grand old house — was that Manchester Square housed a modest, largely uncelebrated demo studio. It wasn’t the stuff of glossy brochures. It was functional, tucked away, stocked with drums, an upright pianos and, of course, guitars. Artists would slip in to record rough demos for EMI’s A&R department, hopeful sparks seeking ignition.
Fast forward a few years. A former Abbey Road colleague — affectionately known in certain circles as “Mad Axeman Still” (Peter in Accounts to the payroll department) — acquired a curious relic when EMI began offloading equipment in the late 80s. Among the odds and ends sat a somewhat neglected Gibson Les Paul Deluxe Gold Top, already 10–15 years old at the time.
It had not been cherished. No one had taken responsibility for its upkeep. It had, to put it kindly, fallen from grace.
Today that same Gold Top is nudging half a century in age — and for much of the past 30 years it has slumbered in its case. The reason? It played like an absolute dog.
Peter, to his credit, decided to coax it back into usefulness without erasing its past. A new nut, upgraded tuners, fresh bridge hardware, replacement pickups — all reversible, all respectful. The result? A vastly improved instrument. Not his favourite, perhaps, but no longer a punishment.
Curiosity then crept in: how old was it really? And what might it be worth?
Dating late-60s to early-70s Gibsons is a mildly maddening pursuit. Between 1968 and 1972, Gibson treated serial numbers with the sort of casual ambiguity normally reserved for modern art. Databases offer two or three plausible birth years, shrugging politely at your desire for certainty. Potentiometer codes can offer further clues — tiny stamped numerals inside the electronics cavity hinting at manufacturing dates — though even these are only approximations. Components sometimes sat in factory drawers for months before finding a body.
But here’s where the real intrigue lies. The value of a guitar rarely hinges on age alone, nor even playability. Provenance is king. Who owned it? Who played it? Is there a grainy photograph of it being swung around a stage by someone electrifying?
And that’s where this Gold Top becomes tantalising.
During the 70s, EMI’s roster read like a rock pantheon: Deep Purple, Pink Floyd, Queen, Iron Maiden — and, briefly and explosively, Sex Pistols. It was a decade of swagger, experimentation and very loud trousers.
This particular Les Paul, serial number 951460, would have lived quietly in that ecosystem. Not flung across festival stages, but likely making demo recordings. Chords strummed by hopefuls. Riffs tested. Futures weighed.
There are no glossy tour photos. No dramatic spotlight moments. Just the delicious possibility that some now-famous fingers once rested on its frets while shaping a song that later echoed around the world.
Even Adrian Smith of Iron Maiden has long championed his own early-70s Les Paul Deluxe Gold Top, purchased at 17 for £235 — a princely sum in 1974. These guitars were working tools then, not museum pieces.
Today, the world is awash with technically superior instruments. Modern manufacturing has ironed out many of the quirks and inconsistencies that once defined a Les Paul. Yet something about these old Gold Tops lingers in the imagination.
Perhaps it’s not the wood or the wiring. Perhaps it’s the invisible residue of ambition.
A forgotten demo studio. A staircase walked without noticing. A guitar sleeping in its case for decades, quietly holding its stories.
Hidden gems rarely announce themselves. You simply look up one day and realise you’ve been standing on history all along.
In fond memory. Peter Still 1960-2020
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