On the first occasion that Bill Puplett returned an instrument to me (a Guild F-50 jumbo acoustic), my reaction was one of astonishment. There seemed to be only two possible explanations: either he’d purloined the unplayable, pudding-sounding original and substituted this sublime replica for it, or I was losing what passed for my mind.
There was simply no resemblance other than physical to the disappointing box I’d handed in. We sat in his workshop, the tiny converted dining room of his bijou cottage in semi-rural Harrow Weald. He then proceeded to itemise the painstaking adjustments and improvements he’d performed. I resolved immediately to bring him my entire collection of instruments for evaluation, setup and modification as necessary.
And so began a relationship and then a friendship that was to last for 30 years. The dining room days ended eventually when Bill was able to construct a purpose-built workshop, cleverly disguised as a double garage adjacent to the cottage. A visit to his premises was to enter a world of tranquillity combined with meticulous organisation. You felt as if you might be in the presence of a Zen master.
An atmosphere of unhurried calm pervaded the room while Radio 3 wafted gently in the background. Workbenches, clients’ instruments and every conceivable spare part known to man (and some hitherto unknown) were arranged in humidity controlled, immaculate order. Of course, the epicentre of this private world was Bill himself, going about his business quietly and at his own unflustered pace.
In tandem with his skill as a luthier and repairer (the term ‘artisan’ scarcely did him justice), an interview with him gave access to a compendium of guitar-based facts that would have embarrassed The British Library. One extraordinary example will suffice as proof of this remarkable repository of knowledge.
At some point during our guitar odyssey, we arrived at my Gibson L-4 reissue. Bill examined the instrument in trademark forensic fashion before declaring himself satisfied that he could improve it: “I don’t want to involve you in unnecessary expense, but I strongly recommend that you replace all of the Kluson machineheads on this guitar.”
I adopted my best poker face and asked for further enlightenment. “Because for a few years Gibson fitted a modified design, which, while looking identical to the traditional items, have been known to fail. Whereupon the four small screws that hold the cover in place are unable to withstand the internal force of the gear failure and the entire machinehead will explode.
“The string can then fly across the guitar with the potential to cause a facial injury. The maker reverted to the original design subsequently, but this particular example was built before they did so.” Remarkably – and unknown to him – this had already happened to my guitar a few years earlier.
Born in September 1946, Bill was considerably more than the sum of his spare parts. As an intensely private individual, few of his clients would have learned of his love of sailing, his talent as a painter and his enthusiasm for snooker. To say nothing of his ability as a guitarist. (This writer must move on swiftly from his support for West Ham United.)
On one occasion, having been taken to hear an underwhelming concert by a jazz guitarist and asked for an opinion, he replied, “I’m sure he’s better than he sounds…”
He also possessed a wicked sense of humour. On one occasion, having been taken to hear an underwhelming concert by a jazz guitarist and asked for an opinion, he replied, “I’m sure he’s better than he sounds…”
It is a special person that draws the guitar Great and Reasonably Good to a funeral. Players as diverse as Johnny Marr, Adrian Legg, John Parricelli and John Etheridge were to be seen in attendance inside the packed chapel.
Bill died on 9 November 2024, aged 78. He will be deeply missed by his partner, Linda, his children, his extended family, his many friends and his hundreds of grateful clients. It’s entirely possible that you may encounter one of the latter along the way – they will be shuffling along in a disorientated state, intoning the words: “What am I supposed to do now?”
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