For thirty-five years, bestselling author and accomplished musician Jonathan Kellerman has been, as he puts it in his Introduction to this lavishly illustrated, endlessly fascinating volume, “chasing fabulous sound.” The result of that quest is a world-class collection of guitars, mandolins, and other stringed instruments that number more than 120 . . . and counting. Kellerman takes us on a fascinating guided tour through his collection, complete with rich personal histories of his favorite instruments and of the brilliant, often eccentric craftsmen and musicians who brought them to life. It is a record of one man’s lifelong love affair with the guitar . . . and it is much, much more. Whether writing about household names such as Fender, Gibson, Martin, and Dobro or about marques revered by aficionados–D’Angelico, Hauser, Stromberg, and Torres–Kellerman brings to bear the same sure storytelling instincts and keen attention to detail that characterize his bestselling fiction, making each entry a sparkling mini-essay as much to be savored as the sensual photographs that follow. Your fingers won’t be walking through With Strings Attached . They’ll be strumming. Picking. Stroking. And dancing. “Jonathan Kellerman has assembled a stellar cast of guitars that serves not only the history and craft of the great luthiers but also whets the appetite for all of us who are mad about guitars. Long may he collect.” –Andy Summers, from the Introduction Jonathan Kellerman is one of the world’s most popular authors. He has brought his expertise as a clinical psychologist to more than two dozen bestselling crime novels, including the Alex Delaware series, The Butcher’s Theater , Billy Straight , The Conspiracy Club , and Twisted . With his wife, the novelist Faye Kellerman, he co-authored the bestsellers Double Homicide and Capital Crimes . He is the author of numerous essays, short stories, scientific articles, two children’s books, and three volumes of psychology, including Savage Spawn : Reflections on Violent Children . He has won the Goldwyn, Edgar, and Anthony awards and has been nominated for a Shamus Award. Jonathan and Faye Kellerman live in California and New Mexico. Their four children include the novelist Jesse Kellerman. The Power of Love I’m the oldest of three siblings. Several years ago, I asked my mother why she was so much stricter with me than with my sister and brother. Mom thought for a while, then she said, "You took all the fight out of me." Bayside, New York, Spring 1958 Mom: Jonathan, you’re eight. It’s time you learned to play an instrument. Me: Okay. Mom: You should study the violin. Me: I want to play guitar. (Long pause) Mom: The violin’s the most beautiful instrument in the world. Don’t you remember those Jascha Heifetz records I played for you? Me: I want to play the guitar. Mom: Your Uncle Aaron plays the violin. He gets so much enjoyment out of it. Me: Uncle Jack plays the concertina. So what? I want to play the guitar. (Longer pause) Mom: Why the guitar? Me: I like it. Mom: So start with the violin. It’s harder than the guitar and after you master it, you can try the guitar. Me: I want to play the guitar. Bayside, New York, Summer 1958 I begin my first guitar lesson with Mr. Thomas D’Agostino, a stern, adept jazzman who’d clearly rather be gigging at a club than teaching me. My instrument is a flat--back, all--black, World War II—era, no--name Gibson archtop picked up by my beloved violin--playing Uncle Aaron at a Lower East Side pawnshop for fifty bucks. The strings are Black Diamond steels of a gauge sufficient to strut the George Washington Bridge. My hands are barely able to reach around a neck that feels like an ax handle. I practice for an hour every day, learning to sight--read, keeping time with a metronome, wincing at the pain that sears through my not--yet--callused fingertips. I struggle with scales. Strain to learn chords. Occasionally, I’m able to finger notes without setting off discordant buzzes. Barre chords are far beyond my stretch. F major becomes a dreaded enemy. Finally, after several weeks, I’m allowed by Mr. D. to venture into the musical wilderness, clunking my way through "Skip to My Lou," "Red River Valley," "La Paloma." I am nine years old. Bored, distracted, aching, plagued with self--doubt about this torturous process that I have initiated. Happy. I’m old enough to have grown up with the radio. Much as kids today browse cyberspace, a good deal of my spare time from the age of three on involved twirling the dial of an old Philco the size of a refrigerator. My dad worked two jobs and my mom was busy raising my sibs. Anything that kept me out of their hair was welcome. Hours of audio -exploration took me interesting places, creating an open--minded approach to music that has remained with me. Genres mean nothing; I can appreciate anything from opera to gagaku to rap, as long as it’s -done well. But one unifying factor has typified my f