For some reason that I am obviously incapable of divining, Gibson Guitars has just introduced a Joan Jett signature Melody Maker guitar.

It’s not too difficult to understand the allure of a celebrity endorsement but this one is just baffling.  Let’s face it, kids… the venerable Ms Jett is to guitars what Dick Cheney is to hunting.

If I’m your average young guitarist of almost any era, I’m most likely to be male.  While there are probably some people who find Joan attractive, I cannot be counted among them.  What’s the appeal of the guitar for me?  That it will make my vocals sound out of tune?

If I were a young female guitar player, I’m not sure I’d be any more attracted to or enamored of Joan Jett either, with the possible exception of liking her simply because she’s female (like I’m supposed to be for this exercise).

Fender isn’t exactly selling out of Bonnie Raitt Stratocasters and Bonnie can actually play.  And sing.  It doesn’t look like the Hello Kitty guitars are flying off the shelves either.  This says to me that they haven’t figured out how to market to women yet.  What we’re looking at is what men think will appeal to women.

With all that added up, what possible reason would there be for someone to purchase this signature guitar?   Joan Jett is not what you’d call a guitarist’s guitarist (or even a halfway decent guitarist) and she’s not exactly a vocal talent.  She’s just… mildly well-known.  Formerly famous.

I suppose we now need to be on the lookout for the Suzie Quatro Les Paul Special, the Max Klinger/Peter Max clothing line, and the new Little Houses on the Prairie signature homes.  And last but not least, the irresistible lure of Elvis Presley peanut butter - now with BACON!

The inevitable semi-related road story:

I used to do musical comedy.  There were three of us and we did song parodies; like Weird Al but somewhat less family-friendly.  We got a last minute call to open for Joan Jett.  Out of our minds with the possibilities, we accepted and went straight to the gig.  What a great idea, we thought… a musical comedy group opening for a rock star.

The first indicator that things were not going quite as swimmingly as we had hoped came when we were told `do not talk to Joan.’

Ok, no problem then.  We wouldn’t want to offend the headliner by actually speaking to her.  We guessed that she had reached that certain level of fame where you don’t have to actually talk to the peons.  Oh well, we were still getting paid.  We were totally heartbroken, as it were.

Within the first three minutes of the show, internal reflection (x3) revealed why exactly it was that the call for the gig came at the last moment.   We started to wonder exactly how many other acts passed on the gig before we got called.  This was a question much better asked in advance.

Have you ever been to a Joan Jett show?  Of course you haven’t.  Let me paint a picture… take the picture you have of Joan in your mind’s eye, multiply it by a thousand and you have the audience.  Only you’ll have to make a few more subtle adjustments before the picture is completely accurate: the clones ran between twenty and one hundred pounds over Joan’s weight.  They were almost one hundred percent female, uniformly dressed in black (no matter how ill-fitting), and probably drained the local economy of black makeup for six months.

They were also not expecting comedy.  Or music.  Or musical comedy.  Or much of anything that wasn’t Joan Jett.  They indicated this with subtlety, screaming Joan Jett… JOAN JETT… JOAN JETT over and over again.  During the songs.  During the between song patter.  After the set.  Long into the night.  And probably the next few nights for good measure.

My little troupe got permission to borrow the fog machine for our big entrance.  In short, we hit the stage but the fog didn’t.  Thus ended the Great Fog Machine F*-up Streak of our career.  Every time we tried to use fog, it came out at the wrong time or simply failed to perform (fog Viagra, anyone?).  What we should have done, had we been smart, was to run the fog machine for the entire last song, killing any trace of visibility, so we could escape the nightmare with our lives.  (Had we been smart, we wouldn’t have taken the gig in the first place.)

Not to say the crowd (more accurately classified as a mob) was less than pleasant, but at points we wondered about our physical safety.  Have you ever had a thousand black-clad punk wannabes scream JOAN JETT repeatedly at you while you’re performing?  I sure hope not.  It was like Dawn of the Dead, only less attractive.

Suffice it to say it was rather uncomfortable.  Even the repeated sight of women kissing women failed to liven our spirits. We finished our set (to JOAN JETT… JOAN JETT) and made it home in record time.

My only regret was not being able to say something to Joan.  Like ‘hello.’  That would really get her panties in a knot, wouldn’t it?