Photograph courtesy of Scott Freeman
I remember clearly the first time I cradled an Everett guitar in my hands. When I strummed the strings, I was instantly seduced by the sweetness of the sound. I owned a vintage Gibson acoustic and I’d played a Martin. But they didn’t play like this. Those were made by man with machine; an Everett was all handmade.
Kent Everett is a master craftsman who built his boutique guitars in a crowded workshop in the northern burbs of Atlanta. When I wrote a story about him for the magazine 25 years ago, he was already an acclaimed luthier in guitar circles. Brad Paisley owned an Everett. So did Gregg Allman. The Indigo Girls’ Amy Ray had three.
As I sat in his shop and played that guitar, I heard the call of the Everett. I told myself, I’ve got to have one of these guitars someday.
When I met him, Kent was about to shift into a new phase. He transitioned from building five guitars a month to building 8 to 10 high-end guitars a year, usually commissions. That allowed him to fully explore his artistic aesthetic as he crafted his guitars. And they were so extraordinary that the demand created a five-year wait on orders.
Kent retired a couple of years ago after building a total of 825 Everett guitars. As time passed, the promise I made to myself lingered in the back of my mind. I even set up an alert for Everett guitars on Reverb, the eBay of musical merchandise. Every so often, one would turn up for sale, but always far out of my price range.
Then it happened. An Everett that I could afford appeared. It was one of Kent’s earlier works, guitar number 107, and still in good condition. But there was a caveat: A crack on the top of the guitar had been repaired. That’s why the price was so low.
As I researched the guitar, I came across Kent’s email address. “You probably don’t remember me, but I wrote the Atlanta magazine story about you many years ago,” I told him. He not only remembered me but also had a framed copy of my article hanging in his office.
He steered me away from that particular guitar. A few weeks later, another one turned up. I found six used Everetts for sale in the entire United States, and this one was by far the best. It was Everett number 618, built with lots of artistic flourishes, including two mother-of-pearl inlays depicting, of all things, bumble bees. It was well beyond my price point; still, I put it on my favorites list.
Then I noticed the price had dropped. A couple of weeks later, it dropped again and was tantalizingly within reach. When I looked closely at the blurb, I saw the guitar’s location: exactly 12 miles away from me.
This was one of those moments when the universe seems to be at my back, pushing me in a particular direction to where all the pieces perfectly align. Kent knew the owner and told me that the last time he saw the guitar, it was in pristine condition. He occasionally made videos detailing guitars he was particularly pleased with; Everett number 618 was the subject of one such video. And it turned out the owner and I had several mutual friends; his love for the music of John Prine, Guy Clark, and Blaze Foley matched mine.
My hands trembled when I held that Everett for the first time. I knew immediately that this was it, the guitar. But there was a significant hitch: It was still too expensive.
Then came the moment of truth. I looked at the owner and asked, “What’s the lowest offer you could accept and still leave feeling happy about things?” And I held my breath.
When I got home, I emailed Kent a photo of me playing the guitar. That evening, he posted the photo on the Everett Guitars page on Facebook. “This man, Scott Freeman, wrote an article on me for Atlanta magazine back in 2001,” he said. “Back then he promised himself that one day he would own an Everett. Today is that day. Wahoo!”
I had a dear friend who proudly drove a vintage white Jaguar. “People think I’m crazy and make fun of that car because it’s so expensive to keep up,” she told me once. “But that’s okay. Every time I see that car, I smile.”
I have yet to stop smiling.
This article appears in our July 2025 issue.
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Scott Freeman
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