What Selling An Old Guitar Taught Me About Advertising

About scarcity, perceived value & the secret benefits of love

It’s simple to sell something you love.

Maybe not to let go of it — but finding the selling point is pretty straightforward: You just take all your emotions concerning the object and put them on paper. Easy-peasy.

I recently sold my favorite vintage guitar — a 1966 Fender Jazzmaster.

It had served me faithfully when I still fancied myself a musician — but in later years been reduced to a nostalgic piece of wall decoration; sentimentally dear but much more valuable in actual money.

One night after a few beers in good company I was inspired to sit down and write an ad for it.

It felt like writing a review for a former lover — but without the bitterness of a broken heart. What had made this relationship unique and magical? And how could the magic translate to interested buyers?

I quite liked how the ad came out. At least enough to write this blog post about it. I am rarely allowed to mention the work I do for clients — but in this case, I’m my own client and can do whatever I want!

So, here’s how I sold an old guitar and why love is the answer.

My Friend the Convert

There’s a suggestion in almost every copywriting book I’ve read, from David Ogilvy to Luke Sullivan to Joseph Sugarman: Write your copy as if you are writing a letter to a friend. Once finished, simply remove “Dear friend” and you will have a piece of persuasive long copy.

The night I decided to sell the guitar, I had gone out for drinks with an old college buddy and former colleague. In the 20 years I had known him he had been a true punk rocker with a hardcore DIY ethos and an admirable idealistic outlook. Which was why I was surprised by his reaction when I told him I was considering parting with the instrument:

“No, Troels! Don’t you dare! It’s too dear!”

It was weird. When I bought the guitar a decade earlier his reaction had been the contrarian opposite:

“No, Troels! Why spend all that money? It’s empty snobbery! Surely a €5000 guitar isn’t 10 times better than its €500 equivalent.”

And to be fair, he was right back then. An old and rare collectible will not produce a single note that sounds multiple times “better” than a brand new factory-made model. So why bother?

10 years earlier I couldn’t give him a meaningful answer. Maybe I talked about “aura” or “magic” — which only makes sense to believers. With skeptics, you have to demonstrate the magic. And even then it’s an awful lot of money to spend on something that doesn’t turn lead into gold — or bad guitarists like myself into good ones.

However, my friend had become a believer without me knowing. He had borrowed his brother-in-law’s old Fender Jaguar, experienced the magic firsthand, and converted. Gone was the guy who had championed the ideology of “budget rock” and in his place was someone who offered no better reasons than my own:

“I dunno, Troels. There’s a kind of magic in it.”

Confused and amused I returned home with a clear mission for my guitar ad: I wanted to prove to the younger, skeptical version of my friend why the magic of vintage is real. 

Here’s what I wrote:

Two scientifically good reasons to buy a vintage guitar

1: Scarcity + originality = Increased value over time

2: Magic

The magic isn’t in the tone from back when the world still had plenty of Brazilian rosewood. Or back when the pickups still roared like the lion Leo Fender himself. The tone is amazing but the magic is somewhere else.

And it’s not in the fact that your vintage guitar is entirely unique, and sounds and feels like nothing else — including your buddy’s axe of the same year and model. You can forever discuss which is better (spoiler: yours) but it’s not the magic.

The magic of vintage is conjured because you get a costly lover with a mysterious past.

An alluring stranger at a bar in Monaco.

What stages did she conquer, what stories can she tell?

It’s not playwear.

It’s a glamorous femme fatale with a scar on her cheek.

What roads did she travel and where will she take you?

You are drawn by the beautiful instrument because you want to explore and possess it. Because you desire it.

And that’s the magic:

The fanciful illusion that’ll trick, cheat and fool you into playing more!

It’s the deceptive fantasy that makes you turn off Netflix and ignore your phone to explore the tone.

Magic is the clever mirage that makes you play 20% more — so you have a 20% better chance of writing the riff that’ll inspire the song that changes everything.

20% increased hit potential + exclusive musical love affair?

That’s mathematically magical.

And almost makes the sound investment in vintage seem like a minor bonus.

Magic isn’t rocket science.

Find it in an old guitar.

Scarcity: Magic & Science

Admittedly I enjoyed writing the ad because… When do you get to write long copy these days?

But hopefully, I managed to break down the magic for non-believers without spoiling the fun for the vintage faithful.

Instead I’ll spoil it here.

Scarcity is one of the most important psychological levers in advertising. A 2012 experiment from McGill University found that purchase intent was rated 37% higher when an item came with a scarcity message (“Exclusive limited edition. Hurry, limited stocks”) rather than a plentiful message (“New edition. Many items in stock”).

Perceived scarcity is an instantly powerful trigger that can prompt the instinctive brain to desire something.

Actual rarity, on the other hand, can use the same trick of the monkey mind to improve the overall perception and user experience over time.

Collectors already know the tangible value of vintage instruments. But logical economy doesn’t explain the psychological alchemy of vintage.

There’s sustainable bonus value that’s more than the sum of its parts and lends itself to a romantic exclusivity narrative.

From the Jazzmaster launch in 1958.

Costly goods and luxury items have the inherent benefit of letting the consumer nerd out in great detail — because people are allowed to trust that great detail has been put into the product by its creator.

Paying premium for something includes a sacrifice that gives the object more symbolic value. A ridiculously expensive stereo with gold wiring may not sound better than a moderately priced alternative — but it can turn the table underneath it into a shrine. The experience around the object is improved because the intangible value is made manifest by the sacrifice.

Bluntly speaking, your faith is slightly forced because you paid an irrational amount of resources. Psychological consistency makes it hard to go back on costly decisions. And in turn, forces a perspective to justify those decisions. That’s how the ridiculously expensive stereo becomes the centerpiece of the nerd cave — and why expensive vintage instruments hold more magic than cheaper ones.

History is a sentimental tool to invoke a shared narrative that can mean whatever. But it’s also a reminder of scarcity over time. Somewhere between history, scarcity and costliness is the source of vintage magic.

When I wrote the ad, I wanted to reveal the trick but not the illusion. Kinda like Derren Brown. Explaining the magic without reducing it.

Understanding consumer behavior is valuable. And the power of scarcity can not be underestimated — it’s why businesses are eager to push NFTs: To make easily reproducible items seem rare.

But I still think the greatest gesture is finding the hidden benefits to make the scarcity mean something. The creative virtue of adding imaginary value.

Behavioral psychology can activate monkey desires. But it takes empathy, insight, and care to make the perceived value last and build better and longer user experiences.

In that regard, it really is simple to sell something you love.

If only I had half a life to fall in love with everything I write about.